The crackle of the rays breaking through the blinds makes a displeasing murmur leave your mouth, before you even have the opportunity to catch it with your hand. It is almost as if you can hear the mellow humming of their engine, making a slight noise each time they bounce off of the tiny dust particles suspended in the air, scouting their way to your eyelashes, where they finally lay to rest. You are not, nor have you ever been a morning person. Granted, you are awake, but you still keep your eyes tightly shut, prolonging the inevitable moment of having to face your daily responsibilities.
At first, you feel relaxed.
With your eyes still closed, you push off the comforter with your feet and sprawl across the bed, stretching and yawning as you do so. Curiosity and a minor feeling of anxiety taking over, you reach for your phone, checking the alarm. A whole 20 minutes, you think to yourself. Plenty of time to lounge. With that, you put your hands behind your head and let your gaze fall on the ceiling.
You end up inhaling harder than expected, which viciously bites back in your chest and immediately feeds the throng of thoughts that scatter against the walls of your bones. It does not take long before they settle in your temples and begin that familiar drumming noise. You feel guilt, you feel shame and you feel embarrassment. You can feel your body pulsate with the sins of your actions and your procrastinations, which is enough for you to sit up and try to thrust that hitching breath out. The sound of your alarm scares you and all you can muster out is a Fuck, before having to begin the morning ritual of getting ready for class.
The morning routine has not changed for years. Skipping breakfast for a shower, followed by brushing your teeth while sloping down on the edge of the bathtub. The reason behind this is the fact that you significantly prefer staring into nothingness, than having to face your mirror image, merely out of running the risk of accidentally catching the glimpse of what it is that haunts you. Once you are finished, you walk into your room and without paying attention grab a few items in order to get dressed. Jeans, t-shirt, sneakers and a hoodie- the almost stereotypical college outfit, except that your choices are severely mismatched. Had they not been, you fear it would have been a testament to you actually giving a fuck.
Before entering the hallway, you remember to grab your bag that is casually resting against your desk and you slip it onto your shoulder. With one hand firmly holding the strap, you open the front door with the other, turning around for a brief moment to say goodbye to your roommate, before remembering that Raven is more than likely sleeping through her hangover. And with that as your cue to leave, you walk through the door, mindful of closing it gently, before skipping down the stairs of the building.
As soon as you have crossed that threshold, the crispiness of spring cradles your face. You close your eyes temporarily, allowing the morning sun to trace its lines, burying itself in each weary crevice, soothing it the best it can. You try to keep your stride relaxed, fervently attempting to leave the morning dew untouched by the dash of rushing feet. You begin to feel the rattle between your ribs that you have become accustomed to. The weight of past decisions pushing down on your chest, as you become incapable of understanding how any of them could have carried such relevance, when in comparison to the vastness of everything, they seem insignificant. And before realizing it, you have reached university grounds.
As you enter the main building, located in the heart of campus, you hear a familiar voice call out your name. Immediately turning around, you witness Octavia bridging the gap between the two of you. "How are you feeling," you ask with genuine interest before adding, "You seemed to have more fun than anyone last night". You can see her lips swell from the smirk that nips at them, prompting her to blurt out, "You wouldn't know, would you? With you leaving early and all". A laughter manages to push through the rim of her mouth, followed by her quipping, "Fucking lightweight". And you know that you are caught.
Last night was your first drink in months, it being a desperate attempt at drowning yourself on the cusp of that whiskey glass. It worked for a little while. The warmth of the alcohol slithering down your throat, swishing around your stomach before ultimately settling there, making you sink even deeper into the couch that you were sitting on. By the fourth glass you had begun to feel ripples, tugging at your seams. Rising to your feet, you forced a smile before announcing that you are both too drunk and too tired, and would like to catch some sleep before class in the morning.
Octavia was the one that walked you home. You walked in comfortable silence. At times, you could feel Octavia's worried gaze fall on your profile. You were hoping that she would avoid asking about whatever it was that was burdening you. About whatever it was that brought upon an evident change in your posture. You were hoping that she would allow you to keep the gates to the deluge closed for a little longer. Suddenly, you could feel her arm sneak its way around your waist, pushing you towards her, tilting her head on your shoulder. Words being superfluous, you relaxed in her hold, knowing that this was her way of letting you know that she will be there once you are ready.
And now, you were standing in the hallway, her eyes tracing for answers to yet unasked questions. "You know that you'll be making sure that I get more practice before the end of this semester", you squeeze out through a grin, stopping her in her tracks. Octavia offers a nod before you part your ways, but only after agreeing to see each other later that evening.
Once you find yourself outside of literature class, you begin to feel annoyed at the amount of bodies that are stubbornly trying to push their way through the narrow doorway leading into the classroom. You do your best at avoiding being swept up by the mob, trying to enter the lecture hall as gracefully as possible.
You give the room a quick glance, searching for an open seat, before allowing your feet to carry you to the fourth row. Somewhere in the middle of it, you find an empty desk and let your body collapse on the chair. Other students huddle around you and take up the rest of the empty seats, as their loud cackle begins to lower to a barely audible whisper. A stout man, wearing a suit and tie, has entered the classroom. With one hand occupied by tugging at his beard, he uses the other to scribble down his name on the whiteboard. "I'm professor Chouette. Although, I'd strongly prefer if you would just call me Alfred", he says with an unvarnished smile.
