- one
the perfect pair
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⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻
Albeit coming this far wasn't part of the plan and let alone after six months of absolute bullshit. Figuring stuff out was still ongoing, but something had to be done soon. Although it was a leap of faith, it was something. New, unusual, confusing, unfamiliar...what's the context here?
Three months ago I was a play-pretend New Yorker; wind in my hair, lattes from an overpriced place in Washington Heights, and jackets I could never wear in this Caribbean weather. It was nice, a feeling I've missed. I'll miss it more since I might not go back. I'm all better, but I'll miss the thrill.
Three months ago I was also glued to a desk taking a college entrance exam. I'm wasting time, I thought. Mom thought so, too. Her voice echoed in my head, asking me what I'd do with my life. I don't know.
The classes were somewhat pedantic, but fun nonetheless. Two months ago I got a call from the school saying I got in.
I think I was excited. I might've been.
But that was months ago, and now it's January, I'm pacing around my room, biting my nails as I look at the clothes on my bed.
It's nerve-racking. I'm a college student. It's surreal. And I thought I'd never make it past 16.
But the world didn't end when I was sixteen. And it didn't end with him either.
"All set?"
Mom peeks in through my door, smiley.
I turn to her and nod slowly. My eyes are sad.
"I think, yes."
"Sure?"
"...Black or blue jeans?"
I point at the laid-out clothes.
"Hmm...blue."
"Black it is, then."
She huffs and leaves. I ruffle my hair. I have 8 unread messages. 6 are from Melanie and two are from him. But I told myself I wouldn't text him back.
By 6:00 a.m. sharp, my eyes are cracked open, rushed. I'm in the bathroom, then I'm rushing through my closet, then I'm smearing concealer under my eyes, then I'm undoing the heatless curls. Breakfast, coffee, keys in hand, a canceled Uber ride, and my sneakers against the cold tile floor of the college hallways. I made it.
First year. First semester. First class. First day. First time I think I've had complete and utter control over something so vast.
Lab. Cold. Quiet. The professor is off-putting yet nice. Her hair is damaged and in an attempt of a bob. Bleached with dark roots. My palms are clammy because this is so nerve-racking to me.
It's a mess. I'm a mess.
It's a bit of a short class. I'm out of there by 10 as I grip the straps of the same fugly backpack I've had since high school. I don't know anyone so what am I supposed to do until 10:50? But that's solved by small talk with classmates I don't care about until I'm in that other class, using the one notebook I bought because mom told me not to waste my money buying lots of stuff I was probably not gonna use.
And then a first day goes by. I'm tired. It's hot, as it always is. I'm not in a bad mood, seriously, I'm not. But the clothes are sticking to my skin, my hair is in the way, my rings are clasping my fingers and the sun is glaring at me.
By night two, I had already been stressing out about homework that I didn't understand because I was fresh out of high school and you don't quite understand citations when you're used to copying shit from Wikipedia so, reasonably, I was kinda irritable.
But by the time I realized, the first week had already gone by and shit was calmer. Mom always tells me to take it one day at a time, that half of the shit I worry about never really ends up happening; but I'll never know what it feels like to not worry.
When I was 6, I had such an irrational fear of my mom dying. (Maybe I should've been worrying about me dying, having in mind I was more of a corpse than a person)
every day I had this anxious thought that my mom was gonna randomly drop dead and leave me an orphan.
That obviously didn't fucking happen but it scared me so much to the point that every night I'd cry myself to sleep. One time, I cried so hard, that I gripped my pillow until my knuckles turned white and I nearly suffocated. I cried so hard I almost passed out. I remember crying with a thumping headache and hoarse voice from sobbing quietly. My pillow was soaked with my tears and the skin on my forearms had cuts in it from digging my nails into it so hard.
Only the four walls of my bedroom know what happened that night. I plan for it to stay that way.
So no, I'll never know what it's like to not worry. I feel too hard. And I fear I'll grow to hate this and notice I'm not cut out for it.
College was supposed to be a fresh start, but who am I and what is my world if not failing?
