Chasing The Sunset

Chapter 3

Mickey walked the familiar stretch toward the park, shoes crunching gravel along the roadside. The sky above her was slowly dimming, streaked purple and gold, clouds curling like pulled cotton. Her fingers fidgeted inside her hoodie pocket as she played and replayed what she might say.

She hoped Sam would be in a better mood tonight. Or at least not in one of her defensive spirals.

Lately, conversations with Sam felt like walking a rope bridge in high wind—one wrong words, and everything started to sway.

As she reached the curve before the hill, the old swing set peeked into view—dark metal silhouettes against the sky. The sight stopped her. Not because of what was there. But because of what wasn’t.

A memory pulled at her like a tether.

It had been summer. It was the kind of long, golden evening where time didn’t matter. Sam had dragged her out of the house barefoot, claiming flip-flops slowed her down. Her curls had frizzed in the heat, sticking to her cheeks as she shouted something about racing to “their swing”—the one that didn’t squeak.

They’d bolted across the bark, laughing so hard Mickey’s chest hurt.

“You’re gonna eat woodchips,” Mickey had warned between giggles.

“Then at least they’ll be gourmet,” Sam had shot back.

She'd jumped on the swing like it was a throne, twisting the chains until they squealed and letting herself spin until she was dizzy.

Mickey had laughed so hard she forgot what they were even talking about.

Sam had been… different back then."

Softer.

Her voice had always carried a sharp edge, sure—but it had been playful. Curious. She used to ask weird questions about space about the stars.

“You think they’re lonely out there?” she’d once whispered as they laid in the grass.

Back then, Sam had smiled easily. Her moods were weather, not climate.

Now? Now Sam's walls were always up, and every word felt like testing a tripwire.

Mickey blinked the memory away and walked toward the picnic tables. A few teens loitered under the lamps, but not Sam.

She sat. Checked her phone. Ten minutes passed.

No sign of her.

Another ten. She sent a text:

Hey, you still coming?

Nothing.

I’ll wait five more, she told herself.

Just as she stood to leave, a voice rang out behind her.

“Eyyy!”

Mickey turned. Sam approached in a lazy strut, hands shoved in her jacket pockets.

“I was literally about to leave,” Mickey called.

“Dude, it’s only 6:30, drama queen,” Sam said. “You knew I was gonna show.”

“You live five minutes away. What took you?”

“The vibes weren’t ready yet. Now they are.”

Mickey squinted. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It does if you don’t think about it too hard.” Sam flashed a crooked grin.

Despite herself, Mickey smiled. “Still annoying.”

“You love me anyway.”

“No comment.”

“Swings?” Sam nodded toward the set.

“Obviously.”

They raced like always, both going for the squeakless swing. Sam got there first and yanked it just as Mickey went to sit.

“Damn it!” Mickey fell hard onto the woodchips, groaning. “You’re such a jerk.”

Sam burst out laughing, doubling over. “That was perfect.”

Mickey glared, brushing bark off her jeans as she claimed the second-best swing. “One day you’re gonna get tackled for that.”

“Worth it.”

They began to swing, the old rhythm slowly coming back.

“So… how was the sleepover?” Sam asked after a beat.

Mickey hesitated. “How did you—?”

“Trish. She was bouncing off the walls about it in chem.”

“Then… why’d you ask to walk home?”

Sam shrugged. “She said she had chores.”

“Oh.”

Something in her voice felt like an apology and a challenge at the same time.

“Well?” Sam prompted.

“It was fun.”

“What’d you guys do?”

“Painted nails. Watched dumb movies.” Mickey tried to make it sound nonchalant before continuing, “what did you do?”

Sam smiled faintly, gave a chuckle, "All you do is worry about what Im doing."

“And all you do is disappear,” Mickey muttered before she could stop herself.

Silence.

The swings creaked. Sam’s smile vanished.

“Stars are coming out,” Sam said quietly, changing the subject.

Mickey looked up. “Yep.”

“I wish I could touch them.”

“They’re burning balls of gas, Sam. It would hurt.”

“Okay, NASA,” she muttered. “Still wanna touch them.”

Mickey softened. “It would be cool.”

“I wanna go up there,” Sam whispered, staring skyward. “Far away. Someplace… untouched.”

“What’s so bad about Earth?”

Sam scoffed. “What’s good about it?”

“You’ve only seen like… what five or ten states?”

