#2

May tiptoed by like a frightened hare, caught in the headlights of the spring. We wielded nervous laughter and shy smiles like they were a language. Tentative, hopeful.

Wild. That’s how June felt. The rush of picnics, headaches from the ACT, sudden honks from cars that shook us awake. Longing crept into my heart, carved itself a spot below my sternum. I saw sunflowers for the first time.

July, more muted than its cousin, surprised us in its glory, all white-tipped mountains, sparking cider, and we watched it from afar, as if in disbelief. Its Portuguese cliffs made me furious. Its shoe stores made you cry.

August brought heat, heavy torpor that settled on us like a skin, making us lazy, making us slow. Too distracted, busy pleasantly lying to ourselves, we didn’t spot the frustration rolling in. To hell with college, we agreed. To hell with friends, we said, and drifted quietly to sleep.

Where August slept, September screamed. A reckoning. The frustration cracked me open, and I spilled all my hot, hot anger onto you.

October stood for weariness. We tried to prop each other up, each offended by the other’s shaking, the lack of sleep etched into the other’s sighs. Our eyes lined with resignation, I fought with my sister, you wrestled with your mom. My world felt dull and faded, bland, without the usual October colors that I expected. Where were my fiery reds, the yellows I could melt in, oranges so crisp they smelled like rain? I shrivelled.

November was my jeans. They were Brandy Melville jeans, I think, mom cut, washed denim, pretty sleek. When they arrived, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Gorgeous! Gorgeous, gorgeous, pulled them on, zipped them up, nearly choked. Were they designed for a popsicle stick? I don’t know why I had hoped, and yet I wore them. Paired with chlorine, wet streaks, a plastic roof, they looked good on Thanksgiving day.

I cried and cried and cried. To hell with college? To hell with midterms, I told you. You reached for me and swallowed up my tears. I dove into your arms, nauseous as I hit water. The trees outside covered themselves in shiny frost with me, in true December solidarity.

January felt like a wave of bile rising from my stomach. I couldn’t stand to think of it, and though you knew, you didn’t feel it. The exhaustion started peeling back, culring off my eyes like layers of scratchy wallpaper. If December was a month to mourn, January planned, timidly, ahead.

Fuck February’s ibuprofen. I have never been so worried in my life. When I finally cracked, you handed me the glue to put myself together. Thank you.

March, I relearned how to tilt my chin up. Pondered the quiet gravitas of those who love, and salvaged the strangeness of those who do not give a shit. Every time I looked at you, I smiled, because your hair was overgrown and you looked stupid, spreading ACME monopoly tickets across your carpet, charting the course you wanted them to take. You still made me killer salads before class, and I still ate them to the point of sickness. We celebrated break.

I made you lemon bars in April. You loved their sweetness, their swirl of yellow. I started looking at apartments, first in Lisbon, then Prague, Madrid, Barcelona. We sent two emails together, and got chased off a park lawn by Montclair police.

Another May. I brought you churros, you threw me lemons, I delivered rollerblades and pulled you by the elbow as you screamed that you were going to die. I’ve worn your blanket as my armor (and your t-shirts, your scratchy sweatpants, the Champion sweatshirt that you got for Christmas). We still nervously laugh from six feet apart when your mom comes to check on us, Friday nights spent on your porch. I still smile when you ask to go biking. I feel more filled up, sunnier, than I did this time last year. You still look just as dumb, though. And I love you for it.