tw: mental health issues, hints of depressive episode
'Dear Diary, Iām pathetic. There is no other reasonable explanation as to why I feel this hollowness in my chest. Today, as of March 1st, the first day of the month, girls are sitting with their brothers on the couch, and little boys take their dogs for a walk by the park nearby. Balls bounce on the walls and whole families laugh at something playing on TV. And then thereās me. Sitting on my old high school ground, watching all those stories unfold right before my eyes. Dear Diary, the wind damps my eyes, or is it the feelings behind my eyelids, I could never tell the di-ā
A sudden gush of air snaps Eliottās notebook closed. He clenches his fists between his legs letting his head fall with a thud against the tree heās leaning on. A wave of tears spring at the corner of his eyes, and he clenches them shut, willing the wetness away. The biting wind is unforgiving, pulling at the hood of his sweater until itās halfway off, and with it, his earbuds.
Eliott watches couples walk down the street from his position on top of the hill, nothing but little stick figures with thick jackets and dark beanies. A car passes by every few minutes, sometimes two, although Eliott doesnāt hear them over the soft piano melodies playing from his phone, only sees them whenever he looks up from his old notebook.
Itās been a rough week for him. Rougher than itās been in a long time. The dark had finally caught up on him and sank its cold claws on his stomach, leaving him wheezing for far longer than heās capable of holding his breath. And now his exhausted body is paying the price.
Days turned into nights, that turned into nothing, and before Eliott knew it, a new month had started, and he had wasted the last week of February holed up in bed. And itās hard, sometimes, most of the times, even worse with the people he has, and the kindness he canāt give back.
Itās hard when his mama makes his favorite dish, even though he knows she hates it, knows by the way her nose scrunches up at the mention of it, if only to make him smile, and Eliott- heās just so tired. So tired that thinking about having to chew something inside his mouth makes him want to cry, so he only says thank you with a halfhearted smile before retiring back to his empty bedroom, with his cold sheets and the broken guitar he tore to pieces last week by the door.
Itās hard when his friends, the few he has, ask him how heās doing, if thereās anything they can do, anything, weāre here if you want to talk, always, because you know it helps, and Eliott does know, only heās afraid heās not strong enough to not let himself bleed out on the sidewalk the moment his thoughts start pouring out of him, so he just shrugs, a weak lift of his shoulders, not at all genuine, while his mind quietly screams Canāt you see? Canāt you see Iām dying inside?
But he doesnāt, and his friends donāt push. And heās grateful for that, he is, really, but sometimes a sick, selfish part of him wishes they would push, just a little, just to show that they care. And then he hates himself a little more for that thought, because they care enough to respect his boundaries, but itās never enough for Eliott, is it? Because heās selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish.
He just feels so alone, no matter what he does, or how many people surround him and coddle over him, he canāt help but feel alone. Hollow. Rotten inside. He doesnāt know whatās wrong with him ā or, he does. He just doesnāt know why it had to be him.
He hugs his legs closer to his chest, feeling impossibly small and stupidly lonely the first afternoon of March. His fingers are freezing around the pen, hands cold on the paper, almost as cold as his nose, as he messily scribbles word after word. Anything that comes to his mind is printed on the yellow pages, strings of words put together that donāt necessarily mean anything, whatever it takes to distract his mind from the ugly thoughts smiling creepily at him from the highest throne in the confines of his own head.
Heās so engrossed in the notebook in front of him that he doesnāt notice another presence next to him until a jacket covered arm brushes against his shoulder. Eliott looks up quickly from the work between his knees with a small gasp, staring carefully at the boy sitting next to him.
He definitely wasnāt here when Eliott got here.
āSorry, didnāt mean to startle you.ā The boy smiles awkwardly, squirming under Eliottās unwavering gaze. āDo you mind sharing your tree? Or? I can go if Iām bothering you, Iām sorry. I should have asked before just coming here and sitting down, and-ā
āHello.ā Eliott interrupts, mumbles, a little bit surprised and a lot confused, and wholly entranced by the boy sitting next to him. āYou can stay, I donāt mind.ā
The boy snaps his mouth shut, his blue eyes studying Eliott with fragile hope, and Eliott schools his expression into something honest, honest enough that they boy wonāt fear heās going to snap and tell him to leave him alone.
