Page 35 of Don’t Forget Me

“Tell me more about yourself,” I began.

“Okay, that’s my cue to leave,” she said, pushing her chair back.

“Stop, please. You don’t have to run away all the time.”

It felt as though I could see through her. I could see the sorrow behind her big, honey stare; there was a hint of loneliness and abandonment behind every blink of hers.

“Who left you, and why do you think you have no choice but to do the same to everyone else?” I asked, without thinking. Her face contorted. For a second, I believed she would leave, that she would turn her back on me. Instead, she remained still, her eyes beginning to gloss.

“I prefer not to talk about it, especially with strangers.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could shield herself from me.

I knew what that was like. I had a family of my own that didn’t seem to care much for me. Except for my mother, even if I didn’t understand her reason for staying with my father.

“Then tell me what you like. Your hobbies, your favorite color, your favorite song?”

There was silence again. She shook her head, speaking thousands of words without having to open her lips.

“Fine, I’ll start. My favorite color is yellow, my hobby is watching films, and my favorite song is Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.”

She smiled slightly.

“Vivaldi is good, but not as great as Beethoven,” she chuckled.

“Don’t offend me like that!” I exclaimed, receiving hushes and glares again. I waved them off as I noticed her fearful glimpses around the room.

“My favorite color is brown, and I like to read and write.”

“Write? Books? Poems? Short stories? Tell me more about your art.” I tilted my head, amusement forming on my face as she hid behind the strands of hair that fell over hers.

“A little bit of everything.”

“Interesting. Any favorite books?”

“Classics. Donna Tartt, Oscar Wilde,” she replied.

“I’ve been meaning to read The Picture of Dorian Gray,” I mentioned.

Her eyes lit up.

“I could lend you a copy. I have the uncensored version of the book, it goes in way more depth than the other versions. It makes you reflect on vanity and mortality, which I think you are in much need of, rich boy,” she said with a disapproving glance.

I laughed. “I’m not that bad.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You know, I think I have you figured out already,” I said.

Lysandra scoffed. “Impossible. Not with the little information I’ve told you about myself.”

“You said more than you needed to,” I hushed.

“Mmm. Alright then, tell me the mysteries of my soul, oh wise one.”

“You wish for stability and security. You yearn for warmth and calmness. Perhaps you haven’t had much of that in your life. Your poems and stories help you express, in written form, everything you couldn’t.”

“Are you a psychic?” she asked with widened eyes.

“No, just very observant,” I replied.