She wouldn’t understand how I felt. No one could, I couldn’t trust them to understand.
My dad had stopped asking after he realized that I was always just fine. I wished he would ask though. Every day, I wished he would come up to me and ask how my day was. If I was doing well in school, but he knew I was fine. And I was fine with that.
My sister and I still built forts, not with the same frequency; we figured we had gotten too old for that. We had our own family between each other, one that we knew we would always have. We thought it was something only kids did, and we weren’t kids anymore. But I wanted to be, if only I could go back and stop myself from entering someone else’s memory; I wouldn’t have to be just fine anymore. I never cried, I didn’t want someone to see me for something other than ok, I never yelled, I didn’t want someone to see me for something other than ok. I was just fine. Part of me couldn’t think further than that nine-year-old self. And I was still fumbling for a handhold, a place to rest my foot in all of this darkness.
I still held my breath.
Everyone still noticed.
* * *
I got older, as all children do. I learned more; I was not necessarily wiser, but perhaps smarter. And like all children becoming older, things begin to change.
It was my first big crush that sent me clawing at the walls of the darkness, begging for a way out. Instead I only crawled further, nicking my legs and toes on the jagged pieces around me, haunting me with every step. I closed my eyes, but that only let in more darkness.
My dad had stopped asking after he realized that I was always just fine. I wished he would ask though. Every day, I wished he would come up to me and ask how my day was. If I was doing well in school, but he knew I was fine. And I was fine with that.
My sister and I still built forts, not with the same frequency; we figured we had gotten too old for that. We had our own family between each other, one that we knew we would always have. We thought it was something only kids did, and we weren’t kids anymore. But I wanted to be, if only I could go back and stop myself from entering someone else’s memory; I wouldn’t have to be just fine anymore. I never cried, I didn’t want someone to see me for something other than ok, I never yelled, I didn’t want someone to see me for something other than ok. I was just fine. Part of me couldn’t think further than that nine-year-old self. And I was still fumbling for a handhold, a place to rest my foot in all of this darkness.
I still held my breath.
Everyone still noticed.
* * *
I got older, as all children do. I learned more; I was not necessarily wiser, but perhaps smarter. And like all children becoming older, things begin to change.
It was my first big crush that sent me clawing at the walls of the darkness, begging for a way out. Instead I only crawled further, nicking my legs and toes on the jagged pieces around me, haunting me with every step. I closed my eyes, but that only let in more darkness.
