𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨

When the sticky note dropped from my hands to flutter gracelessly to the ground mere moments ago, I felt my heart flutter as well, except in a different sense and more erratically. It pounded against my chest, beating to the two words she wrote: Call me. Call me. Call me. I am almost certain that half of the bones in my body have metamorphosed into fragile butterflies. I feel light and airy; hope-filled and giddy... yet I'm afraid that the unfurling wings inside of me will snap, soon, and I won't be prepared for the fall.

I blankly stare down at the pink square of paper that is now curling at the edges on the dull, red carpet. My gold-rimmed, heart-shaped glasses slip slightly off my face from this angle, and I instinctively push the thin frames up the bridge of my nose again. 

I'm silent and still for once, my fingers twitching for a pen, for ink, for words. My mind wanders—a little thing that happens when I'm overwhelmed. I'm overwhelmed by everything these days, ever since the incident that figuratively drowned me—and the world I keep inside—before I got the chance to draw in a last breath; like a tsunami that comes into view before you can get to high ground. But that's a story for another time.

I stand there for what seems like hours, lost somewhere that isn't a library, consumed by my inner turmoil, until Walter takes it upon himself to drag me out of the spiral of thoughts I've thrown myself into.

"Do I have to do everything for you?" Walter sighs, putting out a hand expectantly. My mind dizzied with who is shes and what the fucks, I wordlessly hand him my ridiculously large tote bag. Clearly, he knows I'm not in the mental headspace right now to form cohesive thoughts or do anything more than breathe. I'm not sure I can do that either. How do I convert carbon dioxide into oxygen again? Are lungs supposed to do more than be filled with the fresh memory of lavender perfume—on certain sticky notes—instead of air?

Walter attempts to fish out my phone from the bottomless pit that is my beloved canvas tote bag. He pulls out various pairs of prescription glasses that range from classic black frames to my go-to crystal blue ones; my ten completed journals spilling with poetry; an unhealthy amount of crumpled Twix wrappers; a cheap feather boa Ria once made me wear just for kicks; and a white plastic name tag that has "cupcake worshipper" engraved on it. He raises his eyebrows at the last one—not surprised, just amused. He picks it up gingerly by one plastic corner, eyeing the pale blue frosting that's still on it from who-knows-where.

"What?" I ask him defensively. "Who doesn't want to be known as a cupcake worshipper? And it was only fifty cents at the thrift shop."

Finally, after all my personal belongings are strewn haphazardly across the maple wood of the front desk, he finds my phone at the bottom of my bag.

Shaking my head as if to clear my mind, I grip my phone when he places it in my hand, and I let the solid weight of it ground me. I got this.

I pick up the note from where I dropped it and punch the number into my phone.

"I'll text her," I mutter, already typing in a few words when Walter stops me.

"She wrote Call me," he says, "Not Text me like the coward you may or may not be."

I gasp, pressing a hand to my heart in mock hurt. In a dramatic tone I exclaim, "A coward? My soul hath not an ounce of peasant wimp-ishness!"

Walter fixes me with a dead stare.

I call her.

Almost immediately, the opening chords of Dancing Queen reach my ears from behind the towering book shelf at my back. I waggle my eyebrows at a wide-eyed Walter and start to hum along appreciatively before I realize—it's a ringtone.

A split-second later, I register Walter's shell-shocked face and his muttered "Holy shit" as confirmation as to who he suspects is behind this now annoyingly tall and wide bookshelf stuffed with dusty classics.

Dancing Queen abruptly cuts off after a few breathless swears. And god, her voice. It has warm undertones to it, as if she keeps the sun beneath her tongue, and yet my arms tingle and erupt with goosebumps as if the autumn wind has crept into the building to wrap around me in a chilling embrace.

Get a grip, Isla, I tell myself, she only let out a string of boring old expletives. It's not that deep.

I brush a shaky hand through the blonde waves of my hair that cut off just above my shoulders; trying to get out the most obvious knots and snarls in the forest-like thickness of it. Then, I make my way around the bookshelf, turning the corner to find—

No one's here.

I sigh, wincing when I hear the squeaky side door of the library slam shut a few bookshelves down. That door, chipping with gray paint, almost blends in with the walls, and most people don't know of it. It leads to the bustling cafeteria, and I won't be able to track her down there with the frenzied crowds of cupcake enthusiasts overflowing the place. There's a baking fundraiser going on, and I would be there, with my little name tag pinned to my old jean jacket, if not for this little ordeal. I'd be interviewing the bakers and my fellow cupcake worshippers for my column of The Nightingale, my school's newspaper that I write for; my thumb click-clicking my pen before I jot down chicken-scrawl notes. I'd be in my element, my voice clear and open; my heart under control, brought down to a steady rhythm by the low hum of chaotic energy around me. I wouldn't be thinking of her.

I would start heading over there now if not for—

If not for this book. In her hurry to elude me, she left behind a personal, battered copy of Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe. There are almost as many sticky notes stuck throughout it as there are pages. I shake my head, not believing my luck. We love the same books. A smile tugs at my lips, and I can't stop grinning like an idiot.

I was wrong. All the bones in my body have metamorphosed into butterflies.

Stuck to the cover, there's a note. The handwriting isn't as neat and compact as before—this time it's slanted and bordering on sloppy, as if she was rushing to write it before she lost the nerve. It says:

For Isla.