Flower Boy

1.3 | EMERALD GREEN

                                                                                     ( 1.3 )  s i m o n

I'M SURE THAT I didn't walk my way home that afternoon. I ran, sped, sprinted, or whatever it is. I'm exhausted, undoubtedly, but I wouldn't want my flower to wilt nor do I even want to wait to get that flower painted.

    My mother is no where to be seen, but usually she's just at the neighbor's place having tea or some sort.

    I unzip my bag, searching for my sketchbook.

    Nothing but a few sheets of paper. I tried pouring out all the contents of my backpack, but that didn't help either. My sketchbook's not there, no matter how much I want it to be there.

    I try to keep myself calm. Maybe I left it in my locker. I know could still go get it tomorrow.

    All that wishful thinking didn't help me get over the fact that the flower is going to die no matter what, even if I find my sketchbook in the locker tomorrow. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to find another one on the field.

    But that doesn't really happen.

.  .  .

THE FEELING OF TREPIDATION KICKS  in when my sketchbook isn't found inside my locker. I fumbled, I tousled, I could've even flipped through my entire locker just to hopefully find a glimpse of it. Alas, it was nothing, a nothing that bubbled to anger.  The whole incident of misplacing it already kills my mood, making me lose the will to even stay awake during class. My reaction to the affair might seem a little petty to many, but I can't just simply dismiss the fact that I lost an entire year's work.

I lie on the grass with my hands spread out wide. My usual flower-filled spot has been taken over by a bunch of seniors, who just carelessly sat on the flowers. I am left lying on a nullity of grass alone, and I never felt lonelier in my life before.

I don't feel like moving.

I don't want to think anymore.