A Prose With No Direction

just a bit sunburnt

A few days past since our sleepover, and Hugh hasn't visited me since then because of school. To be honest, I feel lonely and a bit disappointed. I don't know why, but I wish he would just take his laptop and do online school here, with me. I've been like this since that damn sleepover, my heart beating quickly every time I remember the look he gave me and his obnoxiously playful words. 

I remember his sideway glance, his soft, chestnut-brown hair, and warm skin.

I remember his warmth, his words, his eyes.

I remember the feeling I felt with him, the throbbing in my chest that's not a result of terror, anxiety, or nightmares.

The feeling of my heart going—

Ba-dump.

—every time I remember him.

My chest throbs again, and a warm feeling rushes to my cheeks. I touch them, and they feel hot, and instantly I feel a pit in my stomach, thinking I have a fever.

It's never good to have a fever during the plague.

I run to the mirror, fingers touching my warm cheeks.

I feel hot.

Do I have the virus?

I look into the mirror and notice my cheeks boast a bright red, my usual pale ones displaying a color as red as the sunburnt ears of Hugh.

I gasp.

Are my cheeks sunburnt?

What are you doing?

I jump in surprise, my body turning to face the little girl behind me. 

Goddammit, don't sneak up on me like that.

Why are you staring into your reflection? You don't usually do that unless you're reflecting or thinking.

I glance back at my reddened appearance. 

I think I contracted it.

The virus?

Or my cheeks are just sunburnt. 

If you had the virus, I would've known.

I nod. Oh, right.

I sigh in relief. 

So they're just sunburnt. 

She looks at me with suspicion in her eyes.

Were you thinking of anything before you felt hot? She asks me. Or anyone?

Hugh, I answer immediately.

Then maybe that's why your cheeks are like that.

I frown, eyeing her in confusion. What do you mean?

She scoffs. I know you're playing dumb, but at the same time you aren't. I know you've suppressed and denied this feeling so much to the point you believe yourself to be so unrealistically clueless and naive. But I know you're well-informed in that feeling you're feeling.

I'm still confused—

Clara, this isn't your first rodeo.

But I do hope it's your last.

The little girl disappears again, and I am left in confusion as I stare at myself in the mirror, cheeks flushed in a warm red, the kind that color the tips of Hugh's ears. 

They're just sunburnt, I say to myself.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

I clench my shirt, begging for the throbbing to stop.

"They're just sunburnt," I assure.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump.

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