lily

two

The more I spoke to a person, the more they started to dislike me.

When, perhaps, one sentence is exchanged between you and a person, the possibilities are endless. You have the chances of being the person they've waited their whole lives for, their other half. And when more words are spoken, the possibilities get narrowed down, until at last you've been mentally categorized by that person. Shy, intellectual, boring.

I always found this funny, how language is the one thing that brings two people together and at the same time, the one thing that can tear them apart.

Of course, there are other forms of language. A person's body language can tell you many things. Crossed arms are usually associated with someone becoming defensive, and clenched fists and teeth can sometimes speak louder than words.

When I find Lily sitting under the tree at noon, I am momentarily surprised, although I shouldn't be. This is the one place she always was, after all. As always, there was a book laying down on her lap and a box of raspberries by her side. Her obsession with the fruit was something I long ago noticed and had decided to adore, rather than question. 

I had many times imagined Lily and I's first conversation. In my head, it was sparks flying and laughter and maybe I would lie down next to her and let her read to me, let myself take in the rise and fall of her voice. I think of all this and look back up at her, and see that nothing is different. Her book is still open to the same page and I am still standing here and watching her. The realization of this hits me so hard that I find myself slowly walking back and back until finally I have turned around. And then I am running, putting as many footsteps between myself and Lily M. Rosemary as possible, because if I for one more moment were to stop and let myself think, I would be filled with the overwhelming reality that she will always be in her own world and I will never be a part of it.

I run all the way to the boys' bathroom on the d wing. I always used the bathroom on the d wing because no one else did; everyone preferred the sanitation of the a wing bathroom. I, on the other hand, preferred the solitude of the other.

I look into the mirror and find the same tired, weary eyes staring back at me. When did I start letting the people around me determine my happiness? I let the faucet run and splash cold water on my face.

I examine the graffiti that lines the mirror for the millionth time. The one that always caught my eye was the small, lazy script that read "It is perfectly human to allow yourself to be destroyed."

As always, I let myself wonder what this means. There are so many ways one could be destroyed. Perhaps they self-harmed, or put up with abuse, or beat themselves up about everything they did. Or maybe they let a girl under a tree invade every thought that slipped their mind, for love itself was the most common form of destruction, especially if the two people are not in love and specifically when one person is completely unaware of the other's presence.

I think of the boy who must have come in here during his lunchtime and taken out a black sharpie and scribbled onto this very mirror. Was he a hopeless romantic as well? I imagine this boy with his hand on his heart, sprawled across the bathroom floor, crying tears that cannot be heard because he has chosen the loneliness of the d wing bathroom. Maybe he let himself be destroyed. Maybe his last word was her name and his last breath was on this floor and it was choked and raspy, for he was dying the worst kind of death- the death of a broken heart.

But my heart is not broken, only breaking, so I glance at myself once more before heading out the door. The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and students scurry to make their way to their fifth period classes.