Hello, people!

My name is Abigail--but Abby, Abi, Abygale, Abbey or Hey You work just as well. I stand at almost 5′4 with almost waistlength reddish-brown hair and deep brown eyes.

I’ve always loved the outdoors, so as a little kid, I was always building forts, climbing trees, riding bikes, digging trenchs, building bridges, making trails, catching frogs . . . you name it, I was doing it (or had done it at least once. I’ve walked on stilts, jumped off a pretty high rock cliff to grab around a tree trunk to slide down to the ground...)

My interests now are weightlifting (thank you, older brothers), writing, reading, music, drawing, and gymnastics.

I’m pretty certain I’m one of those people you either love or you hate; I don’t sugarcoat things or beat around the bush, I can be stubborn, and I don’t like putting up with other people’s stupidity. My mother was always telling me I needed to be more ladylike, and I think her favorite phrase to describe me when I was younger was “like a bull in a china shop.” Ah, yes, the good ole days, when my mom was forever wondering if I would ever stop acting like my brothers. (Totally unrelated, but I used to have these really thick bangs that would hang in my eyes because no matter what my mother did, she could never get them even. Probaby had something to do with the fact that I’d never sit still.)

Well, I’m a lot more ladylike now, though my habit of being blunt or not thinking before I speak still gets me in trouble. *Sigh* Nobody can be perfect.

I play the violin (been playing for about four years now, I think) as well as the piano, ever since I was six or seven. That was because my oldest brother played the piano, so I wanted to. He actually taught me for two or three years before he got a job and he didn’t have time. After that, I taught myself for several years before finally getting a piano teacher.

When it comes to shoes, I love unique or stylish shoes (I guess like every other girl). Especially hightops. Love those! In fact, check the comment section for a picture of my favorite pair of shoes that I wear pretty much EVERYWHERE.

We were 11.

We met at school.

You were sitting at the desk before mine in the file, our last names start with the same letter. You had to turn around to talk to me, and you did.

You said something, I laughed, and the professor scowled. His reprimand was the first of many.

I had a best friend at that time. She liked you, very much. You asked her out, as the sweet soul you are.

Unlucky I had forgotten to tell you something that same morning.

We were 12.

We chose different subjects.

The desk in front of mine felt empty, the boy sitting there was not you.

My best friend was not dating you anymore, she hated that you had dumped her. You did not dare to talk to me. Were you afraid that I would be on her side? I was secretly hopeful.

You liked another girl, I tried to cheat myself and like some boys. I swear, I tried.

The year ended, another summer took me away from school. You were one of the first to cross the exit, and you disappeared in the streets before I could notice it.

Unlucky I had forgotten to tell you something that day.

We were 13.

We had grown closer somehow.

We were happy best friends, visited each other a lot, making up for lost time.

One evening, coming back from school, the news struck me like a punch in the gut. My parents were packing, the house was empty.

Some days later, you were accompanying me to the airport, carrying my heavy luggage as the gentleman you are. My throat was knotted, my cheeks were wet.

You said something, I laughed half-heartedly. No professor scowled, but our parents smiled.

Before I could realize it, I was on a plane, off to an unknown country, while you had stayed behind, on land.

Unlucky I had forgotten to tell you something before leaving.

We were 14.

We had miraculously kept in contact, separated by a thousand kilometers.

You were becoming a tumultuous teen, a nice-looking guy.

I was struggling with a foreign language, battling with a new culture.

You were popular, I suffered bullying.

You did not have time, never enough to talk. I had sad, ugly things going on on my mind.

You called once, I was upset and did not want to say much. After a minute of awkward pause, you hung up, and did not call anymore.

Unlucky I had forgotten to tell you something at that moment.

We were 15.

We were like strangers, still a world apart.

You were a blurry memory. I was feeling much better.

One day, I found your scribbled number on my agenda. Without thinking much about it, I dialed the nine digits. When I finally realized what I was doing, and was about to stressfully end the call, your voice on the other side of the line froze me.

You acted as if we were still friends, and I was too shocked to do otherwise. We slowly buried our shyness, revived our jokes.

You said something, I laughed. There was no scowling teacher, but we could not see each other.

You told me about that new girl, and her special smile. My heart slipped off my hands, and fell on the ground in tiny little fragments. I said I had to hurry somewhere, with the unsincere promise to call back soon.

Unlucky I had forgotten to tell you something before running away.

We were 16.

We were telling our friends about each other.

We shared gossips, we argued about sports and politics.

We both thought we were studying like crazy, but little did we know that on next year it would have been worse.

Fever about becoming adults was already attacking us, we were making strange plans, building castles on clouds.

You were still talking about the girl, but I had glued the pieces of my heart together.

We started joking about the day we would finally reunite again, maybe this same year.

