The Optimist

I always wake up before the alarm clock goes off. Every day. I don't know why I even set it anymore.

Every morning, I wake up some time between 5:39 and 5:56 a.m., and then count the places where paint has stripped off of my ceiling, until the alarm clock inevitably goes off.

The irritating sound breaks my concentration, and I let out a sigh, rolling off of the old, uncomfortable mattress, switching it off.

I drag my tired, heavy feet to the bathroom, and as I brush my teeth, I look up into the mirror, seeing what I always see: permanently tired eyes

with bags underneath them, set in a face that looks as if it has never smiled, as if it has forgotten how to smile, and to be honest, it has. Briefly, I wonder what I would look like to an outsider; probably Death personified.

Sighing again, I strip and step into the shower. I turn it on, and the water is blistering hot, but it might as well be snow; it does nothing to warm my insides, my heart, my soul.

Even when I go to the kitchen in my bathrobe, and warm up the left over pizza from last night, chewing and swallowing hot food still does nothing to warm me up.

Getting dressed is the worst part of my day; coming to terms with the fact that I will have to spend another day at school with people that annoy me, another day waisting my time, just to please my parents who claim that they "love me", but are almost always never here just fills me with dread.

Right now, they're in Portland. Or St. Mary. Or China. I don't know.

I tie my tie three times just to avoid facing the inevitable, but finally accept that I can delay this no longer, and I leave the house with my backpack, locking the door behind me.

***

I sit on the bench in our small community, and text my driver to pick me up here; sometimes I walk to school, but I don't feel like doing it today.

Suddenly, I sense someone approaching me. I become completely tense, my muscles locking in place.

Please don't talk to me.

Please don't talk to me.

Please do not talk to me.

Apparently, this person doesn't sense the hostility rolling off of me in tidal waves, because he/she sits on the bench beside me, and speaks.

"Good morning; do you know what time it is?" asks a voice that sounds neither distinctly male or female. I catch a glimpse of this person from the corner of my eye, and he/she looks androgynous. I have no idea what gender this person is. Not that it matters. Not that I'll acknowledge him/her anyway.

Instead of saying him/her or he/she, I'm going to say "p", for person.

I continue to look ahead of me, thinking that if I ignore p, p might disappear.

P does not, however, disappear, so I glance at my watch and turn to p, answering p's question without making eye contact. Eye contact invites conversation, and therefore, I've learned to rarely make eye contact with anyone. It's become second nature for me to look anywhere but into someone's eyes when I speak to him or her, no matter who it is, so much so that eye contact now makes me uncomfortable.

"Five to seven," I say to p, sliding my phone into my pocket after my driver replies, confirming that he will come for me.

"Thanks," p says happily. "I love school." The last part is said in a whisper; it's obvious that p is talking to p's self.

"I hate it. I want to go back home already."

Too late, I realise that I've said it out loud.

What the hell am I doing? I do not talk to strangers.

Shut up. Now.

"Really? You don't have any friends? A favourite subject?"

I now realise that I've brought down a load of crap on myself. I did reply to p; I opened myself up to a conversation, and ignoring p would be rude.

I'm don't want to be rude.

But I don't want to reply.

Cursing myself in my head, I decide to humour p, who seems nice enough, and doesn't deserve either my rudeness or misery.

"No, to both of those," I say, keeping my reply short, hoping that p won't carry the conversation any further.

Of course, I don't get what I want. This is why I don't hope; I never get what I want. Whether it's for the person sitting next to me to shut up, of for my sister to not die from leukaemia, I never get what I want.

"Why?"

I think about that question, about whether or not I should answer it.

Why?

I have reasons, but should I share them with a complete stranger?

But... why not?

"I don't trust people; everyone betrays you in the end, anyway, and why should I like school? The vast majority of what they try to plant inside of my head will never help me. They're only waisting my time and money."

Not that you have much else to do, I think to myself.

Truth be told, if I had it my way, I'd spend the whole day counting and re-counting the places on my ceiling where paint has stripped off.

