Mess

Chapter One Part 2/3

Effortlessly, I stalk down the hallway. I feel as though I am in slow motion, and the sounds of happy and hyper teenagers giddying about are muffled. I am also in a deep muse, surrounded by nothing but overbearing thoughts.

Something hits me—and for a second I’m not sure what it is, until I realise— it’s acknowledgement. My mind suddenly, fully acknowledges what’s most likely about to happen to me and my heart starts beating very rapidly. This doesn’t help my newfound anxiety at all.

I head for the restrooms, I need to check my appearance.

Goodness. Colour in my cheeks, where are you? I need you right now, I look sickly pale and my evident unattractiveness makes me want to scowl. Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s not like I am a Jennifer Lawrence, or anything. I’m ugly and not, all at the same time.

I laugh, at least I don’t look like one of the many of the barbie-sluts in my year.

I look at my eyes, my huge celestial orbs. They don’t particularly have a colour—they are some weird bright green with a tint of brown, and amber in the sun. Nevertheless, they’re probably about the only feature I discreetly like about myself. My dark, not-very-arched eyebrows look ridiculously scruffy; they’re in desperate need of a pluck. My nose is quite red at the moment, which is not okay. That will only bring more attention to it, which I don’t want. People always say my nose is abnormally tiny, and Dylan also mocks me for it. Like, I’d say, That smells good. And he’d reply, Really? I didn’t think you could tell.

Anyway, peers who I have now officially labelled as Delusional suggest I should do modelling, because I supposedly have a “great facial structure”. What bull? I’m sorry, but I just don’t see it. I’ll never believe people who think I’m pretty. Plus, being able to wear high heels is most likely required. I can’t even stand in high heels let alone walk in them without falling to the ground like an idiot.

I then avert my attention from negative thoughts about my facial structure and to my lips, my geranium pink lips. If I am going to get dumped, I might as well look good while doing it. I reach for my pockets, just what I need.

I apply some translucent cherry-scented lip gloss called Luscious. Kissable?—Yes. Afterwards I proceed to applying a coat of volumizing mascara, stroking it gently against my long eyelashes. I realise my mouth is wide open while doing so and close it instantly. God, I look so absurd sometimes.

I tussle up my thick, straight, brownish-blondish hair a bit then smooth it down. Look lively, I tell myself.

I stare at my vivid reflection.

Who am I?

I can’t answer that. I don’t know anymore. I used to be sure, I was always so sure. But now: not so much.

Career-wise, I’ve always wanted to be a journalist, perhaps ever since I could remember. There’s just this undefined Thing about writing for a newspaper or magazine or online column or something that would light up every unlit candle in my internal being. The Thing makes me itch with delight. I’d be so focussed in, you know, a topic that isn’t my life which is way better. I’d rather stress about my work than stress about myself, or the people orbiting my constantly-stressed-self twenty four freaking seven.

Family members who I don’t see, and teachers who don’t even teach me anymore, have told me in the past I could easily achieve this profession when I’m older, as long as I maintain my good grades during school. But that was in the past. Right now, good grades is not happening.

See, ever since my mother died, I surprisingly don’t seem to feel any motivation to do anything that makes me feel even remotely cheerful anymore. I hardly eat, I never get good sleep and my social life has taken a turn for the worst. Maybe that’s why things between Dylan and I have changed, I don’t think I can ever be happy again, I don’t feel like I should be happy again. It won’t feel right.

It is not describable, nor possible to express how much I miss my mother.

My somber thoughts wholly overwhelm me and before I erupt in tears, I exhale. Deeply. I make my way back out into the hallway—I feel ready to face Dylan.

He’s waiting a few feet down the hallway, the interior side of the entrance. His expression is unreadable, which doesn’t help. Dylan is tall. Well, to me he is. He’s 6’2, about 7 inches taller than me.

I’m going to miss that constant yet comforting pain I have in my neck, of having to look up at him all the time.

His bright olive skin brings me back to my attention. And so does his muscular physique. And his dark short hair. And oh, his impossibly mahogany eyes. I’m going to miss those eyes. Dylan is a sex god, granted, but if I didn’t know him, I’d think he was a total douche. He subconsciously runs his long hands through his hair—something he does when he’s feeling guilty, stressed. Okay this is definitely not good.

“Hey,” his voice is smooth and husky, as always, but shaky.

“Hey!” I try for a secure and unbothered tone, but my voice is too pitchy—too high. I lean in for a kiss on the cheek, but abruptly, he moves away. My heart skips a beat, and I think it’s about to fall right out of my chest. My happy–go–lucky expression is now absent and my apprehensive one is present.

“Listen,” he firmly grabs my elbow to gesture we go into a quiet corner and I scoff, yanking it away. My accelerated breathing and the uncomfortable lump in my throat seem to be increasing. He looks down at me with a troubled expression. Searing-hot, painful tears begin to form in my eyes.

This is excruciating.

He softly grabs the sides of my face with his hands, whispering sweetly in my ear. “Please, please don’t cry.” He then suddenly wraps his arms around me, tight.

The first tear releases against my authorisation, and the sharp, emotional feel of being stabbed with a knife is stricken throughout my body. Before I know it, dozens of salty, wet tears are streaming down my cheeks uncontrollably. It hasn’t even happened yet and I can't seem to refrain myself.

I try to say something but I physically can’t: words don’t seem to find their way out. I don’t think they even want to. I close my eyes sealed shut, hoping so very badly that this will all go away, that this will all disappear and I’ll be okay. Because no, I can’t lose him, he was my last lead to happiness and I can’t lose another important person in my life.

Why am I so upset, anyway? It’s been over for a long time, I’ve always known it. Resonant and evident, it shone bright, ringing alarm bells in my head. But I chose to ignore it. And now look where I am: looking vulnerable in the school hallway, blubbering, hurt.

He pulls away and I feel his tender, warm thumb wipe away my tears. “I love you, Sky. I always have and always will but,” he takes a painful sigh, and I can feel a fresh new batch of tears ready to gush out. “Things between us just aren’t that great right now, and I think it would be better if we stayed friends.”