Honey Lips

{sixteen}

"Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people living for today"

     Lydia thought back to when she was younger, always dreaming about growing up. The limits were everything but endless to a little girl in a big bad world. Mom always scolded her for dreaming of such a thing, saying, "you're young, Lydia. Stay that way for as long as you possibly can. The world is full of such strange things that can endanger you . . . you're too naive for a world so cruel."

Lydia would roll her brown eyes countless times when she said that. She didn't want to be young and babied around. She wanted to be sophisticated, poise to perfection. She wanted to be seen by the world as a young woman with ambition and wit.

Oh, how Lydia could only wish time could halt. Instead of finding it repulsive how her mom tried to control her pubescent life with her motherly words, Lydia would mentally write them down on a sheet of binder paper.

     Mom was always right. The world is horrible. Darkness lurks just beneath the sunny sky. Danger is just as close as a breath of fresh air, or a touch of another soul. Secrets will harm. Trust will be broken. Age will continue to manipulate every cell your body was made up of, and turn it into nothing but ash and wasted dreams.

     This night, Lydia finds peace while gazing at the stars. Her half written english essay slightly crumpled lies on her legs clad with sweatpants. 'The Great Gatsby' in her hands. She involuntarily played with the aged paper, folding it between her soft fingers and tracing the spine. John Lennon's silky lines of 'Imagine' played on the record player she'd recently found tucked away in the attic.
'You may say I'm a dreamer . . . ' says Lennon, while Lydia stares out at the sea of stars as if they each held an answer to her problems. She knows she's a dreamer; that is crystal clear. It's in her blood, her kin. But what does she dream for now? A better future? A new trait? Perhaps a whole new Lydia.

Her eyes make the mistake of glancing to Miguel's window, which to her surprise, is wide open. He's sitting at the seat beside the windowsill, reading the same assigned book as her. His black hair is tied back in a small man bun. Tendrils of his locks flow with the wind that dances with the dead leaves. Glasses are perched up on the bridge of his nose. And even from the distance, she can see the way his lips twitch from time to time. It could just be a reaction from the reading, but Miguel knows she's watching. Every time her eyes land on him, the hairs on the back of his neck raise in anticipation. To her, he looked so effortlessly disheveled—something that could make her melt like butter between his fingers, if she'd allow herself to do so.

Miguel discreetly glances over just in time for Lydia to turn away. She tried to play it off by reading her book, but judging by the way her eyes failed to focus on the correct paragraph, Miguel knew she was flustered. Even worse, Lydia knew she had to stop. She made a promise—a vow. She's known Miguel long enough to know she can trust him, but can she trust him with her fragile heart? One more break in her already tampered heart and it's bye-bye to Lydia. She'd watched her parents heartbreak right before her eyes. She didn't want that.

Lydia stood up from her window seat and began packing her stuff. All the while, Miguel peered our from the corner of his eye to watch.

Lydia tucked several strands of hair behind her ears before finally grabbing a hair tie and fixing the mess. She made sure to put her papers back nicely in each folder. Then closed her assigned book so there were no such thing as creased pages. She shoved the materials in her leather backpack. Her fingers fumbled with the tiny zipper, partially from stress and also from the intense stare she was receiving from across the side yard.

Miguel sighs as Lydia finally looks up. Her big doe eyes bored into his earthy hazel. Miguel couldn't identify which emotion was radiating off her the most. Fear. Pain. Sadness. Yearn. Lust.

Lydia bit her plump bottom lip, a habit that she's acquired when she was nervous. She gave Miguel one final glance, then closed her cream velvet curtains.

Miguel has been watching over her. Silently and discreetly. Sure, call him a stalker, but he feels the need that he has to. Almost like a guardian angel. Something inside his veins compels him to keep his eyes peeled wide open for danger. She's too innocent, too pure. She doesn't deserve to remain captive by the 'do nots' and misguided demons that chain her from her freedom.

It was then that Miguel, who has been keeping a keen eye on Lydia, has finally come to the last piece of the puzzle.

Lydia is trapped. Her fake smile she wears around her peers and eyes that shown as bright as the morning sun dipped in honey, cracks and chips bit by bit. Behind the bars of her past, she is screaming at the top of her lungs. The demons of chains hold her back from her future. They find amusement and pleasure in watching her slip away from sanity. Those dainty fingers of hers grasp the bars of the prison, pulling, banging, kicking. She's completely trapped, and she deserves to be freed before she completely slips away from his reach.

♪ — Imagine by John Lennon