The Collection: Poems, One-Shots, and Short Stories

I'm Not Okay

The world was well into the night, the sky pitch black and dotted with glimmering stars without a single cloud to diminish their light. The air was cool, a light breeze blowing through the thick green trees of a new spring. The noise had died off the moment we strayed from the ruckus of city nightlife. It seemed even the creatures that roamed in the dark were deep in sleep. I had never experienced such silence in my life until that night. I learned it was something I could treasure, something I wouldn't mind having once in a while.

He'd taken me to a remote little beach—I'm sure it was private, but no one ever came to stop us. It wasn't the first time we'd been there. The breeze blew chillier, and the air was fresher, and the only noise around us was the crashing of the waves against the shore paired with the occasional squeaks of a bat or two flying overhead. Our only source of light was a rusty old street lamp with an LED light that shone blueish white and flickered as it fought to stay alive. I wondered how many people knew of this spot other than those in the mansions flanking left and right of the beach's entrance. I quickly decided it didn't matter—it was our spot, and nothing could change that.

We walked along the water, me and my best friend, staring out across the ocean at the lights of the next city over and up at the nighttime sky. We breathed in the salty air, such a difference from the smog of our neighborhood right on the border of the city's downtown area. We appreciated the coolness on our skin, the soft crunch of the sand beneath our feet, the calmness of our own little world. We were safe. We were allowed to delve into our own minds, and sometimes each other's. We seldom talked; if we did, it was to tell a corny joke or make a silly pun. Something to lighten the mood, make sure we're not retreating into ourselves. "Grounded", that's the word. It was to make sure we were still grounded.

I never knew where his mind truly wandered—he was such a cryptic man, never giving a straight answer no matter how hard one tried—but it must've been far away. Whenever I peeked at his face, at his eyes, he looked to be in another world entirely. I'd seen that look on him before, but never so intensely as that night. It broke my heart. I knew he was suffering on some level, what with a terrible home life and a borderline-broken family weighing tons on his shoulders. For a split-second I was ready to ask him how he was, but I held back. I knew his answer already, and it wasn't a comforting one. It never was.

"You alright?" He never hesitated to ask me, though. He knew the answer would be the same as it had been for the past couple of months. But he'd ask, anyway, because he knew I'd be too weak to lie to him, as much as I would have loved to.

But I tried, anyway, every single time. "Yeah," I sighed.

What could I say to the man that was always on my mind? How could I tell him he had my heart wrapped around his finger in every good and bad way one could think of? His gentle (but intense when he wanted them to be) chocolate brown eyes haunted my every waking moment. His short near-black hair drove me insane with the temptation to run my hands through it. The memory of my back pressed against his front as he held me close in my darkest moments as an attempt to calm me, of his hands splayed across my stomach to keep me from running away because he knows I don't really want to, of the rise and fall of his chest with each deep, refreshing breath he took, of the content that washed over me knowing I was safe and warm in his embrace, of the vibrations from a satisfied hum that rumbled in him every few minutes; it would lift me to the clouds when I remembered and slam me into the cold, hard ground when I realized he never meant anything by it, and I wouldn't be able to feel him as often as I needed to. It was a cruel talent he had, satiating my needs for one night and keeping me starved until he decided to do it again. And I wanted to run into his arms every day until that next time, missing his presence and wondering if he missed mine.

"Hey." He grabbed my arm and pulled me back gently until I turned to face him. I could do nothing but comply; we played the same game every time we were at that beach, or when it was just the two of us anywhere. Like it was a game no one else was allowed to see or know about. Whether it was a secret he wanted to keep or a matter of sheer convenience, I'll never know. He looked at my face and asked me again, determined to break through my surface like he always did: "Are you alright?"

How could I tell him that I was convinced I loved him? That I wanted to love him, and show him life wouldn't always be so cruel to him? How could I tell him I needed him to know I was ready to be there by his side, that I could hold him too, and, though I didn't know how to make him feel okay, I was more than ready to try? And that was where the battle between my heart and my mind began every time. I could risk everything, put our whole friendship of four years on the line, and lay everything on the table: how he helped me, how he hurt me, everything in between, and how I don't ever want him to leave my life. Or I could tell him every other one of my problems that aren't even really problems anymore, just sealed up wounds I bring up to him to make him feel like he's helping after I swear they are the very demons eating at me at that moment. I could go back to suffering in silence every day while I remind myself the chances of him feeling the same way are a thousand times slimmer than the chances of me getting killed by a shark. I could let him live on without knowing my truth, encourage him to find a woman more worthy of his love than a broken, insecure, self-damaging being living in constant bitterness and misery such as myself could ever be.

After a second of avoiding his stare, of trying to shrink into myself and failing terribly, I looked into his eyes and watched as they tore me open for him to mend the little cuts and bruises my lifetime has dealt me. "No," I said plainly. "I'm not okay."