Shivers plant themselves into my skin, and I cross my legs against the cold. The hum of the refrigerator sounds too mechanical, and the clock ticks its way through the night. Unforgivingly, and unmistakenably. Papers are strewn across my table, but the words on the pages have fallen even deeper into being hopelessly scattered.
I have this inexplicable love for notebooks and pens. It took me a while, but I finally figured out which I love more: notebooks. You see, pens lose their ink and die, but notebooks keep words alive forever.
My favorite time of the day is the golden hour. When the sun is beginning to lay down onto its bed of trees and skyscrapers. The sunshine streams through the bedroom curtains, and illuminates the swirling dust, tossed above tumbled sheets. Hair is lit red, and skin tones bounce off into colorized irises.
I used to stay awake just for the stars nestled amongst the pitch black sky.
The beauty, and timeless silence that engulfed my ears.
This is the one time when I feel as if I can breathe.
I looked at you, with my heart in my mouth.
And you stared back
with disdain floating in your eyes.
The things and people that I thought I believed have been shattering to pieces lately. I try to catch them, but they slip through my fingers.
I could cry, but life would laugh in my face.
We’ll see who laughs harder.
He was a shy type of boy, who smiled impishly when girls asked him what the homework was. He always read the notes his doting mother put in his paper lunch sack, and made sure to finish his lunch. He wasn’t exceptionally handsome, nor did he get the top marks. He wasn’t popular, but he had a good circle of friends.
She, on the other hand, had both brains in her head and boys in her hand. She was witty, confident, and social. But more importantly, she was versatile. She could be sweet, sarcastic, humorous, and intelligent—all simultaneously, while having four conversations with four different people. Girls who didn’t know her, hated her; girls who knew her, loved her. And of course, all the boys loved her. Not because she had a body that could turn heads, or because she went to bed on the first date, but rather, the opposite. It’s true that she was pretty, but no more than the average girl. What made her attractive was her self-esteem and personality. She held her chin up in an independent, yet humble sort of way, which was pretty hard to do.
She was hard to offend or upset. Unlike most of the girls her age, she looked at spiders and snakes with fascination, and watched violent war movies with the guys. She was one of the bros. They used to have contests to see who could outeat each other, and she would have as much fun as them.
She did have game, though. She played Love as if it were poker, and the stakes were set high. She could be hurt and beaten though, but only if she let you. You had to be pretty special for that to happen. She had more flings than boyfriends, but she had class, in an indescribable sort of peculiarity. Nobody accused her of anything.
He had to be careful. Because she was good at this game, and he had never played before. He had no idea though—who he was dealing with. If anybody told him, he was either too naive to understand, or too blindly infatuated with her to really see.
She snuck him out of class one day (teachers also loved her, for her ardent zeal and intelligence). They held hands, and made small talk. But that was all. He was shy, and she realized she needed to change that. The best part is that she liked challenges. But what I never told you, dear reader, is if she likes him back.
She doesn’t. At all.
The first thing you noticed about her were the freckles. Her wild, wild freckles, splashed across the bridge of her nose and into her cheeks. She endlessly jabbered on and on about her friends, school, and summer, while you nervously slapped away the mosquitoes. It was August, and the humidity made sweat ooze from pores you didn’t even know existed. Sitting on the swings with cherry flavored snow cones should have kept the hair from sticking to your forehead, but nothing was enough.
She poked you in the ribs, and you snapped back to reality, “Huh?”
This girl drives you insane, with her long legs and lightly tanned skin. The ridges of her collarbones are half-hidden by her sun-streaked hair. It’s longer than anybody’s you know, and as crazy as her personality. She keeps you up at night, even when you’re not talking to her. She wears shorts and tank tops to brave the summer heat, just like any other girl. This is why you do not wonder what she will wear when the leaves change color, and the snow begins to fall. Isn’t it it obvious? She’s just like the others, and winter will soon be over, if you just wait long enough. You just have to be careful not to step on any ice.
The temperature of the shower water changes from hot to cold. Lipstick rubs away, and rocks are worn into pebbles. The colors of books fade, and pages turn brown. Clothes begin to fray at the edges, and eventually unravel altogether. Windows crack, clouds gather, milk curdles, and your favorite cup has chips and lines from years of use. Adjustments. We too, must adjust.
Sunlight streams in through the windows with dirt-streaked water stains. You shift your legs, and an eddy of dust motes rise from the seat. You glance over to your right, where she sits—mind lost in thought, and eyes lost in what lies on the other side of the window. You watch her bite her lower lip, the perfectly crimson, perfectly heart-shaped lips. She opens her mouth to lick the chocolate ice cream, which is now melting into a deliciously soft perfection and just starting to run over the edge of the golden cone. She closes her eyes, drowning in the almost alcoholic sunlight; it’s just so intoxicating. You look down at your own ice cream, which is even more runnier than hers. She leans back into her seat, and turns her head to look at you. You take a bite—your perfect white teeth sinking into the crisp cone, and breaking the golden silence.
“This is my favorite part,” you say.
And this is the moment. The instant that the day fades to night.