There was a crystal-like gloss over the field. A soppy dew that covered the each and every blade of grass and budding leaf as spring set in for summer turnover. Her eyes hardened over the distant view of social butterflies and false pitches, her ears already ringing with annoyance and distaste. Is it possible to long for comfort, and yet yearn for solitude?
Can she be loved by all without having to say one word? Unfortunately, not likely.
Go, go be social.
But I can’t. I do not want to.
Do not be a coward. We need them. We need them.
She feels torn between red and white, her stomach beginning to stir into knots, the deep pit of her stomach churning over the smallest thought of light conversation. After years and years of utter silence—legitimate silence—the mere image of casual banter is enough to stop her heart.
Social anxiety, some call it. Or as It calls it, a coward.
It. The pestering company she has had since two. The voice that pushes until she takes, that yells until she listens, that argues until she gives. It. The reason she has found herself beyond the treeline of shadows and broken branches, why she stands amongst dewy blades and the faint view of strangers.
A deep exhale escapes her as she ponders the reality of moving. This was it, there was no going back now. It was time, it was now. They had talked about it for years. It had begged her and taunted her for years that this was the thing to do. And for some reason on this morning where fog was beginning to set in to the east, she realized was the morning.
And yet her feet couldn’t move, like a pole sunk into cement she felt trapped. Stuck.
Brine
the more people you love, the weaker you are