Hey guys! This idea just suddenly came to me because the name of this fic just popped in my head and I just knew I had to write it! It's going to be happy, sad and everything that's in the middle a bit like TFIOS because it's so perfect! I really hope you enjoy it and hold on in there for the story to get a bit better because I have a good feeling about this! As usual: Read, Review, Fav and most importantly ENJOY x
A regular person passing through Starbucks on a Monday afternoon may look at her as just another twenty-something year old girl, a normal regular girl toying with her cup of chai tea.
A normal girl with red hair bobbing just below her shoulders. Wearing a regular forever 21 romper, sandals from target and a neutral expression on her face as she flicks through her phone, neither happy nor sad. They will see her sit alone, look at the empty chair across from her and not even give a second glance and wonder who she's waiting for or if she's having coffee by herself. They won't wonder what she did last night, what time she went to bed or even what she had for breakfast this morning. To passers by she is just a 'normal girl' and as surprising as that may be she is totally ok with that. Actually she's not. She wants it: She wants to be seen as normal or even forgettable. She wants to be a fading wallflower amongst taller, brighter and more vibrant flowers. But that's just because she's a weed, if you look closely enough she's something that isn't desired. She's not going to be picked because she's pretty, easy, or confident. She's not going to be watered and nurtured. Once someone notices her, She's going to be picked and tossed aside because She's difficult, hard to control and unsteady. She's not the normal, far from it.
She uses embedded quotes because when you're repeatedly told you're 'special.' The phrase sticks to your tongue, it coats your mouth in sugar and it makes it hard to talk. When you're told you're special from people who don't even know you but think they do just because pieces of paper are telling them so. She knows they don't know her; it's a fact that no one but her mother understands her. But she's grateful for that: and do you know why? Because no one should put that strain upon themselves to learn anything about her apart from her name. Lydia. In the biblical sense 'Lydia' means 'Woman.' Which is pretty ironic considering she feels like a scared little girl most of the time, not that she wants to: She wants, craves-to be a woman like she once was.
Cancer.
She'd read books before, she'd watched films before. She'd gone to the movies with friends and seen 'The Fault in our Stars.' And didn't cry once. They'd all smiled and knocked her on the shoulder after when she saw their mascara run faces. 'Lyds come on, show some emotion.' Or 'Didn't that make you feel something at all?' But to tell you the truth she had never been one for showing much, or letting other people see anything but the surface level of composed exterior. She didn't want to: She was the pretty popular girl with pink jackets, the little checked skirts and shiny clutches. Why did she have to be anything but? But she thinks about that movie a lot, rewatched it more than she can count, sitting cross legged on her duvet, staring at the screen watching Shailene Woodley lie on the grass and look up at the stars. Waiting for her green eyes to sting at the edges, willing herself to feel anything but the feeling of what she can describe is 'Black.' Watching Augustus die, watching her Mom, her family and friends. Listening to the soundtrack and trying and force salt water down her face. But it doesn't work. It never does.
She was 17 when she sat down in the butter yellow office of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital; she still remembers it more than vividly. The boldness of her floral pink skirt in contrast to the paleness of her fragile porcelain skin. She still remembers sitting straight upright in the eye wateringly blue plastic chair that dug into her paper thin thighs. Her mother's hand edging closer to hers as the doctor spoke his solemn words. But she refused comfort; she refused to listen to the doctor. Because she was fine. She actually remembers not even thinking about the appointment, because Lydia knew best and she was fucking ok.
It was all triggered off after a trip to the waterpark with her (ex) boyfriend Jackson. He was 'It': captain of the lacrosse team, with his big broad shoulders and icy blue eyes. He commanded what he wanted and got it. He recruited Lydia as his girlfriend and she said yes. He had power and status and she was given a very big leg-up to the top of the pyramid. He was brash and blunt, he never listened to anyone else, but rather everyone in contact with him listened to him. A silent deal was struck up by both of them, he gave her popularity and security and she handed him a 5'3 size trophy complete with long wavy red hair and louboutin pumps. And she could feel herself shrivel as a person as her popularity grew: Lydia supressed emotion, suppressed intelligence, and became this girl. This girl that was a double of her boyfriend, but still lived in his dreary grey shadow.
Anyway: unlike herself she was persuaded to go on a waterslide. She came down and must have; or she thought she did- land awkwardly at the bottom whilst coming into the water. Like a Christmas tree her arm suddenly lit up with this bright shooting aching pain which caused Jackson to actually pull her unwillingly out of the water like a helpless little bird. She can't remember much else but he took her to the hospital and left her by herself, it was typical Jackson but unlike normal she thought she needed him, or anyone to just hold her hand as she sat on the plastic chairs inhaling fake sweet smells of clinical air. The doctor must have looked at this tiny girl with wet hair and mascara run face and wanted to laugh, because in that moment she thought of nothing but her aching arm and tried to ignore it like she did with any other problem or pain in my head. Problems were made to be solved like math equations, they all had answers and she knew that she was going to be fucking ok, it was just a fracture, nothing more than a fractured arm.