“And that's enough,” she said. “All these people here? They’re like… stuck on repeat. I don’t want that.”

“You’re talking like it’s already over.”

Sam turned her head slowly toward her, eyes unreadable. “Maybe for me, it is.”

Mickey exhaled slowly. “Is that why you’ve been in such a bad mood? Do you hate it here?”

Sam’s swing began to slow. “I’m not in a bad mood.”

“You are. Lately, you always are.”

“I said—I’m not.” Her tone was curt now, colder. The kind of sharp edge that warned: don’t push me.

Mickey ignored it. “You’re distant. You barely text back anymore. You smell like weed every time I see you. You’re always somewhere else, in your head or someone else’s house.”

“So what?” Sam shot back. “I’m not allowed to have other people in my life now?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant.”

Mickey’s grip tightened around the swing chain. “I meant I’m worried. You’re spiraling and pretending everything’s fine.”

Sam’s swing came to a full stop. “You don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”

“Then tell me. Help me understand.”

“I don't owe you anything,” Sam snapped.

Mickey flinched, but stood her ground. “You’re my best friend.”

Sam let out a harsh laugh. “Yeah? Then act like it. Stop interrogating me like I’m some case study.”

“I’m not interrogating. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re trying to fix me,” Sam said, rising abruptly from the swing. “Like I’m some broken thing, you can glue back together with soft words and pep talks.”

Mickey stood, too. “I never said you were broken.”

“You didn’t have to.”

They were eye to eye now, bark crunching beneath their shoes.

“I see things for what they are,” Sam said, voice rising. “This town, this life—it's a trap. You grow up thinking you're special, and then boom. You’re 18 and stuck, clocking in at Walmart, getting drunk in the same basements every weekend. Do you think that's a future?”

“No,” Mickey said. “But it doesn’t mean there’s nothing for us here. Not everything is hopeless.”

“It feels hopeless!” Sam’s voice cracked. “Every morning I wake up, and I’m tired before I even get out of bed. Like life already beat me, and I haven’t even started.”

Mickey swallowed hard. “Then let me help. I’m right here.”

“You’re not hearing me!” Sam yelled. “I don’t want help. I want out. I want something else. Something real. Not this fake picture everyone keeps painting.”

“You’re sixteen!” Mickey snapped. “You’re not supposed to have it all figured out yet.”

Sam’s hands clenched. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not. I’m just—” Mickey’s voice caught. “I’m scared, okay? I’m scared I’m losing you.”

Sam’s face twitched, something soft flickering and then disappearing behind the wall again.

“You already lost me,” she said, voice flat.

Mickey reeled back like she’d been slapped.

Sam blinked, like even she wasn’t expecting the words to come out like that.

The air turned dead silent.

“You know what?” Mickey said quietly, fists shaking. “If you’re so set on running away, then go. But don’t act like you’re the only one who’s scared. You’re not deep, Sam. You’re not enlightened. You’re just angry. And maybe that’s easier than feeling anything else.”

Sam took a step forward, eyes burning. “And maybe you’re just a coward. Too scared to see the cracks in your perfect little world.”

“I do see them,” Mickey hissed. “I just don’t use them as an excuse to burn everything down.”

Sam scoffed. “At least I’m real.”

“At least I still care,” Mickey shot back.

That landed.

Sam turned suddenly, like the conversation had snapped in half. She walked a few steps away, hands raking through her hair.

Then she spun around, her voice lower but cutting: “You want to know what’s really wrong with me?”

Mickey nodded, mouth dry.

“It’s you. You always think you’re helping, but you don’t listen. You only want the version of me that fits into your neat little box. The soft Sam. The laugh-at-everything Sam. Well, newsflash—I’m not her anymore. And I’m tired of pretending.”

Mickey’s face crumpled, her voice breaking. “I liked her. She wasn’t trying so hard to disappear.”

Sam didn’t respond. She turned and began to walk.

“You should try listening with your soul,” she called over her shoulder.

Mickey’s throat tightened.

She could’ve let her go. Could’ve stood there like every other time and let the silence win.

Instead—

“You can’t listen with your soul either!” she shouted. Her voice cracked like glass.

Sam didn’t stop walking.

Her figure disappeared into the dark.

Mickey stood there, alone, the last word echoing around her like a dropped stone.

She looked up at the stars.

“They’re balls of gas,” she whispered.

But even they felt closer than Sam did right now.