Hidden Meanings

[Untitled]

Write what makes you happy.

Write what makes you sad.

Write what makes you scared.

Write what makes you feel.

Write what makes you happy.

I can't remember.

I can't remember when it all started, when the formal became friendly, when the friendly became joking.

"It's your BFF..."

"OH, GOD NO!"

"THE GREEN SLIME!"

When light conversations became ones where grins split our faces, hysterical laughter lodged in our throats at the verge of making us fall over.

When I started to glance at my phone in class to make sure you're okay. When you were struggling.

When two years became three. Three became four, four became five, five became six, and six recently became seven.

On the eighth of February, 2010, I met my best friend.

But that's not important. The present is what's important.

You came out to your mom, to the Internet, to your school.

(And using my character's name, you shit.)

You got me to watch Voltron, and we're going to Comic Con soon, probably in form of Keith and Lance.

There's so many complex things that happen when I'm with you- they're simple on the surface, but looking deeper into it... 

Everything between us, actions and dialogue, is to the point where it has meaning. We don't mess around anymore.

(yes, we do mess around like 23/7 but that one hour each day is us being honest, serious, and letting our thoughts out. Probably not even 23/7. 23.9/7)

That long walk to the garden? 

I felt vulnerable. I didn't like it. I felt like someone could tear out my heart and spill my guts out on the pavement simply because I was that relaxed. 

(WEIRD SIMILE BUT THAT'S OKAY)

There's someone I can finally trust. I don't have to hide. I don't want to hide anymore. 

You've allowed me to do that. 

There's so much we have yet to do, individually and together. It's us developing as people. 

And so far, a lot of my development has to do with you showing me how to do it in your own way. 

Thank you. 

Write what makes you sad. 

It's five in the morning.

The light next to my make-shift bed is on, and my brother is awake as well. I look like a mess, dressed in my day clothes with my hair ruffled on one side.

It's the day after I arrived in Croatia. An opening to the month and a half of freedom I'll have on the island. 

But... it's not there. The comfort isn't there. 

I spare a glance outside. The skies are streaked with blue, blue of the rising sun against the morning.

It will probably be cool outside, but that's fine, seeing how it was summer. Climbing out of bed, I head on over to the bathroom, rinse my face, and brush my teeth.

You would probably hate getting up in the mornings, I muse. And hearing the creaking of the swing in the morning. Although I don't think you would actually hear it.

Despite the mild, joking thoughts, my heart twinges in response. Time zones suck- you were probably sleeping. 

I'm alone.

The cool touch of the air brushes against my cheek as I put on my flipflops and open the door. 

I'm alone.

My granddad is fishing, I can tell by the fishing materials on the table. The ocean, from my view, is void of my grandmother. 

I'm alone. 

Just the idea causes a tear to streak down my cheek. For a moment, I take a glance at my phone.

No. I can't bother you right now. You're sleeping. You're more important. 

Write what makes you scared.

There's an empty landscape.

It's a canvas of white, but flowers start to blossom, and it's only then I realize that it's the garden place. 

White turns into brown, the worn brown of the swamp, the weathered brown on the small bridge. 

I see you. 

Your back is turned to me, facing away from me. 

Something cracks.

I bite my tongue, feeling blood rise, tasting metallic and coppery. All around me, hisses fill the air, hisses of gas escaping something.

You still don't look back. 

The ground cracks, it creaks, and all around me, it splits into plates. Between individual cracks, I can see pitch black- nothing, emptiness, only a color and nothingness. 

I call your name, and it's only then do you turn around. 

"Who needs a worthless person like you, anyway?"

The ground underneath me shudders once more. A yell is halfway through my mouth before it cracks and I'm sent plunging. 

The last thing I see is your smile, your smile of happiness once I fall.

Write what makes you feel.

I don't want to lose you. 

I don't want to be replaced. 

Write for one person and one person only.

Happy birthday, SKinava.