Falling In

iv. Pencils

We’d started walking back to the school when I heard your voice calling for me. It’s kind of an indescribable feeling to hear someone who means the most to you in a certain way calling your name. It was like, I don’t know, all the pleasant things in the world concentrated in a single sound.

“Dylan!”

You ran to me, all of your hair falling out of the braids. Jake stood off to the side, calmly watching me—with a little caution, I thought, as if he were afraid I might explode. Rick was being crushed in the bear hugs of the other football guys, laughing so nobody could tell that he was losing it. Your face was a pretty dark red, which should’ve been the warning sign—actually, I don’t know if you were mad. You were, to some extent, but I don’t think you were completely. I hope not, anyway.

You glared at me for a couple of moments—I’ll always remember those eternities, fraught with discomfort and suspense for me (and some amusement for Jake, I think) before you stiffly drew a slip of paper from the white sweatshirt you were wearing.

And then it hit me, and I couldn’t breathe.

“Oh, sh—How did you—”

And then I realized that she was wearing my sweatshirt, the one I’d lent to Jake. It was just a kind of tradition we had before games or anything big—I had his somewhere in the sea fenced in by my closet door. 

You held it out for me, and reflexively I craned my neck closer to yours so I could read in the dim glow cast by the school’s parking lot lights. I already knew what it read, though.  

“I solemnly swear not to get involved with Ivy,” you read in this mixed-up voice. “What is this?” you asked, half-hissing. “Why—why would you—”

“I can explain,” I said. But Mom was right. I’m not great at confessions. My lips parted; a puff of autumn air blew out, but I was mute. You watched me, body rigid as the street lamp behind you. Two sides, and a decision. I so wanted to say yes—I wanted you to know so badly, but I was afraid that something would go wrong. Part of me pretended just being friends enough. But most of me knew that I was just being a hesitant coward. “Do you have a pencil?” I finally forced out, slowly. 

You handed me a felt-tipped pen from your left boot—seriously, who does that?—and I accepted it reluctantly. The crowd had almost entirely dispersed, blown away like the tendrils of a dandelion, until it was basically just you and me and a couple of lingering no-gooders. Jake had left, probably assuming I’d send you home. I will, when this is done.

I sat down on one of those ledges between the grass and the parking lot, the ones I used to balance on with Rick when we walked back from school in elementary. You placed yourself close to me, shivering against cold—and then I couldn’t stop thinking about the wagon day, and what had half-happened. “Well?” you said, and I was this far already, so close—God, Mom would’ve been proud, huh?—and it would only take a couple more words to pull through. To hell with cancer. I’m supposed to leak my soul. 

So I thought about the wagon day, and rewound the tape to where it started, for me. 

And this is what I’ve written. And I hope you’re not upset anymore, or confused, and I hope to God you understand. And I hope your silence isn’t because you’re determined to make me regret writing down all of this crap just for you. So don’t make me regret this. And yeah, it’s cheesy, and I hate doing this, but it’s a step, right? 

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A/N: Inspired by "Falling In" by Lifehouse.