The melancholic tale of a girl whom longed to love.
|She was the wonderful creation of her own doing. Nobody owned her. Nobody tried to own her. Nobody claimed to have created her. She barely spoke, but in the rare occasions that she did all heads turned as if she had the most important thing to say. In those moments, her voice traveled far and wide and filled the room as if a million instruments playing in harmony. It was beautiful and terrifying.
Her blue eyes overflowed with utmost intelligence; like a flower squeezing herself in hopes of never blooming, but never able to counter nature by herself. A flower just aching to bloom and thrive. Why did she stop herself, when she had all the attention and love in the world?
She told me of her sorrows, one fateful evening. We sat alone in the cramped classroom and I hung my head as if the floor was magnetic and pulling me in ever so slowly. Inch by inch. The musical tones of her voice filled the cutting-edge silence. It soothed and terrified me. The floor stopped pulling me in, and repelled me instead.
Her eyes bore into mine, narrowed and wet. That is when mine became wet, too. Her gaze was so pained that it almost broke me. Why would she confide in me? The questions faded into the back of the abyss my mind was as her fingers intertwined with mine and squeezed.
"Do you believe you will find love?" Her booming voice sounded worn and silent; barely above a pained whisper. I suppressed my tears further and gazed at the white, uneven wall behind her. For a long while, no words were exchanged. Just the distant quiver of her voice and the clicking of the clock on the wall. Tick. Tock.
"One day, maybe." My voice sounded just as terrified as hers. Terrified of saying the wrong word or displaying the wrong emotion. She barely said a word after. Just gazing into the abyss with me, her fingers intertwined with mine. The last thing she said to me was:
"Don't forget me."
And the very next day her desk was empty.
She never got to find love.