21 wasnât always a good number. it used to be dark, a depression, a deadline.
it was the number he seemed to wake up to most often, after spending the whole day in bed, not bothering to get up for dinner. after a fitful, 30-minute nap in the evening he would check his phone to see how much of the world he had escaped. 21:something. it wasnât really a relief, just a reminder that most of yet another day had evaporated into nothing. he stopped checking his phone after a while.
it was a day, a date that he dreaded. somehow it felt like all of those things he didnât want to face were on the 21st. having to face his therapist. having to face his school. having to face his friends. the anxiety paralyzed him, trapped him in his room and his head, until the day clicked past, unstoppable. until he didnât face his therapist, or respond to his school, or receive anymore texts from his friends. he noticed the 21st when it didnât notice him back. when it didnât punish or reward his anxiety, but simply passed it on to the 22nd. here, your turn.
in the dark, in the depression, it was a deadline. he gave weight to the number, noticing it now more than ever. he gave himself until he turned 21. to do what, he didnât know. but there, for once, was a goal. something to work toward to: his escape. the world looked a little more manageable then. he could accomplish things knowing that they wouldnât matter, at least to him. but he could do it for other people. he could finish school, make his parents proud. he could break sonjaâs heart, set her free. he could pretend, be good, so whoever, whatever he was leaving behind would remember that. he could do it as long as he knew he wouldnât have to do it for much longer.
he got a job and suffered through customers who thought the world owed them much more than he could ever imagine. in the quiet moments of his shifts he would add up his pay and plot out who would receive it, and how, fantasizing over this amount of control. he enrolled in a different school that didnât really offer the right courses, but that didnât matter when you didnât have to plan for a career. he was pleasant with other students but didnât invest much time or energy into building any kind of relationships. he performed for a smattering of applause, ready to exit, stage left.
finally, he was at peace with 21, because it would be quick and painless.
of course, because he was so fixated on 21, he was absolutely unprepared for what happened halfway through 19. for the boy he saw struggling with his locker in the hallway, laughing with his friends in the cafeteria, staring back at him across the courtyard. he wasnât ready for the new goals and the plans that were inspired by them, for the time that went unnoticed due to other reasons, for the fantasy of the future, of tomorrow. it confused him.
but he tried to work with this new number. maybe it wasnât a deadline. maybe it wasâŚa reason to get off the couch. a kiss underwater. watching someone accept himself, showing him it was possible. maybe it was someone elseâs birthday (birth hour, birth minute), something else to save up for. the point was, it could be anything.
21 could be dark, a depression, a deadline. and it was. but he used its power, the power he had given it, against itself. 21 was a text.
21:21 is a wish. 21:21 is hope. 21:21 is strength and courage and love and every little thing that carries you to the next one.
happy birthday, even. you are 21. you are.
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