AN ODE TO YOUR DREAMS

( 八 ) mended threads

mended threads.

YOU ARE A WANDERER AMIDST the open desert filled with endless dusts of golden sand, and underneath the sizzling shards of light striking in its land. You who have nothing with you but your dead pipe dreams of getting to the other side; breathing and well with only flaky lips and scratchy, runny eyes if you're lucky enough. Because you are just unfortunate to be dropped off in the middle of the desert on your own, and you would be crazy if you are to exit that place with your sanity still intact. Perhaps that is why you'd never set yourself up for failure, because hoping for the best will get you nowhere close to it.

And now you are there—standing in front of the classroom's door with a clear purpose hidden behind each stance of your two legs; a hand clasped around the gray nylon straps of your bag that were tightly woven together, and with your face in parallel with the rectangular window stationed at the upper center of the wooden door, allowing you a glimpse of the inside of the classroom. You, for once, are allowing yourself to be placed amidst the borderline between risk and safety that threatens to question everything that you've ever lived for with your distinct lack of care. Because, for once, your subconscious demeanor tells you that you care.

The month of June has ended and July has come like a leaf turning over its side, and the sweltering heat of the Sun's rays have grown stronger over the course of a few days. The beginning of summer is advancing with students shedding off their jackets and long cotton socks in exchange for exposed bare arms beneath the sleeves of their blouses and low-cuts.

A week has passed since the day you had formed your first resolve in the presence of the counselor, and with enough contemplation, today was the day in which you decided to do the thing that you have not been looking forward to: apologizing.

Upon sliding the door open, the quiet atmosphere of the class' morning greets you with students resting their heads on the surface of their desks and a few flipping pages of a book in their hands. But amidst the bodies performing their own individual activities, your eyes find Itoshi Rin—specifically his back leaning forward with his cheek resting on the heel of his palm, staring blankly across the transparent windows and the blue sky that soared infinitely across the buildings—and you find yourself stopping in place unsurely.

Your desk is right in front of you as it is beside the back entrance of the room and you start to feel an ounce of uncertainty dripping into your mind with each step you take. Your hands touch the cold metal of the back of your chair and you halt, looking down at your desk then to the ebony-haired boy then to your desk once again.

You breathe in deeply once.

I'll do it later.

You set your bag down onto the back of your chair and slump over your desk, not really falling asleep as you feel your racing heart die down to its natural heart rate.

BEFORE YOU KNOW IT, the day ends with the overwhelming rush of emotion you had previously has dissipated to a sort of defeat that has you kneeling on your knees. Go on. Do it. Do it. Do it. And now, you find yourself in front of the soccer field, standing behind the metal lattice that had gone a bit colder from the afternoon winds, and staring across the open area filled with sharp greens transitioning to yellows to its tips from the light.

Just like the month before, you watch Itoshi Rin with his hands clasping his knees, body hunched over slightly and propping his weight against his arm that you are sure an imprint of his palm will be left on his light skin once he stands; the memory of his exhaustion momentarily concretized.