Constance
1
Her grave was under a large oak tree. The branches leaned close to the ground, almost as if they were trying to pull her from the earth. "It wasn't fair," the tree seemed to scream. "Why do the brightest lights burn out so quickly?" But then, maybe I was just projecting.
As I walked toward her resting place, my boots crunched on the firmly packed snow. She had said once that it was her favorite sound. "My second favorite," she had laughed, "is stepping on crunchy leaves in the fall."
My gloved hands rubbed together for warmth as I ducked under the tree branches and knelt beside her. Her body was only eight feet away from mine, and yet she could not be further away. That thought slammed into me, echoing against my rib cage. My spine curved and I pressed my hands to her hard, flat grave. Removing a glove, I etched my finger over her name.
"Constance," I murmured. "Do you hear me?"
I recalled our first winter together. Her peach-colored skin was flushed with life as she ran. A crimson scarf was looped loosely around her neck, and with each breeze it seemed to come closer to falling away. I watched her from inside the library, not yet knowing a single thing about her besides the fact that I wanted to know everything. Constance's bus had pulled up to her stop and was preparing to leave. She sprinted faster, breath escaping her lips like smoke from a chimney. As she finally reached the door, her scarf gave one last leap and flung itself from her throat. The doors closed as she looked back at the red fabric floating in the wind. She pressed a hand to the glass, and turned away with a sort of hopeless acceptance.
The next morning I came back to the bus stop, waiting for her. She arrived at the same time she was there the day before. Her neck was bare. She sat on the seat next to mine, but didn't look up. I tapped her shoulder, and she looked up at me, startled. The words I had planned to say had left my mouth as I stared into her blue eyes. Blue like a robin's egg, like a baby's rattle, like the hydrangeas my mother grew in the springtime. All I could do was stare as I offered her the scarf.
Those eyes that I was lost in lit up as she saw what was in my hand. She'd said it was impossible, that she never expected to see it again, and that I was amazing. A slow smile like a creeping sunrise slowly spread across my face. The warmth of that smile continued toward my stomach and grew into a burning hot, untamable fire.
She'd wrapped the scarf around herself, snuggling into the soft fabric with contentment. I wanted to tell her, then. That I loved her, and had loved her since I saw her yesterday morning. I wanted to tell her that I'd never felt this way and it scared me. I wanted her to know, and I wanted her to love me back. But instead I'd just smiled, and told her that it was no problem.
I didn't see her again until the following month, when classes resumed. Just like the first day that I saw her, my body felt a magnetism toward her. As if compelled, my head turned away from the conversation I was having to watch her enter the room. Her curly hair bounced with each step, glinting in the light, and a red scarf was tied around her neck. With a playful smile ghosting across her lips, she slid into the chair next to mine. She recognized me, she'd said.
"My name is Constance," she had told me as her soft hand slid into mine.
I'm in love with you, I wanted to say. But I didn't. Instead I said, "I'm Paige," and shook her hand.
We had become quick friends after that, and remained that way until our final year of college. She had begun to distance herself, and the warmth in her striking blue eyes had dulled. I'd felt the loss of her presence like a phantom limb. She stopped sitting next to me in class, and no longer dropped in on me at the library. Perhaps she got a car, or perhaps she was just avoiding her usual bus stop. Either way, I could no longer watch her wait there. She didn't know that the reason that I sat at that spot in the library was because that was where I had first seen her. There were a lot of things she didn't know. There were a lot of feelings that she had no idea about. Feelings that I should have revealed to her when I had the chance.
We'd both graduated without saying a word to one another, and not from lack of trying on my end. She walked onto the stage to claim her diploma, but didn't even glance in my direction. On what should have been one of the happiest days of her life, her eyes were sunken and her skin was pale.
It was in the summer that she finally spoke to me again. I was in the library, and had finally given up my favorite spot, knowing that I would never see her from that window again. A shadow passed over me, hiding my book's text from view. I looked up, and there she was. The sun shined around her body like an angelic aura, but everything about her screamed frailty.
"Constance," I'd whispered. She’d frowned, but sat beside me anyway. The warmth of her body next to mine quickened the speed of my heart. It felt as though it were trying to escape from my chest and climb into hers. I fought the urge to grab her hand, to make sure that she never left me alone again.
"I'm sick, Paige," she croaked. “I’m dying and there's nothing I can do. I've been sick since I was a kid, but it got worse. My doctor says I should be dead already. And yet, every time I've gone for chemo, all I can think about is you. I'm sorry. I’ve missed you."
The confession had rattled my soul and wounded me worse than any weapon possibly could. There were no words to express the way I was feeling. No words that I could say that weren't I love you, please don't ever leave again. So, I said nothing. So, I only stared at her with wide, begging eyes. So, she didn't understand, and she left again.
That was the last time I had spoken to her. The next time I saw her was in a casket, gripping–ironically–a bouquet of blue hydrangeas.
"I'm sorry, Constance," I whispered to the ground. "I should have told you."
A pile of snow fell from the branch hanging above my head. The cold that ran dripped down my face felt almost sentient. It was like the soft hand that I had felt on my face so many times before, as Constance stared at me with endearment.
I stood and pulled a red scarf from my pocket. "I love you, Constance. I've loved you since the day I first saw you. I had never felt this way about a girl before, and it scared me. I let my fear stop me from telling you. I shouldn't have."
I wrapped the scarf around the tree trunk and leaned in to breathe deeply. Her scent was almost gone.
