When someone the age of 15 thinks of summer, they tend to think of the beach, summer love, and multi colored sunglasses. Or at least that’s what most girls think of. It’s the perfect time to lay out and get tans, to talk about everything and anything worth, and not so worth, talking about. But what most young girls don’t take the time to think about is, “what if it were to all end?” Not just summer that is, but the whole thing. The whole story, what if it was to just stop? To be off air. To be cut short. Never for the book to be opened again. Doomed. Done.
That’s when I saw myself. I was running and hiding, hoping for them to never find me. The feeling I used to pride myself on when I was younger. Always able to outsmart the looker. Always the hider. But in reality what I really need right now is to be found.
By now I realize that screaming is useless. Let alone talking. Singing seems to have some affect on them, but it usually appears to scare them more then anything. So I do what I’ve been doing the last month and a half. I walk. I mope around town. I even try to fly. But I soon see that the whole hype about ghosts flying is a lie. The minute I jump off a roof, I immediately appear back where I originally started. But there is something that makes me believe that it is just some secret formula or equation. Something that I need to figure out. A way to set me free.
I miss everyone though. The thing that is the worst is having to be right beside everyone. And they can’t even tell I’m there.
The missing signs were put up only hours after I hadn’t come home from dance rehearsal. It bothered me. Because I had come home. I am home.
I was wearing what I have on now; a pair of yoga pants and my track shirt. My headphones were tucked into my pocket; I had just heard a noise. Was it about to rain? Or was it a car driving by in the distance?
I have replayed the memories in my head. Over and over. Everyday something new is added into my memory: A bit from Christmas Eve when I was nine; The time I made breakfast in bed for my older sister; When I had my fist kiss by a boy named puck at the age of eleven; And the last day of school when Matt slipped me the note by the math block. “What’s this?” I was rushing to get to the patio where my best friend was waiting to eat lunch with me. “ You’ll see. It’s something that Iv’e been meaning to give you for a while.” He replied. Matt. He was taller then me. A good four or five inches. He had brown hair cut just bellow the ears. And he always smelled like grass. Mostly from playing soccer I suppose.
I still don’t know what was written in that note. Or at least I can’t remember. Something probably along the lines of some cartoon figure with some corny joke. We prided are selves on these. We always were trying to make each other laugh. Or have the other person be “guided” over to the “better” side of our musical choices. But neither of us were ever able to give up what we loved. And resorting to both of us switching off the radio and instead doing our homework with our own sets of headphones and separate playlists playing. We always had to tap the other persons arm to get their attention when one of us needed help on something. Usually Math. Which brings me back to how ironic it is that the last time I would be able to talk to Matt, was at our most unfavorable spot, the math block. And how he had given me something that I could never read. Along with not being able to be heard, I also cannot open things like ice cream tubs, cabinets, or in this case, letters. There is always the air though. That does move. When I breathe, I feel the air being pushed out of my lungs and into the world that we now share separately.
Every morning I watch my parents. They have their breakfast, sit and exchange the smallest amount of words possible. And I sit in my chair. The one right in-between theirs. They left it out enough so I could slid in. As if they new I would be back. Dad looks for me ever day. He is bound and determined to find me. He calls people. He drives for hours, posting signs of his missing daughter.
One time I followed him. It was worse then when I had sat with mom all day. He was doing so much for me and it made me sad. I would never be found. Sometimes I sit with mom. All day she sits on my bed. She picks up my pillow and holds it tight against her. I hugged her once. My breath, I suppose found it’s way to her neck. She froze in place. And I could tell she was tensing. But she said my name out loud. “Lilya”? That was when I left. I don’t know why I did. I should have tried to show her that I was there. But I was too scared. Too afraid that she would understand that I was with her and that, that’s all she would ever get. The feeling that I was there, but never knowing for sure.
Today I skipped breakfast with them. It has been more then a month since my disappearance and I have an idea. Maybe I’ll go. Leave! Adventure! That maybe, in my leaving, the feeling of my presence would leave as well, and they could heal faster. About lunch time I went to Matt’s. He was first on my final goodbye list. He was outside sitting by our makeshift soccer goal. He stood up soon and started walking towards the back near his garage. He grabbed his sneakers and slipped into the woods. I followed him. This was strange. He was not this way. Matt? In the woods?
That’s when I saw myself. I was running and hiding, hoping for them to never find me. The feeling I used to pride myself on when I was younger. Always able to outsmart the looker. Always the hider. But in reality what I really need right now is to be found.
