My apartment seems too quiet, too boring after the day I've just had. Since we started so early, Michael and I make it back home just after noon. Saying goodbye to him is odd; it is frightening the way he seems to have so quickly inserted himself into my life. I have to remind myself that I have only known him for three days, though it feels like so much longer.
My black and white life seems to be ablaze with color today. I am not sure whether to embrace it or to shut it out. I am comfortable with black and white; the only colors I really need are the orange, yellow, green, and pink of a stack of post-its.
But I'm starting to crave purple, and it scares me. I've never had purple.
I am restless today. I find myself unable to sit still, unable to focus. My textbooks are open, but I find my thoughts constantly shifting back to Michael Clifford.
Why does everything seem to relate back to him? I read a psychology passage that details human suffering, and I wonder what Michael has suffered. I think back to his red leaves: family, money. The most intriguing was the red leaf when I asked if he considered himself normal. I shake off the memories and try to focus on schoolwork.
Around four, I call and order Chinese takeout. I don't even particularly like Chinese food, but I'm not about to have pizza again and I feel too drained to cook anything. When I grab my wallet from the counter to take cash from it, the red leaf that Michael gave me slides out. I take it into my hands gingerly, examining it and everything that it stands for. "A free pass to ask a red question sometime."
I will keep this, and I will save it for the inevitable time when I will need it. But how inevitable is it, exactly? How often will I have chances to ask Michael Clifford questions? I have known him for 72 hours and a reasonably high percentage of them have been spent together.
I cross into the living room, walking over to my bookshelf. I take the red leaf and tuck it into the pages of my copy of Looking For Alaska, trying not to compare Michael to Alaska Young. Mysterious and captivating, seeming like something to aspire to. I wonder if Michael is really anything like Alaska... the real Alaska. The person who puts up stone walls to hide the fact that their insides are shattered, fragile glass.
Who is Michael, inside? I feel like I caught a glimpse today, through yellow leaves, of who he really is. The fact that he even allowed me the yellow leaves means something... he is willing to be pushed to the edge of his comfort zone. But no further. No red leaves. My fingers run over the tip of the leaf poking out from the pages before I slide the book back onto the shelf.
That red leaf seems incomparably important.
I settle onto the couch and pull my books around me, determined to get as much done as I can. This week is going to be stressful, starting an internship two days a week. But I get to drop two classes without penalty and still receive credit, as long as I keep my internship. A small voice in the back of my mind is nagging me about the internship and getting involved with Michael, but I flip a switch before the voice can form a full sentence. I don't want to hear that right now.
I am up to my eyeballs in an essay about the effects of pesticides on the environment when I become suddenly aware of another person's presence in the room.
My hand flies to my throat in shock and I yank the headphones out of my ears before my entire body relaxes.
"You have to stop doing that," I say to Michael as I try to calm my heartbeat.
"I knocked. Loud. But you didn't answer," he argues. "Cool dance moves, by the way."
I groan. "What do you want?" For the first time, I take the time to actually look at him and I am... surprised. Pleasantly surprised. I remember that he is going to a 'rich people thing.' He is wearing a suit, looking impeccably perfect, up until his face.
