FORCE OF GRAVITY

―one

Truth has its own gravity, it eventually and will inevitably always draw people back to it. You may hate it, but it doesn't care.

You're tied to the truth by invisible strings impossible to cut, ones that pull you closer the harder you struggle against them.

Which is why I feel like I'm walking on the moon.

No gravity to drag me down. No strings tying me to the harsh reality. No truth to worsen my fall.

I can float around absentmindedly without a care in the world — and I mean that quite literally because I'm on the moon, not Earth — but what happens when some ludicrous, invasive alien bursts my air bubble and I being to suffocate.

It leaves me no other choice but to return to Earth and face 9.81 units worth of gravity myself.

— Signed, Julia Hughes (1st September 2024)

I sigh as I place the cap on my pen and slam shut my journal, pushing it back into its alcove on my desk. I lean back against my desk chair and begin to think.

Out of all of the countless things I've bought and disregarded over the years, my 400 page journal is my most treasured possession. It's brown with an elastic to prevent it bursting open with all of my ideas and contains every thought I've had since the age of 15. I'm 17 now, and nothings changed.

Whenever I feel as if my brain is eating away at itself to get rid of my overwhelming feelings, I jot down exactly what's on my mind and, more often than not, it does the trick.

But this time, I can still feel myself being hollowed out. Whenever I try piece together a thought, I feel the silence ricocheting off the walls until it dissolves. It's like sandpaper smoothing each crevasse of possibility and making it an impossibility.

Every now and then I hear a faint alarm ringing and ringing, gradually getting louder and harsher until it knocks thrice and my door bursts open.

It's my brother, false alarm. But his face is flushed red and his anger flashes brightly in his eyes so close enough.

"Julia? Could you not hear me? It's dinner." He grills, his head peaking around the door. Jeremiah is 2 years older than me and in his first year of college, studying who-knows-what at god-knows-where. I haven't asked, which I know I should or probably should've.

I stare at him.

My mom told me that eyes hold writings of their own, dancing around words and expressing more meaning in a subtle glance than a conversation could ever transcribe.

I don't talk much but when I do, it's a complete mess. It's like I vocalise the scribbles and spelling mistakes in my journal yet I can't erase them in real life. It's my biggest insecurity — not being able to communicate with others.

Which circles back to what I was writing about earlier. I start at a new school tomorrow, and I'm terrified.

I'm sitting comfortably in a baggy sweatshirt that has Malibu written on the front and sweatshorts which is a major contrast to wearing school uniform.

I thought that writing down my feelings would ease the fear that feels like a constant anomaly in my body but now I realise what it stands for; Fuck. Eating. And. Relaxing.

I desperately want my Mom to come home early tonight because she is bringing my uniform back from the dry cleaners and I really, really, reeaallyy want to try it on before tomorrow as that would probably help my mind relax a teeny tiny bit.

So as I stare at my brother, all I can think about is the lasagne downstairs and it being thrown up in the toilet right after dinner.

"I'll be down in just a second." I reply softly.