I turn to p, and now that I get a good look at p, I realise p is really pretty. P has high cheekbones, and smooth, dark skin, like chocolate over a perfect mould. P's eyes are a warm, umber colour, with specks of ocher, and arched eyebrows. P has braids, which stop at p's shoulders, which make p look neither distinctly masculine nor feminine.

P's shape is completely lost beneath the oversized t-shirt, blue surf shorts and black canvas shoes that p is wearing. Along with all of this, p has beautiful lips; a full top lip, with a prominent Cupid's bow, and a plump bottom lip, which p is now chewing on, as p stares right back at me, probably because of how awful I look.

What did I call it?

Death personified.

"You're a pessimist," p says, and in that moment, I know that I should have walked to school. P is one of those people who thinks that I'm a depressed charity case who needs a free psychoanalysis along with a complementary hug.

"I'm a realist," I say calmly, but inside, my irritation is growing rather quickly. Not trying to be discreet at all, I look at my watch.

Three minutes to seven.

I let out a harsh sigh, because I know that p isn't going to drop it.

"No, a realist considers all of the likely possibilities; you only look on the downside."

Well, you can't say that I didn't try to lie my way out of this one.

How is any of this p's business, anyway? I'm not obligated to tell p anything.

Then again... I realise that I want to tell p. I have this strange urge to share with p. I don't even fully understand why, but the next thing I know, I'm having a full on conversation with p, eye contact and all, despite my irritation.

"Almost every expectation and hope that I've ever had had resulted in a disappointment. I thought that if I stopped hoping—"

"—you'd stop being disappointed," p finishes for me, p's eyes full of understanding.

P's next words catch me by surprise.

"Since you've dismissed all hopes, expectations, and therefore, have no more disappointments... are you any happier?"

That question hits me, and I have to think hard to answer it.

To be honest, I'm not happy. I'm depressed. I feel as if I have nothing left to live for, nothing to hold on to; but this pain is nothing compared to the pain of repeated disappointment.

"I'm not happy... but I'm in less pain," I find myself saying to p.

"Do you want to feel this way for the rest of your life?" p asks.

This time, I can't answer, because it's not as easy as a "yes" or "no", or a simple one line response like the one that I just gave p. I don't want to feel this for the rest of my life, but I don't want to feel that... extreme pain again. The extremity of that pain... that's not something that I can exactly explain with words, and neither is the constant state of painful nothingness that I am experiencing right now.

"You need to risk pain to feel joy."

I've never heard something that made me feel more conflicted, never heard something more tempting.

I want happiness; I crave it, but just as much as I have this desire to feel some form of a positive emotion again, I fear emotional pain. There is nothing worse than emotional pain.

Sensing my inner turmoil, p speaks again.

"You don't have to decide now; it's just something to think about."

I nod, deciding to come back to it later.

We sit in silence, until I hear honking; I look up and see my driver waiting.

"Tell you what," p says, causing my head to turn to p as I get up and put on my backpack.

"We can exchange numbers, and I can be your first friend. How does that sound?"

"Good," I reply, pulling my phone from my pocket and handing it to p and taking p's.

"Why are you doing this for me?" I ask as I hold p's phone I'm my hand.

P looks up from typing into my phone.

"Because no one should live their life alone."

Right about now, I feel guilty for thinking of p as annoying earlier; p just might cause the beginning of a whole new chapter of my life.

Once we're done, I realise that I don't even know p's name. Maybe if I know p's name, I can figure out p's gender.

"What's your name?" I ask.

P smiles at me.

"You'll find out in time."

My lips twitch at p's response.

"Well my name is Nina. And, I'll talk to you later."

"Bye, Nina," p says.

Once in the car, I look at p's contact. It has p's number saved under the name:

"Sage, The Optimist"

This makes me smile; a gender neutral name which means "wise", for a wise person with an androgynous appearance. How apt.

I realise that I've just smiled; I've learned to smile again, and it's because of Sage.

Well, now I know p's name, but I still don't know p's gender. I guess I'll soon find out, since I now have p as the friend who will teach me how to be an optimist.

By Aliyah Abrahams