Fragile

At Home, but Lost.

Wednesday, 12th of June, 7:27 p.m. , Jack Ernest's apartment room

Comfort. This was the first thought Jack had on his mind when he finally entered his apartment room. Instead of changing from his school uniform to normal, house clothes, he immediately slumped on his tiny but comfortable bed. It was pure bliss, to come home from a hectic day at school, and to reward one's self with rest.

"I'll cook my dinner later, maybe at eight, or if I'm not up for it, I'll buy food at one of those convenience stores", Jack mumbled to himself as he lay face down on his bed. He closed his eyes, and decided to take a good, short nap.

A good thirty minutes or so passed, and Jack finally awoke from his short slumber. He was surprised that he still had enough energy to lift his head. Fixing his gaze on the bed sheets, he examined every single detail about the object. It was an object, not a person, and most definitely not the person he was infatuated with, yet still, his thoughts were a one-way street that led him to an alley in which he would eventually be cornered by whom he held most dear, his History teacher.

"Not...again. I'm not in the mood for this, you damned brain of mine. Just shut up, shut up already..."

Jack sat upon his bed and looked at it. It was just a normal bed, in fact, it was not even that fancy, but his thoughts continued to walk astray. He had no choice. If these thoughts of his do not have somewhere-anywhere-that he could keep, eventually, it would break him. The notebook which he used to write his thoughts the last time sat on the desk just directly on the left side of his bed, a tempting invitation. So, he pulled out the chair from the desk, and sat down.

It was no longer a want, but a need. He could never find someone or anyone to talk to about the secret that he carefully kept, but despite the fact that he did want to keep his admiration for Ms. Summers a secret, he still did have thoughts about how it would be nice to have someone to confide in.

For when the dam is filled with too much water, eventually, it floods.

He began to write, even if it felt like a portion of his soul gets taken away every time he did. The only thing he was thankful for is that it was ink that was flowing from his pen, not tears from his eyes. Now was not the time cry, not yet, he decided. He did not write with intellect anymore. The words were still understandable, but for others it would be possible to think of him as a madman, fueled by a fatal kind of passion and obsession. He wrote not with the hands of a writer, but with the hands of a shackled, tortured victim. It was not coherent anymore. A victim of an unhealthy desire, and ultimately, a victim of circumstance. Despite this, Jack had managed to keep his handwriting legible, which was no easy feat, for he wrote in script all the time.

It is late at night. I am supposed to be cooking and eating my dinner, but I do not have the will to do so. I made the mistake of thinking of her yet again. How is it possible for me to be affected this much? We are different. She is twenty-three years of age, and I am just eighteen. She is wise, and I definitely am not, for I made the terrible mistake of falling for someone that I am not supposed to.

Here I am, looking at my bed, and the sheets that cover it. My bed is made of brown wood, brown, like her eyes. Just because my bed and her eyes are of the same color, I already feel like I am being watched. The sheets that I lay on are blue, like the color of her teaching uniform. I am uncomfortable, just from thinking about this. Whenever I cover myself with these sheets when I am cold, somehow, it feels as if she is lying on my arms... And then...as I wrap those sheets around me, I feel disgust at myself for thinking of such things as making love with her. Kissing her. Touching her. Am I really to blame? I know I am, but I am just a fool, a fool who dares to walk where even angels themselves would not set their feet upon.

This bed of mine is pretty old; it is more than seven years of age, as this is the same bed I had in my family's house, It just needed to be moved to this apartment, since this is where I am staying right now, as I live quite far from school. Then, if my bed is old, then it is history. And she teaches History...

Must I always relate every tiny detail of my life to her? I swear upon my name that I truly do not intend to do so. I am confused as to why exactly I still think of her.

It is late at night, so why? I am at my own residence, yet why do I feel as if I am walking on a cold desert at night? At the same time, it feels as if I am someone looking for water during the scorching daytime, until I reach what seems like an oasis, only to find out that it is a mirage, an illusion produced by the light of the sun. And the sun does nothing but smile brightly upon my misery.

Jack stopped writing. He was panting, even though he has not done any form of physical activity. He got up the chair he was sitting on and collapsed to the bed next to it. He was exhausted. He paid the fact that he had not taken dinner yet no heed; he wanted the comfort of sleeping. He closed his eyes, and whispered softly to the nothingness that accompanied him.

"Yesterday, I had the chance to talk to her during her lectures, or even during dismissal. She was just right in front of me, and I took it for granted. And now, when she's nowhere near me.."

"Why is it that we appreciate the things that we do hold dear only when they are gone?"