GONER

5 • Happy Sad Songs and Bleacher Talks

"So, I figured we should talk," Josh said randomly, during free period. We were sitting on the bleachers, watching people run like maniacs at each other, a football in their hands. I couldn't tell if it was a PE class, or if this is what they chose to do with their free time. Maybe we all had free period at the same time. Honestly, I couldn't see why anyone would voluntarily play sports, but it didn't matter as long as I wasn't the one doing it. Right?

His body was about three feet away from mine. To anyone else, the distance was awkward and strange. To me, it was Josh and I getting know each other. I didn't mind the distance, though I wanted him close to me. My knees were tucked to my chest, and I kind of just sat there, squinting down against the silver that was reflecting light. Despite the slight cold, there was a bit of sun.

"Talk about what?"

"Each other," he answered, as if that was it all along. But I didn't know what he meant. Plus, talking about myself wasn't an activity I enjoyed. "Like, meaningful stuff. Not the whole favorite color thing."

"I think your favorite color means a lot," I argued, turning around to face him. He was looking forward, listening to someone shout orders at the other players. "It symbolizes a lot about you."

"Does it?" He asked, his fingers gripping the silver.

"Yeah. Have you never thought about it like that?"

He shook his head quickly. "Never." And that just told me how much of a freak I was. Who else spends as much time as I do just pondering? No one. Which is probably why I had no friends back in Seattle. "But it's interesting. You're interesting."

My cheeks flushed brightly at his words, and I worked to figure out if they were implied rudely or not. It didn't sound like they were, and so I made myself believe he was complimenting me.

"Interesting?" I squealed.

"Keep talking. Just keep talking."

And that wasn't said in a bad way, either. But most people just wanted me to shut the hell up, and that was when I bothered speaking. Now, I've met someone that wants me to keep talking, despite me not having anything great to say.

"What do you want me to talk about?" I asked.

"The universe? Pizza. Anything. I don't care."

Anything? That could mean anything at all. But I just thought of the first thing that came to my mind and started rolling with it. Fear. "Why does being afraid cause so many other things?" I asked. "I mean, why are you scared one second, and the next, you're anxious and sad. Why? What sense does that make? Is it the core emotion that all of us have? Because, even if you tell people you're not scared, or even tell yourself you're not scared, you'd just be lying. Which isn't fair to anyone. So are fearless people just afraid to fear?" Somehow, I managed to forget there was a person next to me, listening. It felt strange to talk about things like this aloud, but I didn't hate it. I've had mixed feelings about this whole day. "Honestly, people like that make me want to cry for them. Eventually, everything's going to come back to them, and it's going to be terrifing."

When I kind of drifted off, I noticed he was staring at me. My cheeks flushed under his butterscotch eyes, and I started to mumble out apologies. "I'm sorry," I said nervously, scared of feeling like an even bigger idiot. "That probably sounded so stupid, oh my god."

"N-no," he said, shaking his head back and forth, over and over. "Not at all."

For a while, we sat there, my words floating through the air and over the both of us. I probably sounded dumb, mostly because I was, and I felt kind of nervous all over again. Finally, though, he turned to look at me all the way.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed. "Aren't you something else."

~~~

My mom waited for us to get home before she asked me anything. The car ride had been somewhat silent, because she tried to speak to me and I had just turned the radio on, wanting to wait before hearing her onslaught of questions. Everything about her leaked curiosity, and she kept tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, which she now replaced with the countertop.

"So, are you going to tell me what happened? How was it? Did anyone say anything?"

Shaking my head at her, I sighed, trying to be as vague as possible. If I gave too much information, she would just ask more stuff I didn't care enough to answer. I didn't even want to reply now.

"It was fine," I told her, which was partially the truth. Josh was great, but Dennis, and everyone else that didn't speak to me, not so much. I mean, I was used to it, but for some reason, I expected everyone to treat me a little different. It was stupid, though, because I'm still the same person I was a few days ago.

I'm Tyler.

I still think too much and write songs that no one knows about and hates talking about my problems with people. I still don't eat much and think about fear. I'm still short and adore my ukulele. Speaking of that, I'm going to go play it right now.

She didn't even make a move to stop me as I headed up the stairs. Not that it would've mattered. I told her what she needed to know. Or, what I thought she wanted to know. Which was probably the same thing. Sometimes, wants and needs aren't that different, but most of the time they just appear to be.

My ukulele was a standard one. It was made of gorgeous wood and I took somewhat decent care of it, having to replace the strings a couple times. Even then, it still worked perfectly, and had small scratches and worn spots on it. But, God knows I love this thing. It was gorgeous and seemed to fit my small hands perfectly. My mom bought it for me a few years ago, after I graduated eighth grade. She didn't think I would pass, yet here I was, not in eighth grade.

Strumming a few chords, I let the melody of some song I was unaware of flow through the air. It slid through my mind gently and slowly, making me sigh. It was definitely on the minor scale, which helped me to feel a bit better. Happy tempos and sad lyrics were common for me, and I didn't know how to feel about my music style. Was it even mine? Could I say it belonged to me? Probably not, because it really didn't. Someone else came up with the idea before me, just like everyone else had already thought of everything else I've ever done. It wasn't my thought, because I wasn't the first one to have it.

I mean, let's be truthful. I'll never be anything important or original. And that really, really bothers me. Because that's all I want. I want someone to look at me and think hey, you're something that matters. Is that too much to ask?

At times like this, I feel so insignificant. Once again. Just like when I bid farewell to my old high school. No one was going to remember me. They would see that rock I put there and think nothing of it. Maybe kick it around a few times. Or, maybe, they'd think about it. They'd think of that freak, Tyler Joseph. Man, I could hear it now, honestly. People disliked me for a reason.

Setting the instrument down on the floor, I looked down at the carpet, crossing my legs. I could feel my phone burning a whole in my butt, and I wish I had Josh's number. I never used my phone, I don't even know why I had one, but I found myself wanting to talk to him. He was so smart and charming and nice, and I was hoping it didn't go down the drain. It usually did, but Josh felt different. He wasn't like everyone else. Well, that's what I was hoping.

I've had too many people disappear on me after finding out who I really was. Because, I wasn't just sad. I had ways to deal with my sadness, and they were horrible coping mechanisms. No one wanted to deal with that.

But in the end I stopped thinking and ended up passing out on my floor, tired and confused. I didn't even eat dinner, but that was okay. I wasn't hungry. I never was.

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A/N: Its almost 11:30pm and I really wanted to publish this. I hope this was okay. God, I really freaking love writing this :))))