The second mistake? The moment I realized what this girl was to me, I set aside a piece of myself for her. Every time we were together, every time I thought about her or dialed her number I wrote her name on that piece. It’s hers. And I never gave it to her. Not once did I remotely touch on how important she was to me.
Why not? Yeah, I had reasons, tons of them. But what are they to me now? Worthless. They are entirely worthless.
I hated school. School to me was something in life you just had to just go through, or it would kick you in the ass later on. So I always sat in the back corner next to the air conditioner, farthest away from any possible sleep disturbances. I think my school enjoyed taking advantage of government funded air conditioning, because the entire building was forever at artic levels. Not that it was a problem, year round here, you could cook your breakfast on the sidewalk on your way to school. So the cool indoors were an expected escape from possible dehydration and heat stroke. And right there, sitting in front of me, was the most fascinating shivering creature I had ever set my eyes on. Soon enough, school wasn’t so bad.
I swear she was cold blooded. In my entire life I’ve never known anyone to lose so much heat so fast. I started wearing jackets to fourth period, not that I needed them, but because I was crafty. It became custom for me to sit down everyday and ask her if she wanted to use my jacket. Naturally she always accepted.
The year after that is a fantastic blur. Not a day went by that we didn’t talk in one form or another. And then, it all ended.
As cruel fate would have it, she went to a distant place, distant and cold. She would tell me before she left, how this place had all four seasons. Who needs four seasons when you can be warm and cozy year round? She talked about how the trees change, and the streets would be cluttered with brilliant reds and oranges. But when I thought of her, I only saw greens and yellows. And what about after autumn, her world would be blanketed with no colour at all. Who was going to protect her from such harsh and miserable conditions?
And so, I made myself the lamest kid in the entire world, and had my granny teach me to knit. If you could imagine, not many guys have this kind of skill, or want to. At first, I hid it from everyone and worked in secret. But after time, I became so devoted to the idea, that I no longer cared what they might say.
Perfection was key. Even though I wasn’t very good at the actual process, I tried my best. I could look back at every stitch and remember what I was thinking when I made each knot of yarn. In this way, each and every memory of her was intertwined with the greens and yellows I had chosen. It was the piece of me that I could finally give to her. I could finally return the warmth she had given me.
I finished sometime in September. Hopefully it wasn’t already cold where she was. I found a box and addressed it myself. Then I folded my, well, her, scarf as neatly as I could; and on top of it was a single piece of paper cut into the shape of a small heart. Lame, yes very lame, but the feeling was right so I did it anyways.
Sending that box off was a great turning point in my life. I’ve never before heard of such a feeling, it must be something rare.
i dont lj cut on tornpaper so im an asshole :]