You had exams to pass, I told you I had a boyfriend.

Did you feel nauseated when you heard about it? You did not talk about the girl anymore.

Suddenly, conversations became rare, and eventually died out.

Unlucky I had forgotten to tell you something before that.

We are 17.

We are almost grown ups.

We do call each other, because we are reasonable. We think much more before we act. We have mended our wounds.

I think about you very often. I like our friendship. It is strong, it is solid.

You told me you would pay my flight to visit you on your birthday, I laughed at how much this implies for your wallet.

Things have changed.

No teacher can scowl at us because we talk too much.

No ex-girlfriend can stand between us.

No distance is enough to break our bond.

No jealousy divides us.

You are in love, I have a crush.

She is lovely, he is adorable.

You work to be somewhere, I dream to be someone.

Finally, I have forgotten what I wanted to tell you before.

#love #nonfiction #shortstory

I have galaxies within me

I have constellations where bones should be

I have ghosts that surround me

I have spirits where soul should be

I have an ocean within me

I have a current running through me; whirlpools where crossroads should be

I have a storm that surrounds me

I have thunder in my chest; lightning where ease should be

And I have a longing inside of me,

It seeps through my skin,

I long to be set free.

“Isn't it strange, how people all use things in the same way? How ubiquitous small things become?”

It's too hot for such a tedious conversation. The windows are down in the beater, but in this dead-stop traffic there's no breeze playing through them. I say nothing. The one good thing about him is that he can carry the conversation all on his own. He really only cares what he's thinking, anyway. I let my eyes drift from the little, stick-on family on the van in front of us to catch his own. He takes this as a sign to proceed.

“Like, you have this necklace hanging here from the mirror. And look next to us,” I glance in Miss Hybrid’s car and see a sparkling, crystal pendulum hanging. “She couldn't be more different than us, but look at her. Windows up, air cranked, brand new car. But what's she using her rear-view for? To hang shit on. If we look around, I'd bet most of these cars have a lanyard or keychain or bandanna hanging in their front window. It doesn't matter what the car or where they came from. It's just what you do. It's not what the mirror’s there for. But everyone does it. Just like bumper stickers. Or sticking your bills and calendars on the fridge…”

He has more examples, but I start to lose focus. I pull my fingers through my hair and tip my head back. I turn the music up, and he goes on louder. He will never notice that he has lost my attention. Even when he concludes with some finale of his grand take on the world. Even when I don't respond. He won't have noticed. He will begin to inform me of some other thought that just slipped through his mind and became a novel worth of ideas. He's content to just talk. He's right. About most things, he's right. But the droning. It just turns to buzzing. I don't care about the stupid antler hanging from the pick-up truck behind us or Mr. Car Worth More Than Our House’s hanging air freshener. Micro is macro. I get it. I just don't care. I care that this traffic isn't moving. I care that it's so hot that I'm sweating sitting still. I care that we’re late on the mortgage and that right now, he's late for a side job, which will make us more late on the mortgage. Macro is micro. That's probably not the same. But for every stupid rear-view mirror with some talisman hanging on for dear life, there's a driver with a million problems. And I care that they all just run together. The mortgage is late, the house isn't clean, work makes me stressed, no money makes me stressed. I care that everything is just a problem. And I care that he is still talking. Why is he still talking? We’ve moved up a few cars, and the shitty twin to my shitty car that sits next to us is filled to bursting with arguing, crying kids. And in the front, a screaming mother. They inspire him to go in depth on how the different classes discipline. And he's right. He's full of shit. And he's right. And he's still talking. And we finally hit the exit. And I finally let the car pick up speed. And we are coming around the bend too fast. And he's talking. And the kids’ crying is ringing in my head. And then we aren't turning. And we’re flying. And the beater has grown wings. And he's not talking. And I'm not talking. And no one’s crying. And there are no talisman hanging from any mirrors. There's just the sky where there should be ground and the ground where there should be sky. And macro and micro and whatever else. And I think I used it right that time.

Dear Writers and Readers,

We noticed some less-than-exemplary behavior on Prose today, which forced us to take action against some users. This is a gentle reminder that, while we try to remain as uncensored as possible, some forms of content are simply intolerable. Please note the following passage from our Terms of Service, under Prohibited Content:

Content that is unlawful, libelous, defamatory, obscene, pornographic, indecent, lewd, suggestive, harassing, threatening, abusive, inflammatory, fraudulent or otherwise objectionable, or invasive of privacy or publicity rights;

In today’s case, harassment was the keyword. We have taken steps to punish infringing users, and prevent future infringements. Note that we will not be adjudicating arguments, disagreements, or squabbles between users, unless we deem the language used to be grossly abusive or inflammatory.

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Happy Writes,

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