Loving the Clouds

Chapter 9

He didn't show up for the school that day.

Or the next day. Or the day after that.

I don't know when I began counting the days. Maybe it was after the first week. It made little difference to me, the days passed in a blur. I believe it has been thirteen days, just around two weeks, since I last saw him. He does not show up for math, or school in general. He does not make an appearance anywhere in or around his house. Hell, his house in general is fairly desolate. Not even a sound.

Perhaps I should be worried. Perhaps, I should be running over to his house to check on him. Perhaps, even, I should be trying to fit the pieces together on why he blew up in the first place. The reason behind the sudden change. Isn't that what anyone else would do, had this been thrust upon them like it has to me? It seems like the logical thing.

And yet, I can't bring myself to do so.

Instead, I find myself on the running trail.

It is late in the evening, the sky lit with the gold and orange hues of sunset and the wind nothing but a mild breeze. The forest was thick, the canopy above constricting, but I found nothing but relief under its leafy roof. The whisps of light filtering through the cracks cast a mystical feeling to the old trail. For a few seconds, I could pretend I was in a fairy tale, and soon my prince would come marching around the corner on a magnificent white stallion, silver armour glinting victoriously. I could feel a soft smile creep into my lips, with such wishful thinking.

I do not bother to mull over the idea, as I pull my long golden-brown hair into a tight ponytail. I am not here to imagine all the what-ifs. I am here to forget, at least for a little while.

Glancing at the time, I find it is 5:41pm. I start running.

My eyes stay trained on the trail, my breathing steady. The muffled thump of my worn runners on the needle-strewn dirt becomes my beat, as I pace my strides. My arms are loose at my sides, elbows bent and swaying with each step.

It is a technique my mother used and unconsciously taught me, when I was younger. She came across a time where she picked up an interest in running and the exercise that went along with it. I was eleven, then. She had cut out the small path leading to the trail, and ran almost every morning and sometimes in the evening. The odd day, she would take me with her, but only in the evening. We did not talk, we just ran. It was a calm silence, though, and I came to crave more of it. But of course, by then she had moved on to a different hobby. That is how it is for her. She amuses herself with one thing before ditching it once she got bored.

And yet, I kept running.

It is like a haven for me, in some ways. I use it to escape from my life, because Everett was right. It is perfect. But every perfect cloud is just hiding a future storm. Yes, my life is perfect, but at the same time, it is anything but. It is repetition at its finest. I know what will happen in my future, for it is already planned out for me if I like it or not. I am a bird flying through clear skies. My path is laid out in front of me, and there isn't a cloud for miles.

Most call that perfect. I call it flawed.

Who wants perfect? Who wants a life where you already know what's going to happen? What's the fun in that? Life is suppose to be an adventure. How is an adventure to begin if you already know how it ends? Sure, my life is perfect. But I'd choose imperfect over what I have any day.

Something catches my eye.

It is fleeting, a simple flash of red amongst a sea of brown and green. My feet pause, and I peer at the bracken scattered at the edges of the trail. I could not tell you why I stopped, I did not know the answer myself. Something made me hesitate, instinct perhaps, but that was all I needed. I wander off the trail, my lungs panting from the run.

There it was, behind the oak tree leaning over the trail.

A rose.

It's leaves were crimson, stretching high as it feebly grasped the dying rays of sun streaming through the trees. It was quite lucky, for it was sitting in a patch of sun, a gap in the foliage above. This was most likely the reason it had survived so long, in a dark forest like this one. All alone, it bore all but three small thorns for protection. Surrounding it was a bed of dead leaves, apart from one mundane green leaf that lay next to it as if it has just fallen. A leaf sitting beside a rose.

Pain seared through my heart, as I thought back to Everett. Lone, silent, Everett. It suddenly made sense.

All the while, he believes that I have the perfect life. Surrounded by friends and family, with not a care in the world, and he is right. And such is everyone else . . . but him. Everett is the one to be envious of, as he is the only one who realizes that living is not about how easy you can make it. It is about how many challenges you can face and win. Life without challenge is simply existing.

Everett is the rose among leaves. He shines above us, because he is what we are not: different. He is unique in the simplest way possible, and with such small defences, he is easily broken. Beautiful, yet we refuse to acknowledge it.

It is in the dying light of day, staring at a rose, that I have done it.

I have solved the puzzle.