As I left, the scarf flapped gently in the wind. With tears in my eyes, I smiled, imagining a beautiful girl running for her bus.
As I walked toward her resting place, my boots crunched on the firmly packed snow. She had said once that it was her favorite sound. "My second favorite," she had laughed, "is stepping on crunchy leaves in the fall."
My gloved hands rubbed together for warmth as I ducked under the tree branches and knelt beside her. Her body was only eight feet away from mine, and yet she could not be further away. That thought slammed into me, echoing against my rib cage. My spine curved and I pressed my hands to her hard, flat grave. Removing a glove, I etched my finger over her name.
"Constance," I murmured. "Do you hear me?"
I recalled our first winter together. Her peach-colored skin was flushed with life as she ran. A crimson scarf was looped loosely around her neck, and with each breeze it seemed to come closer to falling away. I watched her from inside the library, not yet knowing a single thing about her besides the fact that I wanted to know everything. Constance's bus had pulled up to her stop and was preparing to leave. She sprinted faster, breath escaping her lips like smoke from a chimney. As she finally reached the door, her scarf gave one last leap and flung itself from her throat. The doors closed as she looked back at the red fabric floating in the wind. She pressed a hand to the glass, and turned away with a sort of hopeless acceptance.
The next morning I came back to the bus stop, waiting for her. She arrived at the same time she was there the day before. Her neck was bare. She sat on the seat next to mine, but didn't look up. I tapped her shoulder, and she looked up at me, startled. The words I had planned to say had left my mouth as I stared into her blue eyes. Blue like a robin's egg, like a baby's rattle, like the hydrangeas my mother grew in the springtime. All I could do was stare as I offered her the scarf.
Those eyes that I was lost in lit up as she saw what was in my hand. She'd said it was impossible, that she never expected to see it again, and that I was amazing. A slow smile like a creeping sunrise slowly spread across my face. The warmth of that smile continued toward my stomach and grew into a burning hot, untamable fire.
She'd wrapped the scarf around herself, snuggling into the soft fabric with contentment. I wanted to tell her, then. That I loved her, and had loved her since I saw her yesterday morning. I wanted to tell her that I'd never felt this way and it scared me. I wanted her to know, and I wanted her to love me back. But instead I'd just smiled, and told her that it was no problem.
I didn't see her again until the following month, when classes resumed. Just like the first day that I saw her, my body felt a magnetism toward her. As if compelled, my head turned away from the conversation I was having to watch her enter the room. Her curly hair bounced with each step, glinting in the light, and a red scarf was tied around her neck. With a playful smile ghosting across her lips, she slid into the chair next to mine. She recognized me, she'd said.
"My name is Constance," she had told me as her soft hand slid into mine.
I'm in love with you, I wanted to say. But I didn't. Instead I said, "I'm Paige," and shook her hand.
We had become quick friends after that, and remained that way until our final year of college. She had begun to distance herself, and the warmth in her striking blue eyes had dulled. I'd felt the loss of her presence like a phantom limb. She stopped sitting next to me in class, and no longer dropped in on me at the library. Perhaps she got a car, or perhaps she was just avoiding her usual bus stop. Either way, I could no longer watch her wait there. She didn't know that the reason that I sat at that spot in the library was because that was where I had first seen her. There were a lot of things she didn't know. There were a lot of feelings that she had no idea about. Feelings that I should have revealed to her when I had the chance.
We'd both graduated without saying a word to one another, and not from lack of trying on my end. She walked onto the stage to claim her diploma, but didn't even glance in my direction. On what should have been one of the happiest days of her life, her eyes were sunken and her skin was pale.
It was in the summer that she finally spoke to me again. I was in the library, and had finally given up my favorite spot, knowing that I would never see her from that window again. A shadow passed over me, hiding my book's text from view. I looked up, and there she was. The sun shined around her body like an angelic aura, but everything about her screamed frailty.
"Constance," I'd whispered. She’d frowned, but sat beside me anyway. The warmth of her body next to mine quickened the speed of my heart. It felt as though it were trying to escape from my chest and climb into hers. I fought the urge to grab her hand, to make sure that she never left me alone again.
"I'm sick, Paige," she croaked. “I’m dying and there's nothing I can do. I've been sick since I was a kid, but it got worse. My doctor says I should be dead already. And yet, every time I've gone for chemo, all I can think about is you. I'm sorry. I’ve missed you."
The confession had rattled my soul and wounded me worse than any weapon possibly could. There were no words to express the way I was feeling. No words that I could say that weren't I love you, please don't ever leave again. So, I said nothing. So, I only stared at her with wide, begging eyes. So, she didn't understand, and she left again.
That was the last time I had spoken to her. The next time I saw her was in a casket, gripping–ironically–a bouquet of blue hydrangeas.
"I'm sorry, Constance," I whispered to the ground. "I should have told you."
A pile of snow fell from the branch hanging above my head. The cold that ran dripped down my face felt almost sentient. It was like the soft hand that I had felt on my face so many times before, as Constance stared at me with endearment.
I stood and pulled a red scarf from my pocket. "I love you, Constance. I've loved you since the day I first saw you. I had never felt this way about a girl before, and it scared me. I let my fear stop me from telling you. I shouldn't have."
I wrapped the scarf around the tree trunk and leaned in to breathe deeply. Her scent was almost gone.
As I left, the scarf flapped gently in the wind. With tears in my eyes, I smiled, imagining a beautiful girl running for her bus.