I'm sorry.
Again with those words. I try not to write them. (I can't really apologize to you, can I? This is your choice, reading my words. Still, it feels like I should. I slip in words about myself, straying from my purpose. For that, I will apologize, though the words are wasted.)
(Again, save your pity. I don't need it, nor do I deserve it; it's as useless as my sorry's.)
Whenever I pick up my pen, I try to think of what stories to tell. (Not to apologize.) I mean, there were plenty of weeks where the day-to-day mundanities overshadow most anything else. Really, a life seems to be comprised of these trivial moments, and you only find out too late when one of them cascades into something you can no longer grasp.
That said, I think it's unfair to only show the big moments that ripple across your life. It's not truthful, and there is something comforting in the routine of existence anyway.
In reality, you end up poring over textbooks a lot. Your days take on a strange uniformity. Papers and books: your life as a litany of words. It isn't just your life though. There is an ever-rotating parade of students in the study lounge (an oxymoron, you think.)
Today, though, you and yours have laid claim to it. Your notebook is covered in doodles and an untidy scrawl in the margins; Sam keeps adding something new (an alien shooting laser beams, a crumbling city skyline, male anatomy) whenever you glance away.
"Dammit," Jay grumbles, "how are you supposed to write a sonnet?"
"Why are you writing one?" Lacy doesn't peek up from her own work.
"Why would anyone write a sonnet?" Sam asks.
In unison, he and Jay answer the question, "For Lib. Ed. credit!"
They share a smirk, but Jay persists, "But seriously, how am I supposed to write this?"
"Just casually throw out some Shakespeare," Sam suggests.
Lacy scoffs but still doesn't look up, so it's Clair who comes to Sam's rescue. "Yeah. 'What light through yonder window breaks and wherefore art thou, 'To be or not to—'" She stops for a breath and you cut in.
"—To be or not to beware the Ides of March? That is the question."
Lacy finally laughs and Sam thumps the table in appreciation. "Nice. I would add something, but I didn't actually pay attention in English." He shoots you a look, apologetic. "Sorry."
"No, you're not." Clair's freckles jump as she speaks, as she smiles.
"You're right." He matches her smile. "I had better things to do."
"Great, guys, but I think you're missing the point." Jay holds up a hand to stop Sam's protest. "Forgive me for not taking your advice, Mr. Casually Throw Out Some Shakespeare. Anyone got any ideas?"
The room falls silent as you wrack your collective brains. Sonnets...Rhyming... Your gaze starts to wander until you meet Clair's.
Her eyes spark and freckles dance. "Hey, guys, want to know why I'm taking oceanography?"
You respond with a grin. "Lib. Ed. credits."
You can't remember if Jay finished his sonnet.
YOU ARE READING
Minnesota Goodbyes
Teen FictionM., a college sophomore, is haunted by the events of a year ago that ended another girl's life. In an attempt to clear her conscience, she writes her confession down in a battered notebook addressed to a stranger. This search for redemption is far m...
