Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #5

I never believed in ghosts before her. I still don't, or at least not the kind you see on TV shows or that flit around the edges of graveyards. But I'm beginning to understand why people do. Like thinking if you snap your head to the side quick enough, you'll see whatever-it-is. That's how it felt then, and it's how it feels now. Like catching sight of her is still possible.

And after the party, just like now, you think you see her everywhere. You look at all the girls whose yellow hair is gilded with light. She's never among them.

She always seems to be on the edge of your vision, like one of those ghosts. That's how you know it's not her though. She isn't merely clothed in light; she radiates it. Anyone who doesn't shimmer with life cannot possibly be her.

So you stop looking. Maybe she was a ghost. Or some fairy from another realm, ethereal, and only allowed to enter this one when the stars align just so. You've proof of the existence of magic; there's no need to chase the unattainable.

The next time you see her, there's no sun. A light drizzle beads over everything, draping the world in silver. It glistens on her lashes before she blinks it away. She's perched on the steps of one of the larger halls (one of the ones laid in brick and crawling with ivy, that all prospective students gape at in awe). You've never liked that building.

You do now.

And lucky for you, despite your former dislike of the building, it's your destination. Your eyes keep flicking to her because you've finally found her. The girl. The only pure source of life you've ever come across.

Anyway, you jog up the stairs of Johnston Hall, but you've stared too long and she's definitely taken notice. So, unfortunately, the first thing she says to you after the party is

"Piss off."

Mortified, you avert your gaze, but you can't help but glance up. When your eyes meet hers, you realize they're drained of the life they had the other week. Dark bags hang under her eyes. You, being a fool, had thought she'd be immune to the brunt force of sleepless nights. You thought she'd always be more alive, more vibrant than anyone else.

These were foolish thoughts to have, but you only realize that when you realize she's a person. It's a dumb thing to think because of course she's a person.

Somewhere though, you were caught up in thinking she was more than a person. Maybe it's because you were seeing the strands of rain drip off her like silver pearls that made you think she was more. Or the gleaming party lights that caught life in her eyes.

Now she just looks tired.

And you feel like an asshole for assuming she was anything more than human.

Your cheeks flame up. Idiot. Asshole.

Staring is one of those things you know better than to do, even if she's leaning against one of those impressive columns, being misted with drizzle and immediately calling all attention her way. Even if the girl glitters with spangled rain.

She has gazed at you just as long now, but she turns away. You are found wanting. Embarrassed, you stumble past, slipping on the wet steps. Tripping makes you feel like an even bigger idiot; you can't even make a quick getaway. Your hands sting from where you fell and your wrists throb from the impact. You can't tell what hurts more: your pride or your palms.

"Wait."

Well, of course you wait. Mostly because you're still struggling to pick yourself off the stairs, and embarrassment has left you clumsy. Still, you want to apologize for staring, for thinking you'd stumbled upon perfection.

So you glance up at her. You make sure not to look too long and try to focus only on her eyes, tired as they are. Neither of you are directly in the rain, but she is catching a light spray off the building, so she wipes at her face to clear away the water drops. Rain not tears. (You feel stupid for this thought.)

Through the mist and tired eyes, she smiles. It only touches the edge of her lips, though, and her eyes don't even crinkle.

"Sorry," you say in explanation, "I thought I recognized you." Now that you've gained your footing, you try to limp past her. Her hand catches around your wrist before you can escape. You meet her eyes properly this time, not worrying about peering too long into their depths.

"Right. Sorry about--"she gestures vaguely. "--that." Her smile quirks up a notch and finally reaches her eyes. "You look familiar. What's your name?"

You can't describe the feeling in the pit of your stomach. It's like a knot uncoiling. Relief? Gratitude? You aren't sure.

"M.," you say.

"A pleasure to meet you, M." She pats the step next to her, and you sit down, flashing a small smile of your own.

You sit in silence and rain-light, waiting for her to return the favor with her name. She does after a moment of hesitation. A moment where her eyes flicked over your face and she parted her lips, deciding whether or not to take the leap.

"Clair," she offers, stretching out her hand. It's warm, and she has a firm shake.

You like that.

The pair of you are quiet again, and only loose conversation flows between you. Neither of you really knows what to say, and her kindness after her (justified) outburst has just made things more awkward.

If you're honest with yourself, neither of you is particularly good at carrying the conversation. And if you're being even more honest, you're disappointed.

Maybe it was the liquor that made things flow easy at the party. Or maybe the fact that you spent a week thinking she was some kind of fairy (stupid) and the fact that she's not has brought you down to reality. Beautiful or no, she's a person, and you are both awkward and sober and conversation isn't easy between you. On the night of the party, she cut right through you. But that was alcohol and drunken sisterhood, and now you both just are.

And you swallow your disappointment because it's stupid. You put away your thoughts of fairies and nymphs because here is a person.

And you are a person.

And that makes it okay.