On a bench complemented by a concrete table sits a hunched-over figure on the edge of her seat. Strands of her hair fell like a curtain surrounding the paper she writes on, while her feet tapping and bouncing rhythmically—molding itself to the chaos of the surface that she and her mix of pens, correction tools, highlight tabs, scientific calculator, and white papers have colonized.
The phone beside her had rung ceaselessly for the past hour, bombarded with missed calls. Trying her best, she writes faster and faster, unable to maintain straight lines and steady handwriting.
Just around the corner, she hears her name as their voices echo once more. She frantically sweeps her things with both hands—pencils stabbing her as they go into a dark green case. A group of shadows surround her, helping her pack as she looks at them, their voices telling her to hurry.
As the last sheet of printer paper deforms in her hand, she leaves with friends who ask her, “What’s Made You So Late?” She goes silent as she’s left something: a wrinkled spiral-bound notebook; the cover inscribed with the quote: “Keep Hanging On.” She bought the dingy-looking thing on sale, figuring no one, including herself, would care enough for the cheesy flower design paired with the quote’s cursive, gaudy font because it’d be enough to serve its purpose, and it did.
A small breeze lifts the first page; a scribbled-over to-do list written by mistake. A larger gust then exposed pages filled with wiener shapes, pretty flowers, silly expressions, and bust sketches. Some parts have hurried notes alongside gossip she and a seatmate had about class.
Then, a hopeless discipline officer chases a student rolling through the halls on a skateboard, both their motions cracking the middle of the spiral-bound wide open. Two rough-sketched hands, reaching out to the other, encircle a poem on both sides of the spread. It has no title, with every line hopping across the centerfold.
“I curl my fingers the way I did before
When they were tiny
fragile and barely
the size of a hair tie
just to feel.
it’s amazing how quickly they warm me
I curl my fingers over rolled paper and over
Tassels and car steering
The wheels turn and turn
And I sweep my hair out of the way
The black garb, the triangular hat, all heavy”
The final page, however, bears a list: 2nd year preparations, written in green this time, an incomplete word, and a checklist waiting to be filled with ticks.
A familiar clanking resounds in the hall as her hand reaches for the notebook. She comes back and laughs as she carefully places it in an empty pocket away from all the crumpled white sheets. There You Are.
