give her love » james potter

29

I get better.

Of course, I get better. In life when it comes to any time of sickness there's only two outcomes, you die or get better. The thing is, I think life's drowned me in so much death that it's gonna spare me any more of it for a few more years.

So, while I clean up my little makeshift bedroom for the past two weeks, I talk to god. "I think, I haven't learned any fucking lesson." I pick up my books and cram it into my bag, then look up at the ceiling. "If anything, I've just become even more lazy. So, if you see me ignoring any responsibilities I have, just mind your business. Or if there is some hidden message, please, make it more obvious. I'm a little dense."

God listens.

Even though I'm not religious, I can feel my words being heard. Maybe it's why people like doing stuff like this, they like the idea of someone looking out for them and hearing them. It feels like your not alone. for those few moments the words soak into the walls and you keep feeling lighter and lighter until you become something almost okay.

It doesn't make sense, not at all. But maybe it doesn't have to. Nothing we do has to to make sense. We can say the wrong things at the wrong time. Wear only the color purple. Live lives where we don't feed into capitalism or whatever.

(I'm not sure what capitalism is. I don't even know what engineering is. But, I think I'm too old to ask now so I just continue to pretend I understand it even though I know absolutely nothing. Maybe I'm apart of the problem.)

Before I walk out, Poppy says goodbye and gives me a hug. I tell her I'll come to visit. She smiles and says anytime. The chances of it actually happening are low, almost nonexistent. Promises never actually get fulfilled ninety percent of the time, it's a sad thing. But the nice and terrible thing about life is that the past can never be changed. So, even if we never talk again we'll carry the memories we had forever.

"Stay strong," she says to me, then hands me some potion for any future ache.

"I will."

Nothing ever beats the feeling of coming back to your bed.

I throw myself on it and let my toes wiggle and hands scrunch the sheets. The familiar smell of some perfume I wear comes off of it and I notice a stray bobby pin under my pillow, it's comforting.

"Lina," Rachel says, jumping on my bed.

I move over so she can sit beside me. "Hey, Boots."

"We watched your movie," she tells me. "I don't think a single person wasn't a little in love with it. At the end, when the lights turned on, it was so disappointing because half of these kids had never even seen a film and it was over far too fast. But, there's something else everyone was talking about."

"Humour me."

She shrugs. "Just how you and James are definitely not just friends."

"I think the beginning might make it seem like we're not--"

"--no, Lina," she interrupts. Rachel seems a bit annoyed and very tired, I wonder if she's been eating enough. "It's obvious to everyone that you both are absolutley in love with each other."

It's not funny. It really isn't. But, I can't help but let out an ugly laugh that rattles my ribs. It's not funny it's just so . . . unfamiliar? I'm terrible at dealing with things, it's probably my worst quality.

I finally get up and start moving towards the mirror on the wall. While trying to make boringly pin-straight hair look nicer, I say, "I think, even autobiographical movies are still movies. Things look different on the screen than in real life. Most people just don't know us well enough to know how we work." I try and part my hair differently, then realize middle parts are the only thing that suits me. Oh, the struggles of being average.