But this fractured arm didn't turn out to be a fractured arm at all. It turned out to be more, it turned out to be something that doesn't have an answer, something that isn't easily solved or has a precise logic too. The only thing this 'fractured arm' had in common to a math equation is the fact that people find joy in solving them: or her case- will find joy in solving.
This isn't going to be a sad story about a girl with cancer. That is she's not even going to try and mention it at all. The word doesn't deserve a presence her writing, it doesn't deserve to inter link with words that she finds much joy in using. This 'fractured arm' hasn't beaten her yet, and won't ever beat her the future. The one thing Lydia found whilst reading 'The Fault in Our Stars' was that the emphasis wasn't on illness it was on everything in-between; it wasn't sugary sweet but it held a truth to it that she very much needed. But she doesn't need an Augustus Waters. She wants to make that very clear. She doesn't need anyone to know her or learn about what goes on in her head. Lydia doesn't need any more sadness as she's learnt that living in neutral is the best life is usually going to stay, She's fine with it staying stable. If happiness sways too far it's always going to swing back in the opposite direction.
She did/had/will/maybe always have/ Osteosarcoma. It's a type of cancer that weakens the bone and are often undetected, only picked up from the symptoms that they carry. Ironically enough this was the cancer that Augustus Waters died from/survived with. That doesn't mean anything but a thin connection she has with anything but words on a paper describing what is in her very body. Another ironic thing is the fact that people with Osteosarcoma are usually above average height; this has actually become a joke between Lydia and her mother because she is literally the smallest tiniest little thing and 'rapid bone growth' must have skipped her and just decided to go straight for it and settle in her upper right arm anyway. She jokes about things because it's better than thinking about being the exception, better than sitting round an empty table in silence because your Dad's left. It's better than looking at yourself in a mirror and thinking about why you don't fit into your old clothes because you're practically skin and bones, and getting sad when you try and tie your hair up in a bun but can't because it's too short and thin. It's better than looking at the calendar in the kitchen full crammed full of notes about appointments and medication, phone numbers from your orthopaedic surgeon, your paediatric oncologist, your radiation oncologist, your pathologist and your physiatrist. It's better than reaching out and grabbing the next tube of pills on a long line of others. It's better than all of that. It's better than nothing at all.
It's better than talking about treatment, so she'll save that. She'll keep it for another time. Since most people are dying to know why 'poor Lydia lost an arm' or 'why is your skin so pale' or 'what does it feel like to be like a real life Augustus Waters?' All said just as you read them- in pathetic whiney girl voices or mum's that don't care but just want to know so they can tell the rest over a round of a cup of coffee. After all it must make a change from talking about Heather's mum's divorce.
So she sits in Starbucks and looks at other people. Lydia looks at other people and thinks about how their lives may be simpler than hers or harder. Because you don't know what other people are feeling until you've experienced anything other than a peachy existence full of red lipstick and cute clutches.
She spies two girls with fake hair, fake nails and probably fake Prada bags, instagramming their cliché strawberry and cream frappachinos. She sees a date between a brunette girl with a gossip girl shirt bouncing around in her oversized lime green armchair clearly obsessed with the guy sitting opposite. The feeling is obviously mutual as he extends his long arms and places her hands in his; he looks up at her and smiles-
Obviously they have no idea that love doesn't exist. Obviously she doesn't know that he's probably going to get fed up, and then sleep with another girl whilst she's making him an anniversary meal and lighting candles and cutting-
Stop it you fucking idiot. She feels her brain tell her. Just because you won't ever have that doesn't mean you have to imagine the worse for someone else.
Truth of the matter was she loved watching people. She sits in the coffee shop in the far corner every single Monday and just watches. She watches tiny movements, gestures, expressions, whilst playing with her red hair twisting it around her finger. Trying to put a puzzle together of what their story is. What's their name, what do they do for a job, what brings them to Starbucks on this rainy Monday afternoon.
The red head watches them choose their order, she decides what they are going to have, some don't even look up from phones, gesturing in some sort of direction and snapping at the server, others smile and take ages, talking to someone next to them in line or kindly talking to the server, asking about what's good and what's worth trying. I like these people, interesting, beautiful people.
