The Definition of Time

Chapter 27

where were these words
when I saw you for the last time
and I was frozen in indecision?

where were these words
when they called me fat
and I accepted it?

where were these words
when anxiety stole my mind
and I could articulate nothing?

where were these words
when I was alone
and no one could tell me I was worthy?

where were these words
when I was abandoned
and labeled "unlovable"?

where were these words
when I said "see you later"
instead of "I love you"?

now they drip like blood from my fingertips
I bleed black and white
filling the sheets like newspapers
with everything I've left unsaid

I will say them now
even if they are only a whisper in my own ear
telling me I'm enough

September 12, 2014

I look into the mirror and self-consciously pull down my navy blue skirt while tucking in the floral button-up I found at a thrift store for three dollars. My eyes drift up to my face, and I see the evidence of everything that has happened this weekend in the bags under my eyes, the downturn of my features, the pallidness of my skin. Every time I think about that night with Collin, I feel the weight of oppressive guilt on my chest. Collin's and Josh's words have been at conflict within me, one voice telling me I'm selfish and one telling me I deserve the best. Perhaps both of them gave me fragments of truth, but now it is my responsibility to decide which of their accusations and accolades I'll accept and which I'll reject.

In the mean time, I've decided that keeping myself busy will allocate less time to contemplation and overthinking. I can't let the pain and guilt immobilize me. So, I've joined the Regent newspaper, entitled "The Buzzing Bee" after our mascot. I figure it'll be good experience before my journalism internship next year, and it'll get my mind off of the melodrama that is my life. I grab my backpack and make my way through campus to the liberal arts building that houses the English/journalism department and the Bee.

I've walked by the office before; it includes tiny cubicles with computers and is always bustling with busy bees (see what I did there?). I approach the door and draw in a breath, anxiety tingling in my fingertips. 

As the door swings open, I am enveloped in chatter and the rush of bodies zipping around from cubicle to cubicle. I hear the sound of a printer, or maybe two; someone is clicking pictures, and I see more than one red pen tearing pristine paper to shreds.

Eventually, someone spots me. "Hi! You looking for something?"

"Uh, yeah," I glance down at my phone for the name. "Chloe? Chloe Cassidy?"

A hand flies up from behind a cubicle, scattering papers. "That's me!"

A girl makes her way to me through the mess and grabs me, pulling me in for an emphatic hug. I'm a little too overwhelmed to do anything but stand ramrod straight. She backs away and smiles at me, dimples forming in the corner of each cheek. 

"Chloe Cassidy, head editor, at your service."

As I recover from my surprise, I take her in quickly. Her skin is coffee colored and she has curly hair that bounces a few inches short of her shoulders. Her face is heart shaped and sweet, especially with her matching dimples. She's wearing rolled up high waisted capris, heeled floral boots and a coral crop top. Her voice has tinges of a Californian accent which would explain her hipster vibe. 

I smile nervously. "Uh, yeah, hi. I'm Rachel Evans. I e-mailed you a few days ago about a position as a reporter."

"Oh, yes!" she says, clapping ringed fingers together. "I'm so glad you could make it! We're so excited to have you as a part of the team. As you can see," she motions to the mess around her, "we're a bit understaffed at the moment. But here, let me give you a tour! We already have a cubicle ready for you!"