Spotlight on Nobody

- 18 -

~ song: Drew Barrymore by SZA ~

Anais sits perched lightly on the arm of my loveseat. Her mane of thick black ringlets spills out of the strip of teal silk she's used to tie it back. She's wearing a simple cream turtleneck and rust orange corduroys, making her obsidian skin glow. In her hand is a large notebook, and she glances up from it every now again to scrutinize my body. The longer she spends sketching me, the more self-conscious I become. She claims she draws all of her clients to record not only their appearance, but their "vibe." Apparently my "vibe" cannot be captured on camera.

We had spent the entire morning together. After she dropped her stuff at my place, we had breakfast at a café on campus with some of my friends, walked along the river and then I showed her the lab I work at and what I do there. The whole time she asked me questions, ranging from my day-to-day routine to my favorite band to my happiest memory. Despite making me talk the entire time, I got the feeling that she was one of the ultra-genuine people, who never said something she didn't absolutely believe in. She was the kind of person that you felt instantly at home with, so it wasn't hard to open up to her.

When we got back to my apartment, she rifled through my closet, asking me about certain pieces and to show her what I normally wear to class, on a date, to a concert, etc. She even went so far as to stalk my social medias, commenting on my sizable following, which I credited solely to being seen with Leo in public.

It was only as she began to draw me that she even mentioned Leo for the first time. She approached the subject more gently than the others, and I realized that she has no idea what the extent of our relationship is. But honestly, do I?

"You light up," she says from behind her sketchbook.

"Excuse me?"

"When you talk about him; when I bring him up or mention his name; when you think about him. You light up," she states.

I flush. "It's nothing serious," I say casually.

"You don't have to be embarrassed."

"I know," I say too quickly. "But I do," I finish after a moment of silence. "I really like him, but what does that make me? How can I convince him, let alone the world, that I like him, and not everything else - the fame, the talent, the success? I feel like a dumb fangirl who got lucky, even though I wasn't a fangirl in the first place. And it's frustrating," I finish with a huff.

"But exhilarating, I'm sure," she suggests, and I smile in agreement. How could I disagree? I'm talking to the woman designing my outfit for the Met Galaafter all – could it get more exhilarating?

After she leaves, I take out my physics notebook and try in vain to understand the difference between series and parallel resistors, to no avail. I've always hated math, and physics is just math on steroids. Give me Shakespeare to analyze? No problem. Ask me what caused the War of 1812? Easy, impressment by the British. Need me to dissect a lamprey? Scalpel, please. But the minute I'm supposed to extrapolate ideas from a string of numbers, letters and symbols, I'm lost.

Giving up before ever really starting, I close my notebook with a sigh and grab my guitar instead. Lovingly, I pluck at the strings until it's perfectly in tune. I can't help thinking of Leo's beautiful, ruby-inlaid guitar, how it fit so perfectly against me. But I love my guitar. Bought second-hand for $100 from a man claiming to have made some of the best memories of his life with it back in the 70s; it feels like home. I intentionally got a classical one, though I don't play classical style, because the nylon strings sound warmer, softer, more comforting. Mindlessly, I play Blackbird, humming along gently. Sometimes when I play, I concentrate so hard on making the perfecting melody, starting all over if it's not just so. I spend literal hours concentrated solely on my guitar, time weaving into the melody and slipping away. Other days, this massive gaping hole sucks out my insides, leaving me feeling empty, and I play in a desperate attempt to fill whatever I just lost. Today feels more like the latter option.

Soon my fingers find their way along the frets, searching for a chord progression that can fill me up. I settle on all minor chords, flitting through the melancholy progression slowly, sadly. It sounds like how sitting in an empty car during a rainstorm feels, and I can feel my heart cracking a little bit with each string I pluck. Tears drip noiselessly down the wood frame, but I don't take my hands away from the strings to wipe them dry.

What is wrong with me? My life is quite literally perfect – good grades, great school, loving friends, and not to mention Leo, whatever he is to me. But all that and I still feel empty, lonely. When I'm with Leo, I'm brimming over. It's like I need to carry around a bucket with me to catch all the spillover happiness and use it for days like today. Because today I feel like I'm standing on the edge of a blackhole and it's pulling everything out of me: my smile, my breath, my sanity. And since my highs with Leo are so high, it makes my lows – when I'm not with him – that much lower. Inevitably, my time apart from him is more than my time with him. He's traveling, I'm in class. He's performing for thousands, I'm studying. He's kissing girls on the cheek, I'm alone. Alone.

I shiver and check the clock: 11:00 pm. Time flies when you're wallowing in self-pity. It's at least 2 hours before I normally go to sleep, but between pouring out my heart to Anais and then literally crying on my guitar, I am drained to say the least. Pulling back my covers, I spot a bundle next to my pillow. Upon closer inspection, I discover it's a deep green crewneck, the same one Leo slept in two nights ago when he was here. He must have left it for me. Ignoring the implications of a boy leaving his sweatshirt for a girl, I close my eyes and inhale, the smell of Leo making my stomach flip-flop. I slip it on hastily, feeling my anxiety slip away with each additional inhale. Burrowing under my sheets, it almost feels like he's lying beside me. Almost.