The Sea of Tranquility

by Katja Millay

He’s not eating; he’s not reading; he’s not looking at anyone. Until he is. And then he’s looking at me. Crap.

I live in a world without magic or miracles. A place where there are no clairvoyants or shapeshifters, no angels or superhuman boys to save you. A place where people die and music disintegrates and things suck. I am pressed so hard against the earth by the weight of reality that some days I wonder how I am still able to lift my feet to walk.

I pick up her hands to show her how much pressure to use, and they’re so soft that I hate to put sandpaper anywhere near them.

“I’d ask you, you know. If I was allowed. I’d ask you a thousand times until you’d tell me. But you won’t let me ask.”

“Joy, fear, frustration, longing, friendship, anger, need, despair, love, lust?” “Yes.” “Yes, what?” “All of it,”

We haven’t become normal; we’ve become expected. And not just by everyone at school. I’ve come to expect us, too. I expect her. I expect her here. I expect her at home. I expect her in my life. And it’s terrifying.

It’s the look on his face that I’m not used to—awe, confusion, wonder, and—please, please, please—don’t let it be love.

“Did I lose you?”

“Congratulations, then. You wanted to be ruined? Well, you did yourself one better because you wrecked me, too, Sunshine. Now we’re both worth shit.”

Everything was fine. Everything was good. And then it wasn’t. All I know is that, for like five minutes, I think I was happy.”

Look at your left hand. It’s probably clenched in a fist right now, isn’t it?” I don’t need to look. It is. He knows it. “Now open it up and let it go.” And I do.