The night was quiet
velvet, the kind of dark that would be suffocating if it weren’t for the vague
glow of the dorm houses about two hundred yards away that attempted to
infiltrate the dark woods like the weak flash from a polaroid camera. The pine
tree boughs hung low over the collection of boulders we liked to call our
asylum. We had nowhere else to go, no one else to see, and nothing else to do.
So she sat there, one hand
holding a pencil, the other, a forgotten cigarette, balancing a sketchbook on
her knee. The cigarette washed her drawing in red light, casting cold warm
tones and deep shadows onto her inexplicably artistic face. Burning too
close to her fingers. She lived and breathed the shaky pattern of someone who
intentionally pushed themselves to the edge. Even as she did nothing dangerous,
the strangely fluid cycle was evident: Her hair fell in her face. She pushed it
back. Steadied her hand upon the paper, told the pencil to draw the lines from
her mind to the page. All the while, smoke rose from her cigarette, serving no
purpose other than to turn the blue night grey. She was barely holding on, and
who knew for how long she would be able to, but that just was her. Always letting things burn
too close to her fingers.
And I? I sat on a boulder
some feet away, inhaling from my cigarette as though the air was poison and the
smoke was the only thing keeping me going. My face wasn’t artistic, my hair
wasn’t falling in my eyes, and I didn’t have glasses to reflected the burning
cherry of the bummed Camel Light in my hand back at the world. I was drunk on love and nostalgia
and cheap alcohol and a combination of false hope that I couldn’t push down and
my own pessimistic view of life. So I sat under the trees in the dark woods that
we’d walked to a timeless number of hours ago and I watched. I watched the love of my life fall
apart and put herself back together over and over and over again and each time
I hated myself and my lack of confidence for not being able to just tell her,
even though she already knew. Because I was afraid. I was afraid of not being
enough, and that was something I would never get over. So I filled my lungs
with grey smoke and blue air and prayed the night would never end because in
that moment, I had never felt so in love.