Before We Lit It Up

10| After

^^^^ A must listen. must. Press play and make your life better. 

••••••••••••••••

One would think that after two months of seeing the same classmates almost everyday, I would get less nervous when one of them confronts me, smiling wide like I'm the closest person to them in the whole world.

As a familiar face smiles at me, I debate whether I should turn around and bolt in the other direction. Not because I'm nervous or the like, but because her hidden snide comments and subtle jabs are really getting on my nerves.

Really getting on my nerves.

"Layla!" She calls, her voice too high-pitched to be normal, and smile too wide to not hurt. "It's been forever!"

Each word comes out exaggerated, rolled and with heavy stress on the syllables. Despite her wide smile, I already see the bite in it, the dark gleam in her eyes. I wonder why she's so interested in me. Well, she's like this with everyone almost, so I assume it's nothing personal.

"Hello, Sheila," I say curtly, shouldering my backpack and hurrying down the steps in front of the arts and recreation center.

She's right beside me, making it impossible to not notice how perfect she's dressed as usual. I wonder how much time goes into her getting ready and if it's uncomfortable. Her outfit does look splendid on her, I'll admit. It's black with a square neckline that's not indecently low, frilled sleeves, an elasticated waist, and an airy, loose skirt that ends past her knees. Her makeup is just the right amount, too. Enough that it looks natural unless you pay close attention. Like someone who dresses up nicely and wears a hint of makeup for themselves and not others.

If her smile is genuine, she would be beyond beautiful.

Too bad it isn't. I can't ask her for fashion and makeup tips now. I sense her gaze on me, insistent and scrutinizing as I walk to the entrance of the campus, other students walk beside us on the wide sidewalk and cars make turns at the roundabout, tires sometimes screeching.

"You know, I've always wondered, where are you from, Layla?"

I stiffen, wondering where she's going with this. "I'm from Chicago. Raised there too."

"No, I mean where are you from from?"

I want to ask her why? Why does she want to know so bad? Just out of curiosity to know why I look the way I do, or is it something else? More than that, I want to tell her some comeback that'll show her I know what her veiled contempt means, and that I pick up on her hidden insults quick enough.

Something along the lines of Don't worry, I'm human, sane like everyone else here. And then I'd look at her and add, well, mostly everyone.

There are others like her, and others who are not, and every time I always regret not speaking, or not saying enough. As if I bite my tongue when really, I wonder if it's worth it. It makes it harder to not regret when the day is over, to feel dissatisfied in a sense. Maybe because it's harder to feel satisfied in myself. Years of learning to love myself and think about everything because of the loneliness and isolation is one thing. It's an entirely different thing to do that in the real world, in a world that profited off of one's insecurities, and relished in it. It's an entirely different thing to love myself when I'm not satisfied with myself. With the way I'm always diffident and wondering about what could have been, what should have been.

My thoughts right now prove my point exactly. I'm practically waging an internal war just so I don't have to answer her.

She repeats her question, an amusing glint in her eyes as if she can sense exactly where my thoughts are.