Never Let Me Go

Our Song

Several years ago, you'd find me in a worn out, sweat and food stained apron. It was blue in color, resembling that of blue jeans I only wore on special occasions. In a way, it made me feel richer than I really was. It covered my ratty white v-neck shirt I had worn through three winters, and made myself look less abnormally skinny. I had stitched my name on the back when I was younger, repeating the same movements I created when I wrote my name on the dust in my attic. There was a sense of pride that came along with every single stitch, like a piece of my identity was lost on every thread. 

I lived paycheck to paycheck, using inheritance left by my parents for schooling. I stayed at my Aunt Daisy's house, alone. I was young when my parents died, older when my aunt died, and now stuck, time speeding by like cars on the highway. I wish someone could've given life a ticket to slow down. Nobody cared enough to notice I was by myself. Neighbors would come wishing to visit my aunt, and I would turn them away telling them she was very sick and in hostess care. I saw them from across the lawn, optimistically waving their hands to greet me. I smiled, but never waved. I smiled, and never looked back.

I would work for what seemed days, yet only hours would pass by. I had to provide for myself, my parent's money could not get me too far. Despite this, I was thankful my parents left me the money they had, it helped me with my education. English classes at the New School were not cheap, and clearly, neither was the rest of New York. Getting through each day was like sailing in open sea, with a single blow, I could sink. 

I had this grey journal you see, wrecked beyond recognition. I would pour my heart out into the ink of every word written in that journal, so that one day someone would finally understand who I am. I drained my dreams into every punctuation mark, pretending that the dots on my I's and the lines on my t's actually could mean something. I found solace in the strangest place, locked deep inside my ballpoint pen. People leave all the time, and yes, ink does run out. The difference is, I can always refill my hope inside the pen. 

It was September, and the shockingly green summer leaves had started to fade. 

It was September, and the trees had started to age.

It was September, and life seemed so far away.

It was September, the month my heart changed in a single day. 

I sat in a coffee shop listening to the rhythm of the falling rain. I watched a single raindrop splat against the finger greased window, and make its way down to the ridge.I watched the streetlights turn red, then green, then red, then yellow, then red. My eyes fogged over, making each color blend into bright wavering sequins. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, and continued looking. I looked at the front of each car passing by, trying to find their hidden personalities. I watched as people held onto their coats as the wind blew ferociously through their hair. I watched as a little girl cried as her bright red ballon was carried away with the wind, as if that balloon was carrying her heart with it. I don't know how long I stayed staring out of the window, since by that time my coffee had turned ice cold and there were brown eyes peering back at mine.

His eyes held my stare, almost as if he were searching for something. I could tell he was muscular from the way his coat moved drastically as he rolled his shoulders back. His cheeks were rosy from the cold; and his hair was effortless, fluffy in the front as it grew flatter in the back. His eyebrows were not too thick, the curve aligned with his eye. His mouth seemed soft, barely chapped from the cold surrounding. I could barely make out a tiny little indent on his right cheek, and then I knew that it must be a scar. Even though I looked around the entirety of his face, I always looked back to his eyes. They seemed to be telling me something, and in their gaze I felt safe. In their gaze, I felt warm and safe. In his eyes I saw the same highway cars, most moving at a steady pace in the right eye, and  the rest moving slower in the left. There was something about his eyes, something familiar. I could feel the warmth behind them, though it was the beginning of one of the coldest falls New York had ever experienced. His eyes were a disease, an infection coursing through my veins and spreading through my body. I wanted to look away, do anything to refrain from doing anything I knew I would regret. Suddenly his eyes shifted, and his whole body started to calmly move towards the door. My pulse quickened, as I realized that I had foolishly stared at a stranger for longer than I should have. I opened my grey notebook, and took out my ballpoint pen, which seemed to be  my only sense of security at that point. I drew circles, over and over and over again, each one on top of the other.