Excerpts From The Book I'll Never Write

#66

"I think it's kind of sad, actually." She proclaimed lighting a cigarette. "It's kind of sad that a girl can stay up all night, choking on sobs, wishing for death, then go to school the next day." I watched the curve of her lips as she spoke. I wanted to kiss her, fuck I needed to kiss her, but instead I licked my lips and looked away from hers. "Not sad for her," she continued. "Hell, shes probably the strongest person in this dump." She laughed. Not a real laugh, this one was laced with pity. "No, it's sad for us because we don't see it. Sad because we don't want to see it." She looked at me waiting for my response.

I didn't have one. The truth was I wasn't really listening. I was to busy trying to memorize the way her eyelashes rested on her cheek when she inhaled her cigarette, and the pattern of her freckles that were scattered across her nose like the stars in the sky.

So I nodded my head and balled my hands into fists in my pocket. "Yeah." I said. "That sucks."

She shook her head and threw down her cigarette, not satisfied with my answer. But she didn't say anything about it, instead we sat in silence. That was the thing about her, she wasn't the type of person that needed answers. She seemed to always know something about everything and she only ever waited for a response because it was polite.

I wondered what she was thinking about, not only now but always. You see her mind wasn't something you could ever understand. It was like the town you pass through a hundred times but never stop in. You know that it exists, and fuck, it's beautiful, but if you ever stopped you would still just be visiting, passing through in order to get where you actually want to be.

Maybe that's why I was so captivated by her. Because she was exotic, different, completely and totally impossible to understand.

I let out a breath and looked back in her direction. She had lit another cigarette but wasn't smoking it. Instead she was watching some freshman pass around a soccer ball.

"It's really sad," I finally said. "That people feel like that and hide it."

She flicked her cigarette to the ground but kept her gaze on the soccer players in front of her. It wasn't until the bell rang, signalling the end of lunch, that she spoke.

She spoke softly, quietly as if telling me a secret, as if she was telling me the truth. "Yeah." She whispered. "It is."