Before The Sunrise

unspoken

By the time I was five years old, I barely spoke to anyone unless I had to. "Shy" wouldn't be a strong enough word. I can't really tell you where it came from, because at that age my life was pretty easy, but I've always had really intense social anxiety. My parents even took me to a psychologist for it once because they thought I had autism or something, but the guy they took me to said that I was neurotypical enough, and that I'd grow out of the shyness at some point.

In some ways, I did, but for the most part, that guy was completely wrong. Although, by now, I have plenty of trauma to justify my silence.

Either way, it's safe to say that I've never been much of a talker. By the time I was in the second grade, the only people I ever spoke to were my mother, my father, and my best friend.

Rosie.

I've never known someone so unfailingly kind. Someone who gives for the sake of giving, expecting nothing in return. Someone so beautiful inside and out, who has had horrible things done to her and somehow becomes better in spite of it. Someone who, at only seven years old, heard the silent plea from the lonely little boy in her second grade class and allowed him to be her friend even when nobody else understood.

She's my best friend, and for years she was my only friend.

Rosie, like me, is a dreamer. The difference is that Rosie's dreams are centered around others, how she can make others' lives better.

Since we were elementary schoolers, Rosie has talked about how much she wants to grow up and save lives as a paramedic, like her mom does.

All I want is to be a stupid football player.

Rosie doesn't know that she's already saved a life. Maybe someday I'll tell her.

Every morning she meets me at my locker, along with DeAndre, our other friend and one of the people I have added to my short list of acceptable conversation partners.

"What's up, bro?" DeAndre asks me as they arrive together. He drives her to school.

"Not much," I reply, bumping fists with him like a loser. "You?"

"I don't know about this Thursday game thing, bro," he says. "It's got me all twisted around. I got confused and did my calculus homework a day early thinking today was Friday. Can you believe it? A day early. Goddamn, I'll be turning into Rosie soon."

I laugh. DeAndre always does everything at the last minute, but somehow he's still a straight-A student. It would be infuriating if it weren't so fucking funny. I hope he learns how to fucking plan ahead before he goes off to college to become a goddamn rocket scientist.

Rosie, who finishes long-term projects months in advance, rolls her eyes. "Now you don't have to do it tonight. Isn't that nice?"

DeAndre scoffs. "Why would I do it tonight anyway? You know me. I always do it in the morning, before class starts."

"You both are so weird," I say. "Why can't you both just do school like normal people?"

"You're one to talk, Mr. Skipped the First Grade," DeAndre teases, knowing I hate it when they bring it up. "Still fucking sixteen. So normal."

I guess that's fair. Even though I couldn't talk at the age of 5, I could write full sentences while my classmates were attempting to hold a pencil, I could read chapter books while they were learning their letters, and sat on the beanbags in the corner writing fucking poetry while everybody else had play time. My time as a silent child genius ended around the same time that I became the poster child for childhood trauma, because I sort of forgot how to learn.