Knowing Me, Knowing You | (S/P)

Chapter 31

Dandelions are a very common type of flowers; you find them in the garden, playground, wastelands, meadows, schoolyards, and basically any kind of field. Their name derives from the French dent de lion, meaning lion's tooth, and they are called a wide variety of names across the world: Bitterwort, Wild Endive, Witch's Gowan, Milk Witch, Fortune-Teller, Swine's Snout, Irish Daisy and Wet-A-Bed.

Farmers and gardeners hate dandelions because they consider them a weed, but if anything, they are a wildflower.

Do you ever remember picking a Dandelion head, making a wish and blowing the puff into the air, watching as the little white bits floated away? You see, there's something quite interesting about these flowers, and it resides on the fact that they have a unique form of flight that is not present anywhere else in nature. Basically, a ring-shaped air bubble forms as air moves through the bristles, enhancing the drag that slows their descent.

Sorry for all this nonsense, but all this time being with Nathaniel, I felt like a dandelion myself. Being with him brought so much brightness to my life, that it felt like each time I was flying higher and higher, never really making it to the top –as if I had a parachute structure that kept me afloat, like the dandelion itself.

Except somehow, last night the parachute unexpectedly ripped off the edges. When Georgina first showed up, me being well aware of who she was, the seeds from the bundle of bristles, after traveling great distances, started to lose speed. When Nathaniel didn't ask her to leave, they started to collapse. And when I saw them nearly kissing, they crashed into the ground.

It's taking me an abundance of time and self-introspection to trust him. To convince myself that being unguarded with him has no dark alleys. He knows how much it's taken me, and then he goes and lies to me about something like this–

I know that we can't flaunt our relationship around, but that doesn't mean that he gets to act like if he were single, when he clearly isn't, right in front of me.

Twelve hours after, I'm not half as pissed off at him as I was. But I still can't bear the thought of looking at him. He has called me several times, but I still so mentally exhausted that I've let them all go to voicemail. He should had explained himself when he had the chance.

I don't even know if I'm still this eminently mad at him, or just engrossed by the idea of being mad at him. However, the guy shooting daggers at me after accidently having hit him on the arm while making my way through campus, tells me that whatever is the outset of my lividness is not precisely making me radiate rainbows and sunshine.

Although I basically run the flight of stairs to the lecture hall, I'm late for my poetry class. I spot an empty seat on the far back and try to make as much of a silent entrance as I can.

"Ms. Saunders, you're late." Professor Collins frustrates my attempt pointing to the big black clock in the front wall of the room.

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't make a habit out of it, finals are around the corner. I don't have to remind you you've been tailing off on your assignments." Indeed, professor, you don't have to. Just one more thing to add to the list of things that have been falling out of place.

It goes without saying that, for most of the two hours, I'm unable to put a finger on what today's class is about. As if the idea of Rachel —of all the girls, it had to be the one I can't tolerate— knowing about our relationship wasn't enough, the situation from last night just put everything in already moving quicksand.

I can't help seeing it as a sign. That this is wrong –even if it feels right. That we shouldn't be together –even when we ache for the other. That my feelings for him are mistaken –no matter the intensity that has already left marks on my bones.