She usually just orders a large mint tea and comes and sits with her books and laptop. She pushes her hair out of her eyes and crosses her bare legs covered with a denim skirt. She sips her tea slowly and takes out her newest bundles of college prospectuses. Not that she imagined that she would be attending but it was nice to dream, it was nice to imagine that she could have a long winding future of biology or math in front of her. Anyway it had just turned December and no one was thinking about college since they were already there. They were probably putting up lights or kissing under neon lit signs completely out of it after too much strawberry vodka. For her December meant being colder than she already was and curling up on her bed after not being able to muster enough energy to walk to the kitchen, wearing oversized jumpers that a long time ago weren't that oversized. It meant sitting round a large wooden table with just her and her Mom watching repeats of Friends until it reached December 25th.
She begins to scroll through tumblr, looking up again at the people sitting in today. Another couple are sitting in the far right hand corner of the shop, wrapped around one another's arms, the girl has fierce black hair and dark green eyes, the guy has red hair like hers, he wears a smile plastered all over his face as he toys with the girl's hair.
She looks up and sees the barrister collecting the empty tray from the empty table next to her, he looks up in surprise. She feels his eyes flicker with recognition but she knows he won't remember her from the countless amounts of mint tea she has ordered over the year.
But she knows him, with his deep dark coffee brown eyes and his smile, his smile was one that some girls describe as dizzy. He wears the Starbucks uniform, but she can tell he is the type of black skinny jeans, white tee and open plaid shirt kind of guy. But she knows all of this because of the amount of times she has looked at him, how every single week he pours her her tea and serves it to her in an oversized mug, sometimes he makes small talk about the weather or how he's tired from last night's house party- looking at her for reassurance like somehow she feels the same. But Lydia knows now to just nod and pretend she knows what it's like to be that girl, she just likes to be his customer once every Monday, how she is one out of about a thousand people that queue in line for a drink. She knows that everyone in the shop likes him, they want to be served by him- she sees on snapchat the fuss the teenage girls make when they're served by him. It's because he's funny, light-hearted and totally genuine, like he wants to be there talking to you, and- and-
Quickly she is bought out of her daze, his mouth opens and she comes out of thought, her heart beating slowly under her chest. By doing so she snaps back in the wooden chair, the legs making a scraping sound as they collide with the brunette's feet. His long arms suddenly fumble with the coffee cup and the contents spill out all over the table and onto the floor. Fuck Lydia.
"I take that was a coffee to go?" She looks up and sees him running his hands through his messy hair smiling, her cheeks beginning to flash a pale pink. His mouth is highlighted with a mole placed on the right side of his face, his eyes flash with energy as he bares his gaze into hers.
She lets out a small laugh as well. Trying not to show how embarrassed she is because she just spilt fucking cold coffee all down his front and on the floor. Lydia can feel herself reaching with her left arm for her jumpers sleeve rubbing it along her fingers for comfort.
"Sorry." She finally manages to stutter. She shifts her body away from the boy trying to hide her absence of an arm. Because he wouldn't notice that anyway.
"Don't worry about it, it happens all the time." He gives another laugh and wipes the table clean with a cloth.
She gives a smaller smile than before and turns back to her prospectuses, the words not fully going in her head as she
'Hey-' The red head is quickly bought out of yet another thought.
She continues to stroke her sleeve and looks up knowing the eyes that she'll find to follow to warm voice in her ear.
'So I was wondering if you'd like to erm-' Lydia noticed that he was wrapping his fingers around each other, she knew what was coming so she interrupted his jerky flow of speech.
'Pay for the coffee I spilt?' She plastered a fake smile on her face and began to rummage through her bag for her purse. Her own tiny hands were met with a set of larger ones as they touched her skin.
'No-' He gave a weak smile, his brown eyes crinkling around the edges as he laughed 'I was actually wondering if you were free tonight?' She continued to look at his eyes noticing they were strung with tiny threads of gold, before the red head opened her mouth and realized what he'd just asked her.
'Why?' Lydia spoke after a brief period of silence; her fingers were rubbing her sleeve overtime.
'Because I think you're really beautiful.' He answered like it was the easiest question in the world. His hands were still touching her own hand, his fingers were warm and she didn't mind them resting on her cold skin, it felt nice.
Before she'd even realised her cheeks were flushing a paler shade of pink than before, her eyes felt wet and her hands started to warm up. She looked away from the boy and was still left with an image of his face, the little smirk on his face and the confident tones in his warm voice.
The old Lydia would have accepted the compliment straight away just like something she received every 5 minutes, but she wasn't the old Lydia, she hadn't received anything in so long she just wanted to hear the boy say it 10 times over. She laughed to herself whilst looking down at her college prospectus, her flame red hair covering her vision as she felt the sides of her mouth turn up.
It was only then when she remembered she hadn't even thought about being sick for four whole minutes.
It was that that triggered her to turn back to the brunette boy with the long arms and Starbucks uniform and utter the words-
'Okay.'