Heās pretty, the boy. Beautiful in a way not many boys are, Eliott thinks, in a way most people arenāt. With his pink lips and pink cheeks, his hair a mess from the wind, and Eliott wouldnāt mind trying to brush his fingers though the wild strands of hair that seem to stick up at all directions to its own accord. Itās a weird thought to have about a stranger, but Eliott is well past weird.
āUmā¦ā The boy starts again, burying his face further into his red scarf until the fabric brushes against his bottom lip. He looks between Eliott and the spare space between their legs, expectantly, and Eliott quickly wiggles to the side, leaving enough space for the boy to rest his back against the tree.
āOh shit, yeah.ā Eliott moves his things with him, embarrassed, putting one finger on the page he was on. āNow weāre tree buddies.ā
The boy giggles breathlessly, a sound so cute that Eliottās heart slows for a beat before the loud thumping goes up to his throat. He has to bite his cheek as the boy moves closer until their sides are pressed together, both of their backs resting against the large tree. And just like that, theyāre sharing the tree.
Eliott fiddles with the earbuds dangling off his neck, not sure how to venture the awkward silence that suddenly settles over them. Whatās the procedure for talking to a boy who approaches you in a deserted hill in the middle of nowhere, asks you if you can share your tree with them (itās not even his tree, he just happened to conveniently sit against it) and smiles prettily at you when you answer them that of course, you can share it with them?
āDo youā¦?ā The boy trails off, saving Eliott from a helpless spiral of desperation, pretty blush high on his ears. āHere,ā
And then thereās a pair of white gloves on Eliottās lap, very soft looking, a big contrast to the worn out black leather jacket heās wearing. Eliott gives the gloves a questioning glance before turning to look at the boy. āWhat?ā
The boy squirms uncomfortably again, the blush traveling up to his cheekbones. āI just- I saw you over there,ā he says, pointing to a small clear with a bench on the other side of the road. Eliott follows his movements dumfounded. āAnd you looked very cold. I donāt need them, I can put my hands on my pockets. But you do, so if you want to use themā¦ā
Oh.
Where did this sweet boy come from?
āOh,ā Eliott exhales softly, turning the gloves in his hands slowly and staring at them in wonder. āThank you.ā
Eliott hears the relieved sigh the boy heaves when he moves to put the gloves on, smiling a little to himself as a sudden warmth kisses his frostbitten fingers.
āThatās very sweet of you. Thank you.ā Eliott exhales again, and the boy nods, satisfied with himself, tucking his legs to his chest as he stares at the buildings ahead of them.
āYouāre welcome.ā The boy whispers at last, eyes set on the passing cars at the bottom of the hill, the pretty blush on his ears still visible.
And Eliott wants to touch. Brush his cheeks with his thumb. Kiss his nose until itās no longer cold. But he doesnāt. Instead, he moves to put one earphone on before nudging the other boy with his shoulder and offering him the spare one.
āDo you want to share?ā Eliott asks timidly, nervous smile in place as he watches the boyās eyes light up at the suggestion.
The boy nods, inching closer to Eliott as he pops the spare earphone into his ear.
āIām Eliott.ā Eliott says after a while, not looking up from his notebook.
He feels the boyās breath hitch before he presses harder against his side, āLucas.ā The boy says, loud and clear, clearer than heās heard him sound all afternoon. āMy name is Lucas.ā
Eliott nods in acknowledgement, pressing back against Lucas, hiding the small grin on his face behind the collar of his jacket as his gloved hands draw places of sunflowers and galaxies of blue.
"If... If it's worth something, I could never forget you. The memory of you, it's etched in every cell of my body. I don't think my body is capable of forgetting you. So even when I'm not here anymore, or, just the dust of me, I guess, you'll still be remembered."
"..."
"You know... you know the big bang theory? It says that everything we know is the product of an explosion of stars and supernovas. By that logic, humans are made of the same stuff stars are made of, at least to some extent. And... and that also means that no matter where I am, a speck of the universe will always remember you. That's cool, right?"
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline