Sanity // s.m. [IN EDITING]

[30]

But that's beside the point. I kept losing my focus here.

"That's where you're wrong," Brooke shakes her head in disagreement, shooting me a glance to assure me that this was meant for both of us, "that is who I am."

"No," Elle argues, not allowing Brooke to stick a fork in her statements just yet. "Because you never see the actual outcomes. You only see your blank word document, keyboard and notepad and there's that huge smile that spreads across your face while you're typing away, because writing is what you love."

Elle heaves another sigh, holding her hands out in front of her body to gesture as she firmly presses her lips together. "But writing is about telling the truth."

She pauses before continuing, "even make-believe stories hold truth for everyone. But I've come to find out that your articles don't hold a single bit of.. anything that matters."

Brooke's eyes soften, her gaze dropping to her feet as her fingers fold into her palms. Silence separates the two of them, heavy, but peaceful, like a harmless rainstorm. I don't move from where I stand, my eyes averting back and forth from girl to girl.

"You have a gift, Brooke," Elliot compliments her, their eyes meeting again. "And I want to be your friend.. I want to see you using that gift in a way that's important, and not just to you."

Brooke remains silent a little while longer before she softly chuckles, bringing her palm up and resting it on the back of her neck as she nods her glossy brunette head. "I think I want to be your friend, too," she nudges Elle.

Elle curves her lips into a toothless grin. "Well.. as my friend you have to trust me when I tell you, writing an article based on that recording? It isn't going to help or change anything in a positive way."

Brooke nods again, knowing she's right, but afraid to admit it with words.

She unlocks her cell phone and offers it over to Elliot, who hesitantly takes it from her-- and I watch over her shoulder as she cleared it from Brooke's recordings with only a few taps of her thumb.

***

We have been in this waiting room for so long, it seems as though it's been days. Elliot's head rested gently on my shoulder, her cheek nuzzled to my neck as she slept soundly. I, on the other hand, found myself unable to drift off-- even though I was exhausted.

My mind was louder than a crowded sea of people all talking at once. I thought about everything.

I talked to myself.

Out of nowhere, I remembered a time when I was still in grade school, and our whole class had to go to the music room for an hour about twice a week. We got to play some instruments, sing together, and learn about the notes on a staff and things like that.

The music teacher, as I recall, loved me. She always called me to sit right in the front, and the other kids thought it was because she wanted to keep an eye on me just in case I got myself into trouble, but that wasn't it.

She wanted to hear me over everyone else. She wanted to see me read music with ease, keep steady tempo, pay attention to dynamic markings and time signatures.

I remember one day after class, as everyone stacked their tambourines and cowbells and triangles back to where the belong in the cabinets and shuffled out of the room, the music teacher called me over to her desk.