You have already stopped paying any attention to the little man on the podium and have instead engrossed yourself with fidgeting and stirring in your seat, much to the appreciation of the students surrounding you. What are these chairs made of? Concrete?, as you once more try to find a position that will make you feel comfortable. However, limbs are beginning to tire, fatigue slowly growing roots around them. You lean on your elbow, pushing blonde strands of hair behind your ear, letting your hand rest on the side of your neck. Mr. Chouette is walking around the podium, his hands animated as much as his face seems passionate. You catch him utter, "You are the universe, expressing itself as a human for a little while". The words resonate loudly, finding their way to you. They wash over you, pleasant and reassuring and you cannot help it when you grab mouthfuls of them.
With newly found resolution, you gaze over the rows in front, your eyes searching their way to that of the professor. But to your surprise, that is not where they land. Instead, they land on the ridge of a brown curl. Your eyes rest on the cascading locks, bothering her every time she bends to scribble down notes in her notebook. Her being equally stubborn, if not more, waving them off and sharply placing them behind her ear. You feel your breath snag, the jagged feel of it immediately making you uncomfortable. You feel as though you are giving her a disproportionate amount of momentum to mean something and therefore you quickly avert your eyes to the front of the classroom.
You concentrate on the professor's voice, whom by now is discussing "in medias res", debating whether or not that is the best way for an author to capture their audience. He scans the room and inquisitively states, "I would love to hear your opinion", as he offhandedly throws his index finger in your direction.
You are motionless. There's no way he's talking to me, you think as you use your peripheral vision in an attempt to decipher whether or not you are the intended target, or if someone else, ANYONE, will take it upon themselves to give an appropriate response. You establish that you have no such luck, considering the fact that the entire room is eagerly watching you, avoiding the very same responsibility that has now been given upon you. Intense heat is crawling into your mouth, leaving it completely dry. You are sure that, if you were to spit, you would spit cotton. You clear your throat awkwardly before managing to stutter out, "Yes… it is?", with the pitch of your voice going slightly higher than intended. The silence that follows feels tangible and all enveloping. The professor's gaze still unwavering, surely awaiting an explanation to your reasoning. There is no fucking escape.
And with that as your yielding thought, someone interjects. The boy sitting next to you is spitting words towards the podium, each one coated in incisiveness and resolve. Once he is done, he faces you, but speaks to the room, "I'm sure that's exactly what my friend here meant to say."
Whether satisfied with the provided answer or disappointed in you for lack of one, Mr. Chouette resumes the lesson. You roll your eyes with relief as your lungs thrust out a compressed breath, leaving them tender. You offer a silent thank you to the boy, before turning slowly towards the front of the class, having learned your lesson. The lie goes down smoother than you thought, giving you courage to explore the same path you had hunted on earlier. Discretely, yet not discretely at all, you follow your gaze and give it consent to rest on the familiar curls from before. This time however, you are met by a pair of eyes, tenderly observing you. She hides her smile in the corners of her mouth, but the curve of her lips gives her away. For you, the world is suddenly shifting. A sense of wonder wreaking havoc within you. What the fuck is wrong with me, you snap at yourself.
"My name is Finn", a voice says. You reluctantly turn your head in search of the source. The boy next to you is holding his hand suspended in the air and you wonder how long it has been resting there. You grab it gently, yet firmly and retort "Clarke. My name is Clarke". He gives you a smile and continues, "Well Clarke, if you ever need saving again, I'd be more than happy to help. But it will cost you! As I see it, you already owe me a coffee". A chuckle wheezes out through your teeth, curving your neck into a nod. "That's fine", you say, "As college students I feel as though caffeine is a building stone in maintaining our survival". A sense of agreement lingers between the two of you, and with that being more than enough, both of you turn your attention to Mr. Chouette.
But truth be told, if your gaze happens to tumble once more on a pair of brown tresses, you put no effort in stopping yourself.
Finally, the bell rings. Finn nudges you softly and gestures with his head towards the exit. Suddenly, he wrinkles his forehead and utters in jest, "Wow. You seem like you need that coffee right now". All you can offer him is a distracted dip of the head, as you fervently tower over the rapidly vacant desks. You grab your books as Finn leads the way to the end of your row, both of you waiting for the ideal moment to join the stampede currently headed for the narrow doorway. "Wait for me outside", the words bouncing off of your lips, as the boy joins the throng of zealous students, leaving no room for him to deny your request nor question the motivation behind it.
You feel nervous and your body language demonstrates it well. Your grip tightening around the books, pushing them harder to your heaving chest, as you continuously shift your weight from one foot to the other. What the hell could I say to her anyway? And just like that, any courage that you might have had leaves your system in waves, propelling you towards the exit.
As you emerge on the other side of the doorway, Finn grabs your arm. "Took you long enough", he says mischievously, "Did you find what you were looking for?". You let out a disappointing sigh, hoping that it in itself is enough of an answer, before stating "Let's go. I desperately need that coffee, but double the liquor."
We are leaving. We are walking away. You turn one last time, feeling angry. In part, angry for your lack of bravery, for your wavering resolve, but mostly for the steady growth of anticipation and hope that has now buried its talons somewhere under your clavicles and begun to nestle its way to your ribcage. Angry that it will end in the expected disappointment. Yet, once more, your world begins to shift.
Walking into the hallway, expressionless and unreadable, hair neatly tucked away, is her. And ever so slowly her eyes follow the path to yours, before locking securely into place. You feel high. All the weight from your bones has dissipated and been replaced with a drumming that is now rattling against the talons between your ribs. You know that you are both caught in a transient moment. So, before it has passed, you allow it to hook its harness into the ends of your mouth, tugging gently at the strings, arching it upwards. Her face is unchanging, but she does not look away until you do. You are almost in disbelief with yourself. What the fuck are you doing, Clarke? Yet, you cannot shake off the feeling that it is too late to go back. Inadvertently, she has swung the pendulum with brute force and all you can do is hold on.