Forgetting Sylva

Flutter

Faded, soft, a large swathe of well-worn and much loved fabric; Lance's jumper sits, folded, on the end of my bed. I've had it ever since he leant it to me, and somehow I never got around to giving it back. And now I can do nothing but stare at it.

Three days have passed, and I have been unable to do anything but think, my thoughts frantically rushing around inside of my head, trying to confuse me. I spent some time with Olivia, and she slept over and chattered at me. But I think she realised that I wasn't able to engage in the gossip and the resulting social categorisation that is typical in all high schools. She hugged me, kissed my cheek, and told me to call her when I was ready to talk. I haven't done that, yet, either.

I keep telling myself that, yes, I know what is the right thing to do. But then what is right becomes wrong, and it changes again and again til I'm not sure if they're not the same thing. What is troubling me is that I know what I want, and I know that I shouldn't want it, which is a strange and confusing thought in itself.

So I stop thinking. I roll onto my back and watch the ceiling for a moment. It is comforting and saddening at once, because I have always had the constant of the roof above my head, but, through my eyes, I see the fading forms of dreams unlived, words unsaid and unheard. And I feel sad, that no one else will ever see any of them, or hear any of them.

So, while I am alone, I reach into the drawer at my bedside and take some paper and a pen -obnoxiously pink and feathered, a joke gift from Marc -and I write down as much as I can, as many of the snippets, snatches of phrases and prose, words I think are beautiful. I write until I hear mum's footsteps coming towards my room. And then I shove the paper and pen back into my drawer and lie back in my bed, waiting as she opens the door. I think it is the fastest I have ever moved, and all because I wanted to hide my dreams.

Mum takes me to see Tatiana. I haven't seen her in a while, and the prospect of seeing Lance there is making me nervous. Usually, I call him first. But I tried that once, and he didn't answer; I was a little relieved, but also disappointed. I assumed he was sleeping and forgave him; he, of all people, deserves rest. And if he isn't sleeping, then he's at school, and I forgive him for that, too, because as much as I wish I was near him, I do not wish to be back at school. That is one bout of normalcy I can do without.

Mum drives me to the hospital and dad comes along, wheeling me up the ramp and into the elevator as mum goes to the bathroom. He smiles at a nurse and says hello to a supervisor and pushes my chair into Tatiana's room. And I look at her small form on the bed, her slim, bony body beneath the sheets; my eyes track to the single machine monitoring her heartbeat, and I think that this is good, because it is only one machine, and one is fine, one is ok, one is better than two or three or more. She had a relapse, last night; Lance sent me a brief message, but all I said was that I was glad she was alright, because I didn't know what else to say.

My eyes track to the body beside her, in the chair by the bed. He leans his head against his crossed arms, his shoulders rising and falling softly with every breath, the nape of his neck and the curve of his shoulders, the splayed outline of his fingers against the sheets, somehow vulnerable yet strong and making my heart flutter strangely inside of me. With nerves or fear or a combination of the two.

Silently, dad wheels me out of the room and into the corridor. He comes around to the front of the chair and crouches to be at eye level with me. "Do you want to go home?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I think I'll stay and wait for them to wake up," I say. And I know it's a little selfish, and I hate myself for it, but I want to be there when he wakes, and I don't know why. But I do, a little, and it scares me and thrills me at once.