cornwall. why the fuck did rita decide to go to fucking cornwall. the only person sane enough to express their excitement was jessica. apart from her, everyone was zombie-ing around. and there was me. sitting in a corner, watching the other finger paint as if their lives depended on it (it probably did.) i refused to finger paint. i am 17, not fucking five. so i didn’t finger paint. i watched from the corner, mostly staring at jessica. she was beautiful. i was sure she didn’t know how beautiful she exactly was. but i didn’t feel like comparing her to roses or models or whatever. i’m not a cliché. i’m a psychopath. god i fucking hate it here. the only thing that makes this kind of bearable is jessica. i want to get out of here. as soon as possible. in a way i am looking forward to cornwall, it would be nice to get away from this hellhole. fucking shithouse. and the fact they actually fucking finger paint. holy fuck. and the weirdest thing was that they actually seemed to be enjoying it. at least it shut them up for a while, thank god. jessica was really getting into it. mixing colours, and looking over at me every once in a while. yes, jessica, i am staring at you, hi.
dave: you’re behaving disparately.
me: i hope that’s positive.
dave: you’re acting like an actual human being. you’ve barely had any fits.
me: ‘fits’ isn’t a nice word.
dave: you have only six months left, jessica.
me: jessica will miss you, dave. jessica thinks you’re kinda okay.
dave: dave will miss jessica, too.
me: six months.
dave: six months. same for the other jessica.
me: she’s amazing, isn’t she?
dave: who?
me: the other jessica. the one who actually likes finger painting.
dave: of course, who else?
me: what do you mean?
dave: all you can talk about is her.
me: all i can think about is her.
dave: psychopaths don’t love, jessica.
me: psychopaths do kinda love, dave.
dave: don’t play your game with her. she’s too fragile.
me: my dear dave, she is not a toy. she’s mine.
dave: i’m not saying she’s a toy.
me: because she isn’t. she’s special.
dave: what makes her special?
me: she’s mine, dave. that makes her the most special person in my universe.
dave: your universe?
me: yea. we all have our own universe, our own path, our own stars. and her name is written upon my stars.
dave: what do you mean?
me: when i think about the future, i see her. i see us. it’s written in the stars. god made her. god made me. and then he whispered: meant to be. it’s cheesy, a cliché, and a truth. it’s my truth. she’s my truth.
dave: do you think you’ll marry her?
me: i would move to holland to get married to her.
dave: holland is horrible.
me: the language is funny. did you know that there’s no mountains or hills or anything? it’s like really flat.
dave: interesting.
me: why do you hate holland?
dave: i’m dutch, jessica. everyone hates their own country. the grass is greener on the other side, you know?
me: you’re dutch?
dave: yup. dave van wijngaarden, nice to meet you jessica cornish.
me: van wijngaarden? that’s a bizarre name.
dave: that’s because life is bizarre, my dearest jessica.
me: yea, life is pretty insane. but, as written in my stars, there’s always something to keep you sane. you just have to find it and treasure it, my dearest dave van wijngaarden.
dave: you’re pronouncing it wrong.
me: wijngaarden is an odd word for a british person. wine-garden
dave: it’s a rough g.
then made a strangely intimidating sound that sounded a lot like a growling dog. it was like he was choking on something. it was weird.
me: what was that
dave: a rough g.
me: i’m glad i’m not into that stuff.
dave: how many stars do you think shine upon the sky?
me: 7 billion. one for every person alive and gazing up.
dave: like a lantern?
me: exactly like a lantern. a small sign to stop you from giving up. your own star, always shining for you.
dave: and when your star dies out?
me: your future dies out too.
dave: do you mean…?
me: yes. your dearest took your star with them to heaven, to take care of it in there.
dave: that’s a beautiful thought. so not-you.
me: i feel like a whole new person. it’s like jessica tore down my reinforced concrete walls and instead and re-build them out of ice.
dave: she’s changed you.
me: i like it.
dave: i like it, too.
green eyes: jessica, jessica, i drew a picture of you!
she ran over to us, holding her drawing in her hand. she was acting like her shoe size.
me: a picture of me?
green eyes: yup! do you want to see it?
me: of course.
she handed me the paper she was holding and my god, it was beautiful. she made me look like a godess.
me: it’s beautiful, but it’s not me.
green eyes: it’s not mirror-you. it’s the you when you look at me.
i was stunned.
me: i look like this when i look at you?
green eyes: yup. do you like it?
me: i like you. i kinda love you.
green eyes: and i love you.
this time i took the initiative. i reached over for her hand and took it in mine. inevitably, our fingers entwined and a warm feeling spread through my arm. and unfamiliar, warm feeling. i smiled. it was predestined, it was written in the stars. jessica and i were made for each other.
green eyes: what are you thinking about?
me: about us. i kinda… i kinda want to say something to you, jessica cornish.
i took a deep breath.
me: i think… i think i love you.
