PAPER SIGNS | miscellaneous

→ heartache

how would you guys react if i told you this happened because i was really upset over a fictional character that i had spent the entire day crying about his death, now that half of my friends think i'm insane? yeah that's true.

lmao that makes me sound like such a drama queen.

i've exaggerated a lot of what i had been feeling, and though this is based on true things, i made some stuff up. just... enjoy.

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The train rumbled on quietly, steadily. There was a certain mechanical beat to it: people chatting animatedly, mulling over their phones, or staring out at the view speeding by — it is a steady pattern, unlike the churning emotions she was currently feeling.

It was bad enough that she had received the mind-numbing news that he was dead, then her friend had mournfully stated of "how much she missed him". She had resisted the strong urge of twisting her neck. They don't get to say they missed him. Nobody does.

When she went to borrow a book earlier in hopes that it would clear her mind, the librarian seemed extra ugly today as he told her off with a firm "No". Because apparently, she had not returned one of their books yet and so, she cannot borrow another. With a hard glare, she stomped away, not fulfilling her wish of throwing something sharp at him. Maybe then he would have a grasp of a speck of what she was feeling.

She leaned on the glass board on the subway, the sweet liquid she was drinking rising and falling through the clear straw with every small sip she takes. No one here understands, no one. She observed the group of girls huddled over, giggling loudly, and to the brightly-faced mother congratulating her child about his exceptional grades; she scoffed. How can someone speak, let alone laugh when something as saddening as this has happened. She hates them for their tittering, their happiness. She hates them that they don't even care.

As the time for her to change train stops came, she rose, weaving through the crowds with ease on the very intention to avoid any contact. She slipped back into another subway, propping up on a wall, frowning as she noticed this train had, even more, passengers than the last. The thoughts of his lonely, agonising death came blaring through her mind, and she found herself studying the now very interesting handlebar. The red paint at the edges had chipped away; there were lines scratched along it like the tally etched on a dark, frigid jail cell. The scratches peeled away the paint, revealing the icy, silver metal beneath. Yes, this was indeed more interesting than the emotional tsunami she had inside her heart.

As soon as it started, the interest wore off, and a wave of tremendous grief overwhelmed her desire to study the metal bar. She choked in a breath quietly. It was as if in this endless swirling sea of misery and anguish, she was the lone person on a wood raft, begging to the gods for this harrowing storm to end. Abruptly, the milkshake she was sipping turned to sour bile, and she had the sudden urge to throw up. Her throat contracted painfully as she lowered her drink, no longer wanting to taste it.

The passersby on the subways came and went. She looked out onto the station, picturing herself walking away, and let the trains carry her; to wander aimlessly and for once, feel herself let go of the consequences. Knowing too much sometimes had a problem — it would bring caution and fear of the "what-would-happen". That is such frustration, she thought with a scowl.

For a while, she just stared at everything that passed by — the forlorn-looking people, the darkening sky, the flurry of leaves and bushes. Then she lifted her phone and started to type. Word by word, she inscribed everything that happened, everything that she felt, into the device. Tears were blurring her keyboard, but she was determined not to let the dam break; she would not be able to hold back. For no one could know of this heartache, this terrible pain that came so unexpectedly it knocked her sideways into a ghost of herself. That she alone carried the sorrow and the knowledge that he would never come back — no matter what anybody else said.

The pain had started to numb as she looked out to the completely blackened sky. A cool female voice called from above, announcing her stop. She glanced up wistfully; maybe he was smiling down from the heavens at her.

With a tired sigh, she pocketed her phone, swinging her bag up forcefully as the doors slid open. And she started home. Her cold, barren home.