Saturday
Kanaya rises with the sun on Saturday and spends the day finalising this and that – times for final fittings are sorted, her own costume for the evening is finished and she finally gets on top and above her classwork. It's hard to concentrate on gaps of half-hour sleep, but she perseveres, and when Rose wakes she makes no comment but waves goodbye as always, struggles through class and drifts from friend to friend, room to room, thought to thought.
There are no classes in the afternoon, and post-lunch her time is spent desperately fixing a prop here, fitting a dress there and running from theatre to art department bringing news and complaints this way and that. The play is a performance of the Frogs, shortened and adapted somewhat to their situation and it seems promising, as Kanaya inventories props and hands out costume to costume. It's no different to her everyday experience, a safety pin here, a line of stitching there, and on her off-time Rose comes in to cheer her on and expose her own fears.
Seconds turn into minutes which slowly become hours and the actors leave, the props are behind stage, the sewing machines are packed away, and all that remains is to wish Rose good luck and run back to the dorm to prepare their costumes (Rose will need to change immediately, Kanaya herself dons the simpler stuff before taking her seat in the theatre). Energetic talk spreads from person to person, Kanaya's name is on the program as costume and prop maker, and Kanaya's classmates whisper their excitement to see her creations.
The play is brilliant. Of course it is. How could it be anything but?
Nothing breaks. No-one forgets their lines.
Everyone laughs. Everyone leaves with a smile on their face.
Kanaya rushes over to Rose afterwards, hugging and congratulating her, smiling at the smile on her face and drinking in the feeling of happiness emanating from her and everyone around her.
The night is young, the evening is falling and Rose looks beautiful in her halo.
The theme for the party is "bad classics films" and Kanaya dresses as some nondescript heroine dripping in gold and soft fabric, Rose as her hero in gleaming plastic armour and a wooden sword. They trip down the stairs, hand in hand, laughing and smiling and flying, drifting from friend to friend. A hug here, a smile there and Kanaya feels she is floating on the feeling of light happiness, a job well done, the relief of half-way and nearly-there.
She feels alive. She feels brave. She feels beautiful.
She feels heads turn, she feels tongues wag, she feels the breeze as it riffles through her dress and hair.
She feels like she could glide over to Rose and kiss her then and there, say 'I love you, and if you don't want it, tell me and I will gladly be your friend, but I needed to tell you'.
She feels better than she has in weeks.
She feels the world stop as she sees Rose. She feels her stomach turn in circles, her heart does flips, her breath quickens.
She has never loved someone more.
She has never hated someone more.
There is someone else. Someone she knows vaguely, a face seen in the corner of her eye.
Rose is on his arm. Rose is smiling at him. Rose is talking to him.
And it's wrong. It's wrong that she should feel this jealous, that she should feel this awful that Rose has other friends, other people she talks to.
And it's wrong that she should feel the whole evening fall apart around her as she watches Rose turn her back on her completely, dropping neither gaze nor word her way.
Someone taps her elbow, someone shouts in her ear, someone presses a drink into her hands.
She does not see who. She does not care.
Someone grabs her arm, someone smiles briefly, someone asks her to join them.
She does not see who. She does not care.
Someone watches her leave, someone questions why, someone feels worried.
She does not see who. She does not care.
Her tunnel vision wheels away as the world turns under her feet and she thinks she's going to the steps that will lead to her dorm until her focus returns as she sits under the great windows and listens to the sounds of the party around her. Her cup tilts in her hands and she watches its contents feed the grass and thinks about Rose on her arm. She knows she should get up, go to bed, sleep the drink away, but the effort just seems so large.
Everything seems out of proportion – the party, her crush, the overwhelming guilt.
Far be it from her to keep Rose from what she wants, no indeed she only wants her happy, but she also wants her and she wants to make her happy and she wants to wake up next to her, not half a room and a million miles away.
"You have it bad," someone says.
Nazia. Her face swims into view, followed by the rest of her, as she drops down next to Kanaya.
"You have it bad, and I know that, because I know how it feels. It feels like the entire world to you, like your very existence depends on them favouring you with attention, and when you see them with someone else it feels like the world will end. I could tell you that it will be okay, that it will eventually fade and that at some point, when you see them it will be like seeing anyone else. But I know that's not what you want, so I'm offering you help from a friend. I believe it's called an intervention. I find some subtle way of letting her know you're interested in her, engineer a situation in which you two are alone, force you to tell each other and back away to let the magic happen. Or you moon over her for months and feel your heart stop in your chest every time she touches someone else."
It's simple. It's a solution. It's cheating.
She shakes her head.
"Fine," says Nazia, rising again. She looks down at her. "You look gorgeous by the way. Get to bed."
She holds her hand out, steadies her as she feels, sees her to the stairs.
"He has a girlfriend, by the way," she says as she leaves.
"I love her," Kanaya says to the mirror. The mirror does not speak back.
Sunday
When Kanaya wakes, the only thing she can see of Rose is the mop of blonde hair emerging from between her pillow and her covers. She puts a bottle of water and a box of Neurofen on her desk, takes a book, and leaves.
She reads on the grass until breakfast starts. She brings food back for Rose, takes her books and heads to the library.
She nibbles during lunch, skitters out of the room when she sees Rose enter, returns to her own room when she knows Rose has gone out.
She Skypes her family and pretends she is fine, she messages friends and pretends she is happy, she watches clouds go by and pretends that is does not feel the weight of sadness and guilt pressing on her shoulders like the sky itself, Atlas Telemon reborn.
She cannot avoid Rose forever, and the girl comes upon her mid-pretending, and speaks no word of anger or avoidance but simply lies on her bed and complains on the after-effects of drinking and thanks whoever responsible that they have a day off that day. She drops gossip here and story there and chides Kanaya for not having any of her own, and only finally does she question her reticence.
"I'm not feeling that good either."
Rose sits up, worry wrinkles across her face and she asks if she needs anything while Kanaya explains herself away.
Finally, Rose accepts that she needs neither aid nor painkillers, and retires to take a nap while Kanaya studies.
The silence in the room is neither natural nor forced – awkward, to be sure, but not uncomfortably so.
Until Rose rolls over and stares up at the ceiling for a bit until she finally turns to watch Kanaya, unblinking. Finally, Kanaya gives up and returns her stare with a question.
Rose is pale, her hair dishevelled, her eyes red-rimmed. If she did not know Rose so well, she'd say she'd been crying.
Rose does not cry. Rose drinks. Rose, post-drinking, does not cry. She sleeps.
She watches Kanaya sleepily. Her eyes drift from Kanaya's face down her body. A flush drifts across Kanaya's cheeks as she realises the drift of Rose's eyes, but she does not speak.
Finally, Rose says, "you looked beautiful last night."
It is enough. It is more than enough. It is too much.
Kanaya wants to kiss her and push her down on the bed and take all her clothes off.
She wants to write love-notes on her skin and whisper poetry against her neck.
Instead, she leaves.
She takes the stairs two at a time. She feels the weight of her anger carry her across the building, across the grass, to the steps where Nazia sits with her friends.
Her friends who disperse like scattered birds when she approaches, Nazia who catches her arm and sits her down and asks what's wrong.
She tells her everything, and when she's done she asks the questions she has asked herself for days, weeks, months, perhaps years.
"I don't know how to tell her. And I don't know why I don't just say it. And I want her to know and I want her and I don't want anyone else to want her but me nor me but her and I don't. Know. How.
And sometimes it almost seems better to give up."
Let me tell you friends, this kind of jealousy is the worst.
Short and sweet this time, next chapter Friday.
*party completely fabricated, I hid in my room for both of ours