The Specks of Smallness

Reagan | Eleven

Reagan| Eleven

Because of moral reasons, smoking is prohibited near the college building, which isn't that lustrous or worth the fuss. I always have to walk to the bus stop to grab a smoke. It's nice, though, because after a few minutes, there's always someone who sits besides me and talks on the phone until the bus arrives.

"You need to stop," a girl beside me whispers to her phone. "He's our friend and we should do something."

Blowing out the drag, I glance at her. Blond short hair, boney fingers clutching a phone, abundance of makeup gracing her face. That sums her up. I gently offer a smile she returns.

"I know. But did you?"

For some reason, I can't help ushering the thought that she's talking to me-that her words are directed to me.

"He says you did it. Did you? You're giving him he'll for this."

I wonder if with whom she's speaking is a boy or a girl. It reminds me of that Phillips kid. I can't bring myself to give an answer for my actions. I don't know why I do some things that are regrettable, but all the while, I can't bring myself to feel regret. It's like I can't feel regret. Is it a curse or a blessing? Is it stupid for me to be affected by two boys kissing, or not? Is there a reason why I had to see them, and why I had to visit that Phillips kid to see his eyes one last time again?

By the time I finish the cig, I came to the conclusion that I know what's wrong and what's right, but I don't understand why it's wrong or why it's right. And that scares me. I just can't conceive the common sense that what's wrong is wrong. But what makes it wrong? Maybe the origin is idiosyncratic, which is pointless right now.

"Okay. Call me if you need anything."

I crush the cig with my sneaker's sole. The girl sighs loudly as if she'd run a marathon minutes ago. Her brain maybe did.

"You seem to be the kind of friend that gives advice," I silently tell her, coughing roughly afterward, because my throat parched up like sandpaper.

"Huh?" She frowns up at me.

The girl can't be eighteen. She suddenly looks so young and tired, which saddens my heart, because she's the epitome of my generation. Young and tired. Tired of what? Young and tired of being young for such a short, fleeting time.

I can't help but hide a smile. "Say, I saw this thing that scarred me for life, and I really can't get that image off my mind. My heart yells to me that I should just let it go, my mind argues that I should get it over with, but my soul whispers that I should give it a rest."

"Isn't it all the same?" she asks, genuinely confused.

I chuckle, coughing. "No, it's not."

The girl ducks her head and stares down at her busied hands. "Sometimes it's not good to follow your heart."

"Neither your mind," I add, "And much less your inner voice."

"Then, that's no help, huh?" She attempts to smile. "There should be something there to lead you."

"Maybe there is, but we can't see it." I carelessly shrug. "Maybe we ignore it, because we choose to ignore it." The girl still is dazed and sort of crunches half her face all the sudden, so I take my leave. "Have a good one," I say as a goodbye.

There are still two classes left for me to go to work, but thankfully, they're only forty-five minutes seminars. So I take them, still thinking of that kid, Phillips. It's so stupid, I force myself to take notes about cytoplasms, and all its properties.