Miss, Do I Know You?

16 - Sunday, December 13

Sunday dawned with the reprieve of no school and the freedom from pressing commitments. No Olivia, no Sophia. But I felt as if I'd been through the wringer both emotionally and physically, groaning and protesting at the slightest motion, at each stretch and each footfall, punctuated by the influence of recent events and lingering misunderstandings.

Lost in my own thoughts, in my own world, I just walked. There was a strange sense of separateness, tinted with bittersweet hues, in my mind and in the air. Everything seemed just a little less vibrant, a little less real.

Conflicting emotions gnawed at me, making me question whether I was merely the casualty of circumstance or the unwitting architect of the wedge driven between me and my friends. It was a dizzying maze of thoughts, and the dichotomy of wanting to be understood and yet wanting to be so distanced from everyone was overwhelming.

But the familiarity of cigarette smoke, the sharp bite of winter, and the undertow of my meds eventually managed to sweep away the chaotic muddle of feelings and the lingering tension, drawing my contemplative episode to a close and guiding my footsteps back to the apartment. I had entertained the thought of not returning, of just disappearing into my own shame, but the truth was that I had nowhere else to go. And as much as I wanted to run away, the last thing I wanted was to make things worse.

When I quietly let myself back in, Alex was curled up on the couch. She looked so comfortable there, like she'd just woken up. Even her awareness of my presence went unspoken, only betrayed by the subtle upward curl of her lips. Her usually incisive eyes now held a mellowed luster as they wandered languidly over the pages in front of her, a mug of coffee warming her other hand. Her messy and damp hair framed her face, slightly curlier than usual. Every now and then, she'd absentmindedly tuck a strand behind her ear.

It was a simple scene, but there was something about it I found so endearing. Maybe it was the quiet comfort of being in someone's home when most of our time had been spent in crowded classrooms and the streets. Maybe it was the contrast to how I usually saw her—always put together, always in control. But here, she seemed completely relaxed and at ease. Or maybe it was the comfort and familiarity of it all. To see her in such a casual state after months of trying to rediscover that side of her felt like a small victory, despite the circumstances that had led me there.

One glance at the clock revealed our shared tendency for the early hours. The sky outside was only just beginning to lighten. "Morning," I broke the silence with a soft murmur, not really knowing what to do with myself as I lingered in the center of the living room.

Alex shifted on the couch, yawning. "I was starting to think you ran away," she rasped back, briefly glancing up with a lazy smile on her lips. "Let's not make this awkward. Just go pour a coffee or something. There's soy or oat milk in the fridge if you need it."

"Really? I was gonna check under the sink."

"Smart ass."

"Mind if I take a shower first? I feel gross."

Letting out another yawn, she bookmarked the page and gestured for me to follow, and while she was finding me a towel, my gaze strayed around her bedroom. The carefully folded clothes on the dark mahogany dresser, the tidy bed, the candles and random knick-knacks sitting atop book-cluttered shelves, the slightly messy desk that hinted at a busy schedule, and another dog-eared book lying open on the lone nightstand. Those little things seemed to fit her.

Curiosity took hold—about what books she read, if she still listened to the same music as years ago, whether she had a favorite scented candle, about the stories behind the photos on the walls, what she was interested in—so I resolved to ask her about it someday. In that quiet, I found myself lost in those mundane everyday details, viewing her not as the confident and sometimes stern friend I knew, but as someone softer. More human, in a sense, in the simple ways.