Linger

Winter - 1

In perfect cursive, I begin to list down my grocery list.

The bed wiggles with each loop of the pen, accompanied by a hint of jet lag. It doesn't help that Ellie's bedsheets, pillows, comforter, and curtains are all mint green, and I begin to think if Ellie defecates mint green or she's a leprechaun, just without the rainbows. Right after writing the p in soap, I breathe in the crisp air of Ellie's by-the-window-sill bed and room service. 

God help me. 

I check the time on my phone. 8:00 A.M. It's dawn in NYC, since God decided to put timelines, and I wonder what the situation is in New York now that Effy Schmitt has left their side. Dad must be asleep, exhausted from all the paperworks. He works for the post office, and he had told me how he'd seened more sincere eyes in his workplace than in church. My friends are probably out, getting higher than their plausible grades or getting laid. Jensen's probably drinking her fifth coffee of the hour, finishing an essay for her doctorate class and I'm here, on the other side of the planet, sat on mint fucking green. This could only mean they're fine by me. Even if I cared or I didn't, time would still pass by.

I exhale and proceed to look at my notifications. Jensen has texted me yet again.

Adviser speaking: how the fuck are you gonna get a job?

Received: Jensen Keener; 6:53

The woman doesn't even bother with the expenses of international rates. I reply on Facebook Messenger, since I am technically not abundantly rich as she is.

It's been two days. Give me a break.

I know Jensen is only worried, and it's nice to have someone who's so caught up in my reality TV show, but the sympathy irritates me. Caring too much has done me more harm than good, and I don't want anyone to indulge in melancholy as I  right now. What's worse is that while someone is thinking about me miles away, Ellie treats me as her long lost child. She cooks me food every three hours or asks me if I need anything. She turns on the heater when I need a shower and hands me the towel every damn time, so far. She fixed my clothes in the drawer in order, by size, by style, and by hue. My wardrobe is an ombre of white to jet black and God forbid if Ellie asks me if I need help in breathing — the only thing she can do for me is mind her fucking business.

I get up and lock my phone. High key shocked, I walk to the living room like it's mine. Ellie, sat on one of the more decent chairs, types vigorously against the keys of her laptop. Her eyes are bloodshot, strained to the screen and she seems so focused that she doesn't recognize my existence. I sit on one of the plush jelly bean bag chairs. Low key excited with the fact she's busy, I notice a plate of beautifully made pancakes on the mahogany table. I scoot the jelly bean towards it - Ellie must have made them; and true enough, I see a note, handwritten in seemingly hieroglyphic font, a volcanic phenomenon in a form of pen loops, with a scribbled:

i'm probably downstairs as you read this - these are all yours.

ps. maple syrup in the fridge, also nutella, go make yourself diabetic

Yet, Ellie is not downstairs, she's here, so I wiggle my body a little, and mutter a: "Are these mine?"

Her hazel, hazel eyes stay glued to the laptop, and I feel a slight pang of jealousy towards the machine. "Well, yeah. I heated some water if you want coffee, or whatever Americans drink back in America," she says this with so much innocence, I almost gag. "Do you need anything? Do you need help in anything? Do you need help?" She closes the laptop this time, removes her rectangular glasses and stares at me, which seems like forever. "Do you need anything?"