Obscurity

VI. of silhouettes and pirouettes

Hope comes in many different forms. The obscurity noted.

There's the one that only comes when you're at your lowest point, like a ray of sunshine that passes through broken glass--you may not appreciate it at first, but then you stand farther and you see the true beauty of the entire picture.

Then there's the kind of hope that brings you up--it completely engulfs you in it's own form of happiness, of false promises and of picturesque opportunities.  It's probably also the most dangerous one; because the more hope you have within you, the harder the blow is when it all comes crashing down.

Then of course, there's the hope that doesn't even seem like hope.  It comes into your life in disguise--encasing it's true form within a facade, so that you wouldn't recongnize it; you wouldn't push it away. It's the kind that gives you the feeling of elation; of temporary happiness.  But in the end, it does the same thing.

It eats you alive.

For the obscurity, hope came in the form of a sillhouette of a teenage boy.

She'd come back to the field that merely an hour ago, she'd sworn to never return.  But she'd forgotten her book behind the shrub that she used as a hiding spot, and she needed it back.  

She'd just gotten to the climax, too.

Treading her way cautiously through the knee-high grass (she'd forgotten to bring a flashlight again), she almost didn't hear the rumbling sound of somebody's feet stomping carelessly on the weeds.

It was getting closer.

And what was one supposed to do when a situation like that occurs?

Well you hide under another shrub, of course.

She ducked behind the leafy plant, her heels digging into the ground as she popped her head slightly over it, to catch a glimpse of the running stranger.  It was darker now than it was when she'd left her house; the gray clouds covering the moonlight from shining through.

She watched as the boy halted to a stop, and her heartbeat quickened as she saw him reach into the hole of the oak tree, so readily, as if he'd expected it to be there.

And right there and then, her savior had a form.  He was a real person, not just someone that her mind had imagined to make herself feel better.  He was real and he was breathing in such close proximity to her that she almost yelped with excitement.  Or shock.  She really couldn't tell.

Her palm circled over her mouth--just in case--and she watched as the boy read her letter, the white light from his phone illuminating the parchment. She couldn't see his face; the light shone away from his face, but she could tell from his silhouette that his hair ran messily over his head, his nose was pointed sharply, and his lips parted slightly, as if he was about to ask a question that would remain unanswered.

She watched for several minutes as his head inched lower and lower across the paper.  

Those are my words that he's reading. The thought crashed over her like a wave during high tide--it was one thing to think that somebody had read what you thought, it was another to actually see it happening.  

And she kept on watching as he stuffed her writing into his backpack, and digging through it rumbling the contents inside. She heard the faint sound of a paper being torn (she knew the sound all too well), and watched as he wrote something on it.

She watched the scene unfolding curiosly, and she questioned why anybody would want to write to her.  Nobody even gave her a second glance at school.  

Or anywhere, for that matter.

Her fingers were itching to unfold the tiny note that he had stuck in her little hole. but she had to wait until he was completely gone.

He slung his backpack over one shoulder, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he strode along.  She still couldn't make out his face, nor could she pinpoint the identity of her new favorite stranger.  His build was just like any other teenage boy in her town--lean and slightly muscular, his jaw defining the shape of his chiseled face.

When he'd completely disappeared from view, the obscurity rose from her hiding place, walking softly to the now-familiar surroundings that encircled the old oak tree. 

She wondered what he could have written on the note.  A message perhaps? Some sort of letter of his own? Or could it be a note that told her to stop leaving the letters because they sucked and her writing was horrible and that he didn't want to hear anymore of her estranged thoughts?

She personally hoped that it wasn't the last option, but she felt like she was floating; filled with elation and happiness.  She knew that she should savor feeling this way, because she knew that it wouldn't last very long.

It never did.

She felt like doing pirouettes in the air right then and there, even if she knew absolutely nada about ballet or how to even do a pirouette.

She'd seen it in several shows, though. Those outdoor concerts that a ballet school held downtown every year was something that she always enjoyed watching.  And what she liked the most about ballet wasn't the tutus or the fancy steps.

It was how they always managed to look graceful and happy.  How they always managed to fall on their feet whenever they landed.  Not on their asses--like when she had tried before.

This could be a great metaphor about my life. She thought bitterly.

The three simple steps to do a successful pirouette:

Jump.

She put her hand inside the hole, her fingers grazing the lined notebook paper.

Spin.

She opened the letter, reading the two words that were hastily written.

Land.

The corner of her lips twitched upward, the two words engraving itself into her mind.

You exist.

_

A/N: Idk anything about ballet, so if this whole pirouette thing is wrong, I sincerely apologize and please do tell me :)