The Dreamers [ONC2020] | ✓

Four | Finn

As classes progress and the days becomes routine, the weeks begin to pass in a blur.

Sean and I see each other often as we sit beside each other in all the classes we share and work on assignments together. Our homework meetings change from occurring once a week to nearly every day. We drift away from working in the library, and our usual study spot becomes the small table at the back of the school cafe. Though one of the chairs is wobbly and the small table isn't ideal, I grow fond the place. It is especially beautiful when the afternoon sun cascades through the windows and bathes the cafe in warm, yellow light.

I learn things about Sean I never expected to remember. Like how Sean is addicted to coffee and loves mochas and flat whites. His favorite color is blue. He likes telling jokes and making people laugh, and he can carry on a conversation for hours. His wardrobe consists of jean jackets and hoodies, plaid shirts, and a single red beanie that he wears almost daily. Back home in Massachusetts, he has a little sister, only ten years old, with whom he shares all his stories. 

From the way he speaks of his family, I can tell that he loves them very much. It endears him to me, but there are moments when jealousy spikes in my stomach and bitter envy floods my mouth. At times like this, I hate that my despicable soul cannot simply be happy for him.

My nineteenth birthday comes and goes with little fanfare. Sean manages to ferret it out of me and insists on buying me a London Fog — my favorite drink — as a birthday gift. I tell him it's no big occasion to fuss over, but he shushes me with a "Nonsense," and scrambles to join the line-up at the cafe counter. I watch as he waits in line, fingers fiddling with the drawstring of his hoodie, daisies blooming at his feet.

"Happy nineteenth," he says when he returns, setting the drink down in front of me. The sun, when he sits across from me, dusts his cheeks with gold and melts the honey-brown of his eyes. I don't think he realizes how grateful I am for this small moment of celebration, and the "Thank you" I say feels wholly inadequate.

My mother calls that evening. "Happy birthday," she says, the words crisp and business-like. "Have you changed your mind?" I tell her I haven't, and the line goes dead. The call timer flashes 0:08 on my screen for a long time.

I don't get much sleep that night, but I haven't had a good night's rest in a long time. Discounting the nights where I am doing homework in the early hours of the morning, I am often too restless, and even when I do manage to snatch some rest, panic finds ways to worry me awake. Sometimes, I find myself waking to frantically check the time, afraid that I've missed my alarm, only to realize that it is three in the morning. Then I repeat the same cycle at six.

It doesn't help that my dreams have been strange and repetitive. Ever since school started, I've dreamt of the flower field and its fox-like creature many times. After the first dream, I haven't spoken to it at all. I watch from afar as it frolics among the flowers, careful to keep my distance. Usually it ignores my presence, but whenever it looks my way and latches its golden eyes on me, nothing good happens.