Fuck.
I missed something.
Something announced in class, probably, during one of the moments when my brain was too full of cotton candy scents and calculus derivatives and the crushing weight of forty-seven days without a letter.
"If you'd paid attention," the first one continues, savoring every word, "you'd know. But I guess that's hard when you're too busy being crazy to function like a normal person."
They laugh.
All of them.
Sharp, cruel sounds that bounce off the concrete walls and burrow into my chest where they'll fester later, when I'm alone, when the darkness comes.
I nod slowly.
"I'll make my way."
"We don't care anyway." The ringleader tosses her hair—glossy, perfect, the hair of someone who's never had to wash blood out of it. "You could skip for all we care. Actually, please do. No one wants to see your freak show."
More laughter.
They walk away, a pack of predators who've decided I'm not worth hunting today.
I watch them go.
Count to four. Breathe. Don't cry. Don't scream. Don't do anything that gives them the satisfaction.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
One-two-three-four.
The loneliness hits me like a wave.
It's always there—that constant, grinding awareness that I'm alone in a way most people can't comprehend. But sometimes it surges, overwhelming the walls I've built, drowning me in the understanding that I have no one.
No pack.
No friends.
No mother to braid my hair and tell me I'm special.
No pen pal to write letters to anymore.
If I wasn't crazy, I think, watching the mean girls disappear around the corner,would I have friends? Would someone want to be near me? Would there be a girlfriend or two who actually cared whether I lived or died?
The questions have no answers.
They never do.
I take a deep breath—two counts in, four counts hold, eight counts out—and start walking toward the outdoor recital hall.
The sky has gotten darker. The first hints of rain mist against my skin—not drops yet, just the promise of them. The damp airmakes everything smell sharper, cleaner, like the world is trying to wash away its sins before the storm hits.
And underneath it all, lingering on my skin like a ghost, I catch the scent.
Vanilla sugar.
