The Sapphic Christmas

12th December. part 1

Sophie

Today is Wednesday, which means I go to my art classes. I don't think I'll be doing anything other than that today. Okay, the work needs to be done. In general, I have no energy at all, I don't want anything. It would be great to sleep through the day, which I've been doing until four o'clock, when I've been awakened by a phone call. Without looking, I answer it, but I regret it immediately.

"Hi." Ella says joyfully. I don't know what amuse her so much, and I'm not in the right mood to ask. After yesterday's confession to myself in feelings for her, as well as the acceptance that everything is doomed, I don't want continue communication. Maybe after a while everything will settle down, each of us will return to our own life, it just takes time. "Sophie?"

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry. Hello, Ella" I've never been so formal in my speech to her (or maybe I have, I don't remember), and this make her think for a while.

"Sorry I didn't call you yesterday. I've been trying to text you, but there's a terrible connection here." I don't have a single missed call or new texts. I don't even need to check, I know this for sure, because I was checking my phone all day. "Let's meet when I get back? Immediately, on the same day. You could stay at my place for the night, we'll watch some movies together."

"Yeah, maybe." I want this, but... she has hurt me and now she acts like nothing happened. "You know, I don't think it will work out. I have work to do, and..." I'll say something wrong; we'll ruin our relationship.

"Maybe you can find the time? I would like to meet you." She talks like she's really interested in it. My heart skips a beat, it's hard to breath. For a second I think I'm wrong and we should talk, spend time together. Maybe there will be a chance to say about my feelings and maybe it will be mutual. However, then I see an image: Ella rolls her eyes as she gets a message from me. She and her face-less friends laugh (I don't know them).

"I'll try." I give up, but in my head, I note that I'll need to come up with an excuse. I'll do it closer to her arrival. Ella is about to say something else, but I speak. "Let's call later, I'm in a hurry now." By "later", I mean in a few days (when I have a good reason not to go), and by "hurry", I mean that I have little time left for hating myself before the class.

We say goodbye and I return to my yesterday's thoughts. I don't want to talk about this topic more than I've already said. It kills, but I can't change anything. I remain in control of my own thoughts. I go in circles: Ella, self-hate, paintings, parents, Ella. It hurts, but now I have a feeling that I can survive it.

I look around my apartment: everything is very festively decorated, except for my bed sheets. I don't know why, but I have a great desire to fix it. There're two options: I can just go and buy new sheets or remove all decorations. At some point, I really think that I can turn my apartment into a regular habitat, but I stop myself.

I put on my jacket, take my wallet and keys and leave my apartment. A little trip to the next town (where the shops are a bit bigger) doesn't hurt. That's what I think at the time. Moreover, I still have quite a lot of time before the class. I'll be in time.

Getting into the car, I return to my depressing thoughts, even though I try to leave them. This trip itself is an attempt to relax, so why can't I even do that? Outside the window is beautiful weather, the snow is perfectly white, people are having snow-fights, making a snowman, they are all having fun. Why is something pulling me down? I'm not even angry at Ella, I get it. Maybe by the time she comes back I'll chill out and we'll be friends.

I can feel people's eyes on me as I walk through the store. Is it because of my appearance? Okay, I'm not the only one in home clothes. Usually no one pays attention. Is it just my imagination?

Two girls approach me, they're about fifteen years old, with phones in their hands. They, without greeting, began to speak:

"Are you Sophie?" I don't understand who are they. I mean, yes, that's my name, but how would they know? I don't really have any friends of that age. I definitely haven't seen their faces before. "Are you familiar with Ella?" Ah, now everything is clear.

"Yes, I know her." I don't like that kind of attention. They look kind of aggressive. "Do you want something?" Their looks are disturbing. This is how teenagers look when they are unhappy with something and are going to destroy everything around.

"Yeah, we want to say you're not a good fit for Ella. We saw the way you look at her, and just know that you're not a match for her. She already has a partner, so don't bother them. Well, she probably told you already, but you didn't get it from the first time. How could she date someone like you?" That's why they came to me? Do they know that their words can be unpleasant for someone? "If you think that thanks to the fact that you appeared in her video several times, you will become famous, then in vain. Everyone hates you."

Honestly, I try to be calm, not to take their words personally, but ... but teens are cruel, they know what topics to talk about in order to hurt, they seem to feel the weaknesses of people, like sharks feel blood. No, I'm not going to cry, and call them to pity, just as I'm not going to somehow react cruelly. I just smile, quietly said: "thank you," because something strongly squeezes my throat. I turn around and leave. As I go to the exit, I hear Christmas song somewhere on background. Nice, the best holiday ever.

I don't care about their opinion, their desire, but they said what I was always afraid to hear. Everyone hates me. I don't want to become hated by people anyway. It's probably best to stay away and ignore them. It doesn't matter and won't matter.

Why does it still hurt so much?

I sit in my car, scroll through contacts. I want to be alone and afraid of it at the same time. My chest is under the pressure, I still can't breathe. I need help to get home. So, I call the only person, who'll always be next to me.