Outside in the slight coolness of the night, away from the party, she sat. The windows illuminated yellow, sounds of laughter bursting forth from collected corners. In the darkness, Spencer listened to the calming thrush of the trees, fingertips tracing the ropes patterns of the wooden swing that had remained attached to the old oak tree―even after all of these years, unused and esoteric, only for those who wanted to find themselves lost from the world.
The party had left her feeling too claustrophobic; lights swarmed by, people brushing against her, even in the distance that she hoped would bring her some comfort, the escape from her own kind felt needed. A step outside was like the gasp for air, bursting forth from lungs that found themselves unable to breathe.
With the tip of her shoe pressing gently into the soft earth, she couldn't help but wonder what has caused her to feel such a foreign commodity amongst the people she faced nearly every day of her life―perhaps it was the gorge that separated her from her own peers, the space between them full of intellectual pursuits, and a curiosity of the world that overstepped the bounds full of these mindless parties she constantly found herself avoiding. Her mind was always a state of both constant disarray and a cleverly organized record that made it hard for her to understand the simplistic thoughts of those whom surrounded her, always needing something new and engaging to calm the stormy seas that had brewed within her.
The whispers in the dark―laughter, heavy breaths, and the slight gasp for air, calmly nestled only feet away from her―caused her to frown, wondering if they had even noticed her sitting there, half-illuminated by the light glowing from inside. If they had, they seemed not to mind.
The soft click of a door was heard, a dark silhouette on the porch, casting a shadow on the ground not far from her. Her eyes tried to distinguish whom exactly it had been, when a sound of disgust was expressed.
"Ugh, get a room. Please."
The couple's words were interrupted with a long silence, the figure ignoring whatever looks they were giving her, as she skulked down the wooden stairs.
"And not one of mine, either."
Even in the darkness, Spencer could make out the curly blonde hair and shadowed eyes that had started stumbling toward her. All was silent, until the sound of moving feet was heard in the grass behind her. Brown eyes following the shapes of the muddled couple, she watched them re-enter the party, disappearing into the crowd.
The creak of the swung and the breeze of the night lulled between them, before a voice spoke from the darkness.
"Move over and make some room."
Spencer's eyes drifted away from the windows to look at Hanna, before pressing herself against one side of the swing, allowing her friend some space. Slumping down onto the wooden seat with a sigh (a single red plastic cup in her hand), Spencer was pushed against the uncomfortable rope, letting it dig into her arm.
"Why aren't you in there?" she asked with genuine curiosity, shifting a bit to give the both of them a bit more breathing room.
"I could ask the same about you. You're sitting out here all dark and boarding―"
"You mean... brooding?"
"Whatever, you're still doing it. What do you even think about all the time anyway? It's like your brain never shuts off."
Quietly picking out the correct string of words to choose―(like the right flowers to fit the landscape of a yard, each picked by colour, their need for shade and sunlight, wether they were perennial or not)―she mulled over the question.
"I'm thinking about how Pechorin's ennui helps him discover how humanity is about their own fleeting lives." A long pause, Spencer was sure she could hear the sound of Hanna's brain short circuiting. How far the both of them had gone―from Hanna's meekness, shying away from anything that brought her the center of attention, turned into such popularity that had started the cyclical pattern of these kinds of parties, the ones where people like Spencer (the once nerdy wallflower) lingered in the outskirts of the conversations (or lack thereof) that presented themselves.
"I have no idea what that even means," her head shook, curls falling over her shoulders, as her voiced echoes in the cup, taking more than just a sip of her drink. Spencer watched her half-heartedly. She knew that it would be lost on her friend, but a small part of her, deep down, longed for the engaging conversation that not many people her age seemed to truly understand, or even care about.
"That's okay," Spencer's voice whispered, "Nobody really does."
The night sky felt empty as the patterns of the rope bore into her skin, a boredom and loneliness sweeping her, eyes lowered to the dark ground; the world seemed to move slower and slower with each passing minute―pulling on her heart like a forestay.
In one instant, Hanna realized just how lonely the moment truly was. Away from the noise, tucked into a corner, and the weariness of Spencer's voice brought her to the very surface she had tried so desperately to avoid. She felt herself being tugged underneath once more, looking for that comfort of air. In the quiet shadows of the night, Hanna reached forth―the surface feeling so distant, scared, as if she were a lost little girl in the supermarket, calling for her mother―and reached for Spencer's hand.
Lifting her head up, she turned to look at Hanna, almost questioning the sudden gesture, before she realized that the words themselves were written so clear in their actions, as Spencer could only cling onto Hanna's smooth hand in return.
And, perhaps, in that moment, they were not as lonely as either of them had believed to be.