Elevator

...

On a Wednesday morning, a girl in her early adulthood stands waiting for an elevator.

Kerris's arts university is still new and overly catering to its students, the instalment of a lift one of its great gifts to its bright, artistic and academically-screwed children.

It isn't really necessary, but the lift is used anyway, mostly on Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, when people are either too tired, depressed or elated to use the stairs.

Today, Kerris is depressed. She shouldn't be —for the first time she's completed her photography work on time, her stuffed portfolio clutched in her freckled hands— but she doesn't feel victorious.

Because though her portfolio is full and finished (thank fuck), it contains her wilted, fractured heart. So many of those photos frame dark hair falling to a familiar waist, dark eyes swirling with thoughts and an ever-present smile.

So many of those photos contain Rosie.

It takes all of Kerris's willpower not to rip open the portfolio and tear each image to shreds, not to take them out like birds with broken wings and weep over them.

Rosie left her. Or she left Rosie. Or something.

They had argued, and Rosie had left and Kerris doesn't know if she's coming back.

The photos fly like film-strips through her mind's eye: Rosie sat across from her, laughing in black and white, Rosie's profile, posing for her, worm's eye views of the woods they'd walked so many times together...

Kerris can't even remember what the argument was about.

She's been checking her phone all morning.

Procrastinating, she's let everyone else go before her, to shoot up to wherever they feel they need to go, thinking that maybe if she doesn't get in the elevator, if she doesn't move forward, she can go back, take back whatever she said, and Rosie will return, smiling and forgiving.

It feels almost treacherous to submit a portfolio so full of someone's best moments, and ignore their anger-filled absence.

Kerris feels treacherous.

But she can't wait forever.

She watches, tight-lipped, as the lift drifts down to her, ticking away the seconds too quickly. Halting at the ground floor, it dings over-enthusiastically, opening its arms to her.

Tightening her grip on her portfolio, Kerris steps into the elevator, her phone a dead weight in her coat pocket. She presses the button, and the lift quivers excitedly.

Sighing, Kerris ruffles her head of crazed curls and allows the elevator to take her up, squashing every feeling —there are too many right now to name them.

Yet, as the lift doors open proudly, Kerris's phone vibrates in her pocket. Eyes widening, she plunges a hand into her pocket, searching the screen for the right name...

There are three words under Rosie's name, only three, but they're the right ones.

Three words, and Kerris isn't worried anymore.

Some things are important, and some things aren't.

It's now that Kerris notices the time. "Fuck," She hisses.

(Not being late with her photography work is important.)