At the end of class, S. P. stared out a window from her seat. "S. P. !" I put my hand on her shoulder. She didn't jump.
She casually says, "Hi."
"We are about to leave. " I tell her. She was in deep thought before I came to tell her. What was she thinking about?
"Oh. " She put her notebook in her backpack.
The look on S. P. Whitman's face was sad. "Are you okay?"
"Oh. Um yeah. "
"Are you sure?"
"Um. I don't know. "
"Hey, " I wanted to hold her right then and there. I wanted to wrap my skinny arms around her. I wanted to tell her you're perfect and beautiful. I wanted to tell her to be mine. "Listen to me, what's wrong?"
She shook her head as the bell rang. "I'm sorry. I'll tell you one day-just not today."
She is an elusive person -a mystery not even Sherlock Holmes can crack.
"Oh. I'm sorry for asking. "
"No, I'm sorry my past takes over me. " Well, dang. I don't know what to say to that. She walked ahead of me even though she didn't know where she was going. I feel bad. She spun around. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. "
She has a heart. I can tell it's hidden behind a door but it goes outside every so often. It's bigger than herself, her heart is bigger than mine. Her heart is soft but it has a mind of its own. I can't figure it out. I can't figure her out.
"It's ok. "
YOU ARE READING
The Leftovers
Ficção AdolescenteI had become a leftover. I am nothing more than a plate of food he forgets about, And soon he will dispose of me. He comes to me when he is hungry for love, I feed him hoping he'll stay, But he leaves. Because that's all I am to him, Just a leftover.
