The Girl

Closer

The next morning, she leaves a note on her friend's doorstep, apologizing for the prior night's events. The other friend she wakes up to hang out with, so she apologized to him in person. Her friend hugged her and assured her that it wasn't her fault. Then he noticed the bandages on her arm. He acted like he didn't, though. She saw that he noticed, and a silent agreement passed between them that neither would tell anyone about the scars.

The rest of the time they spent together was encased in a silence heavy with all of the unspoken words, all of the words that could've, and probably should've, been said. But they weren't said, because one of the people was mute, and the other was a coward in the spoken word, and wanted to preserve his friend's mood. When she got home, the friend who had the crush was there, was waiting for her. As soon as she sat down on her porch, he bombarded her with questions in a sorrowful voice. "Are you serious? Please tell me that this is just some twisted joke that someone put you up to. Please tell me that it's not true. Is it?" All she could do is nod, the simple action completely breaking him.

He didn't show it, but he was dying inside himself. He wasn't dying of a parasite like his crush, but was dying of a most incurable disease of the mind: love. It's slowly eating away at him, and she doesn't even realize it. But how can she? The poor girl's a book nerd who doesn't understand her own kind. But hey, she's trying, at least.

She wants to try to help him, but she doesn't know how. How is she supposed to help a boy who is hopelessly in love with her when she doesn't understand her own feelings for him? She puts an earbud in his ear, and starts to play a song. The song makes his head pop up and stare at her. His eyes burn with a question: why? She shrugs in response, and smiles to try to make him feel better. And, somehow, it works. He smiles back at her, genuinely. He smiles as he is breaking inside, slowly, slowly, breaking apart and dying inside.

They talk for a time, a time which neither of them kept track of. They only knew that they had been talking for a long time when the friend's mom's car pulled into the driveway, signalling that it was his time to go. "I promise I'll talk to you later, okay?" She nods in agreement. Okay, she wishes she could say. She waves goodbye, then goes inside her house, to her room. She listens to music as she writes a story.

The story is about a girl who can describe anything in writing, and it becomes real. As she writes, our girl wishes that she could be half as amazing and different as she envisions her protagonist is. Because, in her eyes, she is only good at two things: writing, and upsetting people. And the only reason that she believes in her writing is that people have constantly assured her that she is good at writing.

The rest of the day is spent helping her mother clean around the house. Her mom doesn't notice the bandages that cover up her cuts, or, if she does, she declines to mention it. That night, as our self-harming girl drifts off to sleep, she thinks about what she could've done, what she should've done, to help any of her situations.