Memory Lane

Part 4: Ache

I am a trembling, leaky faucet. I can hardly see the screen as I type this. For once, I'm not just stuck in a memory of you. I have decided to put my feelings into words on a screen. To see them. I think.

I blow my nose with the last tissue in the box. The wastebin overflows with countless crumpled snot-filled napkins, a neverending landslide of despair. I wipe the rest of my tears with the sleeve of my shirt, afraid to leave my room to grab more tissues.

My mother didn't like it when I cried over anything that wasn't related to my father. The possibility of her seeing me like this is humiliating.

I miss you today more than I miss you on any other day. It's the start of summer.

Summer was our season. Summer was when the sun shone and you smiled. Summer was when I first fell in love with you.

It wasn't in the same way that you fell for me. My feelings grew gradually, blossoming from the seeds that were planted when you moved in next door.

I remember the cardboard boxes on the sidewalk and the bright red sofa carried by the movers. I remember the way you casually stuck your long, tanned legs outside the car door, carrying a cardboard box of your own. And I remember the way your eyes lit up when you saw me staring from the porch.

No one was ever that happy to see me. I didn't know what to make of your effortless joy. But when you sat down on the porch next to me, I tried to pretend that people smiled at me like that my entire life.

You thought I had friends. While most people decided that I was a mystery they could never figure out, you fabricated a whole life for me before you said your first hello. You imagined a brighter existence than the one I lived and I told you just as much.

"I don't believe you. How can someone have no friends?"

Technically, I had acquaintances in the form of a few people in class that I occasionally talked to. Whenever Tiffany seemed amiable, I chatted with her. But beyond that, I didn't have a deep enough connection with anyone to call them a proper friend.

"I'm a loner," I admitted. "People don't stick around for long."

And I never blamed them. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with me. Well, aside from my obvious insecurity, no one hated me. But anyone seen with me was subjected to the same teasing from Evan and his friends. I would get tired of the heckling, too, if I were them.

"I'm going to be here for a while," you said. "So don't get sick of me yet."

I remember laughing in disbelief. Who would chase you away? You were so happy and beautiful that I couldn't help but smile in your presence.

Life before you was miserable, but I hadn't known it was so until we spent all of our time together. Not that I minded the solitude or the hours I spent staring at the wall out of sheer boredom, but life was so much richer after you entered it.

If I listen closely, I can almost hear the cicadas buzzing outside my window, an echo of our first summer together. In the distance, your feet slap against the pavement as you run to my door. Your voice overlaps with my mother's as you ask if you can see me for the third consecutive day so that we can bike around the neighborhood.

You were always coming up with things for us to do. There were so many lists and activities that it made my head spin seeing all of them, color-coded and highlighted in a fuzzy pink notebook.

My mother liked you. Not that your pestering didn't annoy her, but she liked that there was someone bothering me who fit her definition of what it meant to be a regular teenage girl. She approved of your bright floral dresses with the hems beneath your knees and your long blond hair pulled back with a bow clip.