This short story was written for the Freewrite 500 challenge of 2025.
No one really considers the last time they’d ever see someone would be on a foggy spring evening during a house party. After all, each day is wrapped in the daily drudgery that we lose ourselves in our own circumstances. And time? It’ll slap you around before you realize months had gone by and you didn’t tell them what you’ve been wanting to tell them.
That was me. When I saw the traffic jam on I-70 before taking off on my daily commute to the job I hated, I passed it off as another bout of road construction, or some moron driving like an imbecile and causing an accident. It didn’t occur to me it was my old college friend, mangled in a twist of metal and losing their battle. It wasn’t until the article went live, and the victim’s name released that I found out.
Percival Young. Ole’ Percy. A nerd through and through—he knew his history, collected comic books, and chewed with his mouth open. He wore thick glasses over a freckled nose, and his hair was a shade too orange. When we met, I was in my grunge phase, too cool for the mainstream in my tattered jeans, loose T-shirts, and low-maintenance haircut that I usually wore in a greasy tieback. We had a language arts class together, and I was drawn to him. I couldn’t tell you why.
College became an experiment in crossing boundaries between friendship and love to friendship again. Then love again. One moment we’re smoking hand-rolled cigarettes on the back porch of my dorm, discussing the life cycles of cicadas, to arguing about the policies of our fat governor. We’d break up, then find each other again in cycles, just like… cicadas.
He compared our relationship to those googly-eyed bugs often, much to my annoyance, but he had a point. A point well argued that I couldn’t help but become wistful whenever I’d find them sticking to trees and calling out for their next go around.
That final evening at the house party, we found each other again after a time, across the room. He raised his drink to me, and we had our understanding.
Percy Young. He was on his way to find me at work, to bring me flowers and ask for another go-around. I would have said yes, because of course I would have. But as I sit on my porch, thinking about Percy and his unyielding passion for history, comics, and the girl with a guitar and greasy skin, I smoke a hand-rolled cigarette and stare out into the street. I blow out a puff of smoke, nearly seeing the shape of his glasses and red hair through it, when I’m greeted by a stalwart cicada on my arm, letting out a low screeching chirp for its next chance at finding the one.
~END