Not Important, Not Relevant
Brooke felt the page beneath her fingers, and wondered.
And thought.
She’d never quite been good at thinking. She was better at doing. At deciding. Thinking, wondering, philosophizing - these were things that simply weren’t for her. She could do it, if forced. Maybe she was even good at it. But it just wasn’t for her. Something she didn’t quite enjoy.
She was better at just making a split-second decision.
Kate was like that moment she hated. The moment when something looked at her, right in the eyes, and asked her to think - the moment before the decision was made, the moment when she had nothing to do but wonder and fret and fear.
Fear made her sick.
Kate made her sick.
She was an art major.
Her pen touched the page again, and gently ran another inky stroke across the page.
She didn’t usually make pieces on actual paper, with actual tools. She was better with technology. But she knew how to use this fountain pen, and she knew that this piece wouldn’t’ve worked any other way.
Trees ran along the path like veins, and roots crawled across the gravelly road - laced with green. On every tree sat a collection of miniscule frames - with pictures gathering sun and exposure below the thin layer of glass that reflected in the low sunlight.
A million choices, hung up in frames - untouched and unchanging.
It was her head, and her life. Drawn. Known.
She could hang it up.
But mist gathered in the crevices in the bark, and fog collected between the stones in the road. The mist of thought - of fear.
It sickened her to think of it. It sickened her to know of it.
It sickened her.
Kate sickened her.
She was sick, and tired, and very very thoughtful.
She gently tore the page out of the notebook, and laid it on her desk. Considered it in the light.
It was garbage. Just like the rest of her work.
But it was done, at least. That was something.
It was only now that it was done, that she saw all the flaws in it - so glaringly obvious now that she couldn’t change them.
She reached up for the clothesline, running from her shelf to her cabinet.
And hung the photo up on it.
It was done. She had done it.
It looked worse in the open.
Well. Wasn’t like anyone else was coming in her anyway.
(Her stomach turned a little, at the thought that Kate had been in here just hours prior.)
She inspected her nails. Overly long.
She should paint them. Black, probably.
Yes. Black. She’d paint them black.
(Kate preferred mint green. Maybe she should paint them green.)
Maybe.
Yeah, she’d painted them black last time. Then took the paint off. She should mix it up a little this time.
Mint green it was.
(She should go ahead and order some food. It was getting late. She was hungry. Oh, and there was that math assignment to work on. It was due two days from now. And she should text Kate, too, ask how that Max/Maxine thing went. But she was tired, being on her phone wouldn’t help with that.)
She massaged her temples, and wondered where her headache meds were.
(Maybe she should take some ibuprofen instead.)
No. Too strong. This wasn’t migraine heavy, it was just a headache. A BC Powder would do.
(This whole thing was making her rethink her latest project.)
Not an option. Kate’s dorm was unacceptable, she knew that perfectly well.
(Kate made her sick though. Dreadfully so. Kate made her thoughtful. She should just abandon her while she had the chance, ghost her for a few days, pretend this never happened.)
Not an option.
(Sure it is. Besides, she’s already prying. You know what happens after prying.)
Not important, not relevant. She had decided already, and that was that.
(But Kate’s making you rethink decisions anyway, isn’t she?)
Not Kate’s fault. Not anyone’s fault but her’s. She should’ve made a better decision at the time. She had misread Kate, and that was her fault.
(You’ll get sick. You’ll get thoughtful. You’ll get mad, and you’ll get intruded on, and you’ll do something stupid.)
Not important. Not relevant.
Mint green nails it was.