Introvert

15

'Instead of writing

I would rather be saying

All these words to you.' ~ Tyler Knott Gregson

                                                  {two days later}

||Shyanna||

There are so many unintentional things that occur in life that, sometimes, you cannot decipher between the intentional and the not. Sometimes, people smile or wave towards you, and you have no idea whether they are smiling or waving at you, in particular, have no idea whether it was intentional or not. You have no idea if someone has noticed your bad mood or has said something that could, potentially, include you as a participant in an activity; eg, being sad. And yet, when something happens four times in two days, you forget all about the issues of it. You forget that whoever gave something to you may not have intended to give it to someone else. So when I open my bag up to notice yet another note on top of my books, I don't freak out. I just let out a whine of confusion.

"It's happened again." I say, blinking at Anna. We're sat in the library, supposed to be studying, but it's likely we won't. Not now. 

"Oh. Well, what does it say this time?" Kristy asks, legs wrapped around Anna's waist, Anna pressed to her chest on the tiny sofa they have in the study library. I have to bite my lip to stop from grinning.

I don't want to read it; I really, really don't want to. I know that when I do, all I will feel is a ridiculous tensing, a feeling of needing to hide better. Because I disgust myself, and I don't want anyone else to pay attention to who I am. I don't want someone to love me or cherish me. Because my paper is torn, and their pen won't write the paper back to wholeness.

"Can you read it?" I ask, and Anna smiles at me before taking the note. 

Her eyes take it in, and she frowns slightly as she goes on. She's lovely, Anna, but she can be extraordinarily odd.

"I u-um. It's a bit different to the other ones." She says, giving a bitten smile as she hands the paper to me.

I frown at it, the blank piece of paper. Underneath, on the other side, there will be a note. It will be complimentary, factual, lovely, but it will make my skin itch. It will have been sent by someone I don't know, by someone who doesn't know me well enough to know I am not worth the chasing. And I know this, I know it so well. I know because so much of my life was spent being afraid of my father coming back. I know I'm not worth it because there are so many people who say it, who chant to me. My demons are stronger than I am, stronger than anyone. And one person with a knight in shining armour complex won't help me. They won't save me. Because I don't need saving. I need love, and support. I can be my own buoy, I can be my own lover. I can be the sun on the dismal, raining days. I can be whoever I want to be, and yet. And yet, I still want to know someone cares. That someone does enjoy me, even if from afar. And yes, it is possible it's a sick, cruel joke. That whatever they have written is a lie to make me fall. But I wouldn't fall without someone there to catch me. Because I've experienced that already, and it's too painful to handle again. So as I flip over the paper with half-closed eyes, I know that I can be what I want to be, but that this writer could be too, and that although they are wasting their time on me, it's so worth it. Because we're all worth it. We're all beautiful and broken.

And, God, if the words on the slightly crumpled paper don't tell me just that, I don't know what they tell me.

You could look into the stars

Into the very beginning of you are

Into the darkness where you feel you belong

But you would never look at me

The way I look at you

Because beauty

Doesn't look at the beast without

Knowing him.

And I know, as I stare at the paper, that it's useless. Because I'm not falling. I've fallen. I've fallen hard and fast and stupidly, and all I can think is why would you write poetry for me? So as I get told I'm Beauty and he is the Beast, I can't help thinking I don't care. Because fairy tales aren't real, because my love is, and because there is a universe where I am only happy. There is a universe in my eyes, and in the particles I breathe, and in the steps I take. There is a universe in the letters this boy, this wonderful and perfect boy, writes, and I want to find him. Because, god dammit, Belle wants her Beast, not a Gaston. 

"Crap."

||Niall||

Harry laughs when I settle down next to him. It's one of those rare occasions we both have free periods at the same time. Normally, I spend my free's on my own, studying or walking around town a bit. 

Harry was the one to help me write my first note, and they've progressed, so rather than starting a casual conversation, he just smirks and asks what I gave her this time.

"It was so dumb, fuck off." I snarl, blushing to my roots and feeling so stupid and pathetic it aches somewhere I didn't know aches could spread to. It was dumb, is the thing. It was so stupid, because it wasn't gender neutral like the other notes had been. I said it was a 'he', not a 'they', and it wasn't even a thought through note. I'd come up with it because Louis had been complaining about Beauty and the Beast themed parties.

"Shut up, Ni. Lou said you got the idea from him." Harry laughs, as if the fact I got the idea from Louis means anything. As if it would be better coming from Louis. And, shit, maybe it would be. And, like. He's gay. But he could probably be a lot better at expressing emotions. After all, he summoned the courage to come out to us. 

"Yeah, I did." I admit, meek and tired. So fucking tired, because I spent last night writing notes. Some were odes to Shyanna's eyes, her smile, her love for everything. Some were too dark to even try to illuminate. Some seemed too 'I will save you because you cannot save yourself'. And some seemed to yell that she was not good enough to deserve me -which is the opposite, because in fact I am not good enough to deserve her.

"What was it?" He asks, in a small, soft voice that makes me feel guilty for snarling.

"You could look into the stars / Into the very beginning of you are / Into the darkness where you feel you belong / But you would never look at me / The way I look at you / Because beauty / Doesn't look at the beast without / Knowing him." I say, deadpan and very, very self conscious. Because it was too much, too obvious. 

Harry gives me a blank look, and in that blank look I find nothing but a deep insecurity. 

I am dumb, and she isn't. I am terrible at poetry, and she isn't. I can't speak to her, and she can talk to me. I am not afraid of myself, and she is afraid of herself. She's afraid of the demons that tear her inside out, of the yells that scream from unhappiness. And all I have is a loud-haler to scream louder. I don't have the ability to comfort, or love, or smile quite like she does. She is an angel with too many demons, and I'm a demon with too many angels. And in this moment, as Harry stares at me like I am insane, like everything I have done is fascinating, I realise it isn't. Shyanna Rockley is a novel, and I'm a page. But she's ripped and torn and battered, and I'm not, and even though a page is so much more flimsy than a novel, it is always the things that get beaten and battered that need the most love.

I'm not very sure about this one. I felt disjointed because of the two day break, I think. Please comment and vote and follow me, and stalk if you want to. The reads/comments/votes mean so much, you don't even know. <3