Slow Burn

I am aware as I step into the library that the majority of people here are almost already including me. Not that I particularly care. I never do. Everyone sits in their little groups, whispering and laughing, faces glowing with the kind of excitement that makes me feel like I’m breathing underwater. I adjust my backpack and try not to notice how my hoodie smells like last week’s disappointment. I find my usual spot by the window, the one with the broken radiator that smells faintly of burnt toast, and drop my bag. I glance around at the people walking past, half-wishing I could disappear, half-wishing I could poke them all in the eye. The girl across from me is humming to herself, completely oblivious to the despair she radiates. Or maybe it’s just me projecting. Natalie Johnson is already there, headphones in, tapping at her laptop like her life depends on it. Probably does. She looks up when she notices me and shrugs, which I think is her way of greeting me. We’ve been friends for years, though calling it that feels like a formal title for something more chaotic and less functional. I slide into the chair opposite her, avoiding eye contact with Sophie Carter and Maya Patel, who are too busy gossiping about someone who will never matter to me. I open my laptop, which is comforting in a way that nothing else is. I scroll through my blog, rereading posts about everything and nothing, posts I’ve written when sleep has fled me and boredom has been too cruel to ignore. I feel a strange satisfaction in knowing that words, even my words, can fill the emptiness for a while. My name is Ashley Allen. I think you should know that I spend most of my time inventing entire lives in my head and then acting like they don’t matter. I love to sleep. I love my laptop more. I am fairly certain that someday I will die, though not in any dramatic way, probably just slowly like a battery running out of charge. Natalie Johnson is probably my only real friend at the moment. She is also probably my best friend, but I am yet unsure. Sophie Carter is mostly polite and distant, which suits me perfectly, and Maya Patel is… well, she exists and occasionally smiles at me in ways I tolerate. Lila Allen, my sister, is my favorite human, though she is too pure for me to handle sometimes. I claim not to feel anything, but if Lila is sad, I think my chest might c***k anyway. As I type, a shadow falls across my keyboard. I look up, startled, to find a boy standing there, a stack of books in his arms, eyes wide and scanning the rows. He’s tall, the kind of tall that makes you notice him even when you don’t want to. His hair is messy in a way that’s supposed to look effortless, though I suspect it took effort. “You’re Ashley Allen, right?” he says, voice polite but cautious. I squint at him. “Depends who’s asking.” He laughs a little, not the cruel kind, just a nervous, slightly awkward chuckle that somehow makes me forget how much I hate talking to people. “I thought so. I’ve seen you around… um, you blog a lot, don’t you?” “Probably,” I mutter, returning to my laptop like he’s already inconvenienced me. He doesn’t move. I feel his presence hovering there like a misplaced punctuation mark. “I’m Ethan Carter,” he says. “You don’t remember me, do you?” I tilt my head, pretending to think. “Vaguely. Should I?” He shrugs, smiling faintly. “Maybe. I’m in your year. We… have a few classes together.” I nod once, the smallest gesture I can manage without being rude. “Cool.” He sits down across from me, carefully placing his books on the desk. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” he says. “I just… I thought I’d say hi.” “Hi,” I reply flatly, which is the most enthusiastic I can manage before retreating into my blog again. Natalie raises an eyebrow at me, but says nothing, tapping at her keyboard with deliberate indifference. Sophie and Maya glance over curiously but quickly return to their conversation. I type, pretending Ethan isn’t there, but I notice the way he keeps glancing at my screen, trying not to be intrusive. He’s strange, but in a way that isn’t immediately irritating. He isn’t loud or flashy. He doesn’t try too hard. There’s something quiet about him, something like he belongs here even when he doesn’t. I make a mental note to ignore him. Minutes pass. I type about sleep blogs, about empty hallways, about how mornings feel like sandpaper against my skin. Ethan glances at my posts once or twice, and I catch him smiling faintly. I look away, annoyed at myself for noticing. “Do you… want to study together sometime?” he asks eventually. “I’m not great at keeping up with English notes.” I pause. Study together? The idea of sharing space with someone willingly, even if he’s the quiet type, is horrifying. And yet, something about the way he asks, the hesitation, the soft eyes, makes it less terrifying than usual. “Maybe,” I say carefully. “We’ll see.” He nods like he’s just been offered a lifeline and takes it gratefully. I go back to typing, forcing myself to concentrate, but now I notice how the sunlight hits his hair, how his sleeve is slightly too long, how he chews the end of his pen when he’s thinking. I hate that I notice him at all. By the time lunch bell rings, Ethan hasn’t said much, just small murmurs here and there. He packs up his books with careful precision and stands. “I’ll see you around, Ashley.” I nod, pretending it’s casual, though part of me hopes I’ll see him again. I don’t like hope, but it’s surprisingly stubborn. As he leaves, Natalie leans over. “You’re weirdly quiet today.” “I’m saving my existential dread for later,” I mutter. Sophie giggles softly, Maya smirks, and I return to my laptop, typing words that will outlive my mood, if nothing else. And somehow, for reasons I refuse to understand, I feel like the library isn’t entirely suffocating today. Maybe it’s the sunlight, maybe it’s the quiet, maybe it’s the boy who thinks he knows me already. The walk home is cold, and my hoodie does nothing to stop the wind from clawing at my face. I tug it tighter around me and wonder why people insist on walking two-abreast like the sidewalks were made for their convenience. Most of them don’t even glance at me, which is fine. I don’t need them to. Natalie is already on my mind. She’s always talking—endlessly, about everything and nothing at the same time. Today she’s probably telling Sophie and Maya about some viral t****k or the latest drama in school. Popularity doesn’t seem to bother her; she carries it like a badge she doesn’t have to polish. Sometimes I wonder if she even notices me at all. Not that I care. The front door of our flat swings open before I get there, and Lila’s small, warm face greets me with a smile that feels like sunlight, the kind that makes everything else seem cold by comparison. “Hey, Ash!” she chirps. I shrug, slipping off my backpack. “Hey.” “You look like you walked through a blizzard,” she says, examining my hoodie like it’s some archaeological find. She always notices these things, the little details that everyone else misses. “Do you want cocoa?” I stare at her, considering lying and saying no, but somehow I can’t. “Sure,” I mumble, following her into the kitchen. She hums while she prepares it, the sound light and unaffected by the world. I lean against the counter, watching her. She’s too young, too soft, too good at being alive. She doesn’t understand why I can’t just… exist without hating every second of it. But I love her anyway, even when I roll my eyes and mutter that she’s being annoyingly cheerful. Natalie’s words from earlier echo in my head, snippets of her nonstop chatter. I remember how she had leaned across the library desk, animated and loud, whispering to Sophie and Maya about some event she was planning. She always has a plan, always has a joke, always has a way to make everyone notice her, and somehow she even notices me enough to say hi. I take a sip of cocoa, lukewarm and sweet, and sink into the sofa. Lila flops beside me, curling up like a cat, her small hand brushing mine. I don’t know what to do with this warmth, this softness. So I blog. I write about her without using her name, about the way her presence is like a tiny rebellion against everything I hate. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I think about Ethan Carter, the boy who apparently knows me but I don’t know at all. He’s sitting somewhere, probably overthinking every word he said today, just like I am, and the thought irritates me. But not enough to stop noticing.