You Infire Me

Chapter Eight: Halloween Fright

"Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves."
— Carl Gustav Jung

Your phone says it's October 31st, and you're unsure as to whether you can believe it. That means that—not counting Thanksgiving Break—you only have six weeks left in the semester. Two months left in the year. Time seems to slip through your fingers like sand, and once it runs out, you're not sure what you'll do.

Graduation lingers like a sinister snake waiting to strike.

"Y/N," you hear Bianca yell from the bathroom, "you're coming to Alex's Halloween party tonight, right?"

"I would, but I don't have a costume," you yell back from where you lie in your bed. "Plus, it's a school night."

"It's a school night? What are you, twelve?"

"Sixteen going on seventeen, actually."

"Nice Sound of Music reference," she observes, "but it's not enough to distract me from the fact that you just made excuses not to come to an awesome party."

"You know me, B," you pull your bedcovers up to your neck. "I'm not really one for parties."

Your best friend walks into the room you share, brushing her teeth. "I know," she says through a mouth full of toothpaste. "But you're coming. It'll be good for you."

"Fine," you relent, knowing Bianca would never accept defeat. "But, um . . . can I bring Yoongi?"

Bianca raises her eyebrows at you.

"It's just, we were going to hang out tonight. Watch a movie, or something. I'd feel bad cancelling on him."

"By all means, invite him!" She throws her arms up. "HALLELUJAH! Progress!"

You sit up. "Say what now?"

"For weeks, Y/N—ever since our last spa night—you've been talking about him nonstop. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—the days you have guitar class—you walk in our front door after school, make yourself some tea, plop yourself down at our kitchen table, and proceed to tell me every detail about your interaction with him that day. You're all, 'And he's writing a new song. He's coming up with lyrics about . . . I don't know, insert-weird-liberal-arts-major-thing-here. And he was wearing this, and his hair looked like this, and he looked so good . . .' Seriously, it's exhausting to listen to."

You feel your eyes grow big, your cheeks grow hot. You open your mouth to say something, to mount a defense, but after a moment of consideration you realize that . . . she's completely right. You have been unabashedly singing Yoongi's praises for the past two weeks. You even told your mom about him, though you assured her that he's "just a friend." And he is, really. Just a friend.

A friend that you can't get off your mind.

"So," Bianca perches herself on her bed, interrupting your contemplative silence. "I'm guessing that your negative thoughts have been coming less frequently lately?"

You furrow your brow as you consider her question. "I think so," you answer with a lack of determination but an abundance of hope. "I mean, I still think I'm a pointless waste of space and matter, if that's what you're asking. But I'm not letting that stop me from being friends with Yoongi."

"That's . . . a step in the right direction," she smiles. "But . . . if he wants to be more?"

You laugh as you swing your legs over the side of your bed and plant your feet firmly on the ground. "That's hilarious, B. You should go into stand-up comedy. Really." You stand still for a moment, arms crossed, a realization coming to your mind. "That's what makes my friendship with Yoongi so great, actually. I can admire him and enjoy spending time with him, but he'll never give a crap about me. And that's how it should be. When I get all messed up, when it's all 'attack of the killer brain,' he won't be affected. He won't get hurt."