Lost without You

You seem impossibly tall.
So strong.
And I can't stop laughing as you lift me into the sky, hoisting me higher up, my arm extended as I reach for the clouds.
Then we're both in the grass, laughing so hard.
Smiling.
I miss your smile.

The school day goes by in a blur of confusion.

Part of me wants to just collapse on the pavement as soon as I get out of school and another part of me wants to run all the way home and lock myself in my room.

I end up deciding to walk to the library.

It's almost surreal, looking at things but not seeing them. My brain is too full with thoughts that it can't process what it's looking at, can't decipher these familiar sights. The too green of a house, the adult book stores tinted glass and alluring posters, the senior citizens out walking their dogs. None of it clicks and I set myself on auto-pilot.

Luckily I end up in front of the old brick building.

When I walk in I'm hit by that familiar grind of the air conditioner that never shuts off and the smell. The smell of Saturday mornings and out of this world adventures. The smell of smiles and tears and best friends on paper.

It's a smell that burns my nose and makes my body on high alert.

This time my brain pushes things aside to look at whats around me. And I'm glad because it hasn't changed.

The bookcases still stand too close together, enough room to squeeze one and a half people in uncomfortably. And the librarians still all look the same, silvery white hair and wire rimmed glasses.

Slowly, the only speed I seem to know anymore, I move to one of the wide oak tables. I hang my backpack on the chair and I move to the books.

Under my fingers the plastic bound covers are cool and enticing. A title catches my eye and I pull it from its hiding place, nested comfortably between its neighbors. The words are bleeding black ink down the front, an ironic picture for the title.

Dry.

Interested I nestle the book into the crook of my arm and continue my search.

I'm so intrigued by the books in front of me, all the stories that need to be told, that I don't notice I'm not alone in the aisle.

A boy about six feet tall, a towering number being I'm only 5'6", with shaggy blonde hair and a chocolate lovers worse nightmare, brown, almost edible, eyes, becomes my new wall.

The few books I have tumble from my arm and onto the ground.

And I stare at them because I can't think of how to react.
And he stares at me because he can't think of why I'm not reacting I'm sure.

After a few seconds of this staring triangle he bends down and collects the books.

"Here you go."

His voice isn't silky or rough, it's like cotton, comfortable and enjoyable.
And his smile is lopsided, as though he can't pull up one side of his lip enough.

I nod a thank you and turn to leave.
And I do, all the way back to my spot at the large table.
Because this isn't a movie and he doesn't stop me.

I neatly pile the books and open one, trying to find refuge in their words. Trying so hard to look for a way out of all that's going on. Trying to forget you won't be there when I get home. Trying to forget it's not the same anymore and it never will be.

And that's when the tears that I couldn't cry decide to make there appearance and I'm sobbing silently in the middle of the library.

The public library.

And no one even turns to look, as though they see teenage girls break into heavy sobs in the middle of public libraries often.

And the fact that nobody is there to tell me it's okay makes me cry harder.

Now I'm hiccuping and sniffling and trying to get a hold of everything that's flowing out of me in one rush but I can't seem to put a stopper on this. It seems as though the dam has been opened and everything is flowing out.

In the middle of the library.

And that's when a pack of carry-around tissues is placed on the table in front of me and a pair of chocolate brown eyes are staring at me.

"Are you alright?"