Passion Project

by London Sperry

Brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses—just like his dating profile. An expression of pure shock and horror painted across his green eyes—decidedly not like his dating profile.

Damn what are the odds LMAO

Sonya loves it here. She found her home. She found her people. And I’m a specter of the friend she once knew, haunting her apartment and shrieking like a harpy at anyone who gets too close…even my oldest friend.

It would be an understatement to say that single, friendless, and directionless was not how I imagined my life would look

Same girlie

How could Sam possibly have found me attractive in the morning? He’d take me home looking like Cinderella and wake up next to the evil stepsister. Nonetheless, he would roll over, kiss me, and tell me I was beautiful. I haven’t felt beautiful in years.

My mom said I was lucky I got someone to deal with me, someone as patient as Sam. I’ve always been prone to anxiety, and sometimes even depression, though the brunt of that came much later.

Ok so Mom's a bitch

I don’t make good first impressions. I get tongue-tied and awkward, and usually I can’t think of a single thing to say no matter how far back into my brain I dig. It’s like all the words in my vocabulary fall out of my ears and my personality gets flattened into a pancake.

“We’re going to be friends?” He folds his slice in half. “Sure.” “Why?” “Why not?” He takes another big bite.

I wish it was that easy

“You don’t like New York?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t like me.” “Why are you in the city, then?” he asks as he notices me picking at the wood. “My dead ex-boyfriend.”

Oh fuck :(((

Having Sam out in the open feels good. I don’t talk about him earnestly with anyone. When he inevitably crosses my mind, I do everything in my power to change the mental channel to anything else. There’s safety in sharing him with this stranger. There’s no threat that I’ll actually have to be vulnerable with Henry. I’m never going to see him after tonight. Turns out, even a pretend friend sort of feels real when you’re lonely enough.

If you asked me in middle school, I would’ve said my passion was journalism. If you asked me in high school, I would’ve said my passion was acting. If you asked me in college, I would’ve said my passion was poetry, or, more accurately, the embarrassing poetry I wrote about Sam. Now the only thing I’m passionate about is making it from one moment to the next.

I think about the girl I was before everything went down with Sam. I was so excited for life to start. So excited for what my future would hold. I felt like life was a series of endless possibilities, surprises around every corner. But in chasing those opportunities, I lost the person I loved most. Now I have no spark left. Only guilt and grief.

It would be so easy to keep myself hidden from the world, sheltered in my cocoon knowing that I can’t fail if I don’t really try.

Person after person comes to our desk, each dressed sharply, each outshining the last with confidence and poise. These people are my age, yet they seem to be in on something that I don’t understand. How did they get that way? What am I missing?

It’s like my grief has tethered me to myself, the walls of sadness like shrink-wrap surrounding all sides of me until I can barely breathe. Any movement I make, any step forward or back, is too painful. The smaller and smaller my world becomes, the more daunting it is to try to move out of the hurt. I feel close to Sam in my grief. It’s the only thing I have left of him.

I’m an outside-of-the-room person, and I always will be—no matter if a boy with green eyes and glasses made me feel differently for one fraction of a moment over white wine and pizza. No matter if Sonya tries to convince me I’m not. Sal and I continue the shift, and I go to the place I always go to when life starts to feel too overwhelming: autopilot.

Something familiar is happening in my body—a tightening of my muscles, slither of darkness up my spine, a desire to curl up, close my eyes, and bear down until it passes. It’s small now, but it’s happened enough times that I know it will grow from my stomach to the tips of my fingers—it’ll grow until it envelops me whole, and the best I can do is endure.

One night, Mom sat on the edge of my bed sobbing, begging me to let her help me. But there was nothing left to help. I wasn’t human. I wasn’t interested in getting better. I can’t admit to my mom that I still feel like the girl in bed, lying still as life passes by. If I did, I’m not sure she could bear it.

I’m tired of being invisible. Sometimes I come home from these shifts with the eerie feeling that I don’t actually exist at all, that I’m a figment of my own imagination, made to smile and serve.

I weigh the pros and cons of texting him as I avoid going up the stairs to my apartment to Jamie and Sonya cuddling on the couch. Pro: it will feel good to nurture a friendship. Con: the friendship is with a weirdo who likes to talk to strangers.

LMAO

A not-so-kind laugh bubbled from my throat. “You have no trouble smiling.”

Damn not ypu saying that to his SISTER of all people

“Fine.” I sat up in bed to face her. “How can you move on like this? Do you even miss him at all? Because it seems like you don’t, and it’s only been, what? Two years? It seems like you’re more than happy to live your glamorous life out here with this stranger and not be bothered at all that your brother is dead. It’s disrespectful, Andy.” As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back.

Oh thats fucked UP

I was doing so well with Henry, talking to people, laughing, eating, smiling. How could I have found myself back here? Nothing has to go wrong for me to feel this way. Everything can be fine, and I’ll still find myself here. WebMD calls it a chemical imbalance. I call it the guilt of killing your boyfriend.

Whaaaaat?