Introduction
This was really the first short story I wrote. It started off with only the first part, but I extended it for a competition. Whilst nothing new or groundbreaking, it’s very personal to me and I wrote it from the heart. Originally for the Brick Lane Bookshop Prize, and then extended for the 4th Estate Prize. This is for anyone who’s forever counting down the days until their life is meant to change, because that used to be me.
Story
When physicists talk of time, my small mind struggles to grasp it. If you travel faster than the speed of light and look back, you can glimpse the Earth of the past; if you travel the galaxy and return to Earth, you could be substantially older than everyone else; how the time we know is made up, dependent on the rotating Earth and how we speed around the sun. It makes little sense to me, a layman. Time is…time. It passes. It’s fact. You can’t go back in time and change the past, or truly foresee the future, right? On some days, sat in the lonely expanse of my room, I lose what meagre grip I have on it. Time slips through my fingers with no notice, drifting away and away as I flex my hand to rid myself of the ache. The days change on my phone, the numbers tick on by as 21:00 becomes 21:01, it’s apparently the weekend, yet that word means nothing to me as every day is the same. The numbers on my phone are just numbers, time is unchanged in my own universe. In my room, what is the black hole, me or the bed? If I leave this room, will I find everyone has aged, moved on, and I’m still trapped at nineteen? And yet, on other days, I begin to understand. I witness time with my own eyes, standing excruciatingly still, leaving me to sink. I clutch onto it, scared to let it go. My room becomes a photograph, unmoving, save for the wilting of a plant in the corner. The wheels on my office chair gather dust; no shadows cross my floor thanks to the darkened curtains; my greying, lifeless body, in the bed, never leaves, blink and you’ll miss it. On these days, my eyes scarcely leave those numbers on my phone. Of course I know that it’s Wednesday, tomorrow’s Thursday, we’re in January, it’s 4:00 and I’ve been trying to sleep for 2 hours and 3 minutes. Today is one of the latter. I stick on an episode of a television series I’ve seen before, eager to distract myself. It’s like catching up with old friends. The same jokes, regaling old stories where you know precisely what happens, you feel safe. My phone sits by my right hand, next to the indent on my pinkie finger. The glow of the numbers make me into a vignette, the light too feeble to push back much of the hungry blackness. I like it this way: what I can’t see can’t hurt me. Beyond my bed, beyond the fading of my vignette, is empty space, and I am a lone, dying star, unsure of my fate. There’s a knock on the front door. I pause my show. I don’t move, it’s not for me. It rarely is. The account I have on a food delivery app has gone unused after I convinced myself that ordering ice cream online twice a week likely meant the workers talked about me—oh, look, it’s that strange person again, ordering ice cream for £10 when they can buy it from the supermarket for £4, do they ever leave the house, what do they look like, this fat hermit? A chorus of laughter makes me shrink further into my duvet, like a child hiding from a monster in the dark. They could be laughing at me, but not likely—they don’t know what I do in here, or if I’m even here. I’m a ghost, and they are sceptics. Their voices slice me like paper nonetheless, sharp, instant pains that quickly dull before leaving their mark. I scarcely breathe as they thud up the stairs. Gone. The silence is back, thick and heavy. There’s comfort in the familiar, even as my heart races. To erase any possibility I might hear them again, I turn on my earphones. They can’t hear me. I can’t hear them. My world has shrunk once more. My phone makes its way into my hand again, a perfect fit. Too tired, my head too heavy, I let it hang forward, the television blurring into the background. There’s nothing new on any of my socials. People I used to know, hanging with people I don’t know, in places I haven’t been. Smiles and smiles, pretty colours, new clothes, slender bodies, laughs at jokes I do not share—no, they are not laughing at me through the screen, they likely don’t even remember my name, they aren’t even following me back. Pristine, curated public diaries, to keep us all up-to-date. I’ve posted one photo since last year—a few photos of campus, when I used to explore. A photo says a thousand words, and mine says ‘I go places, I do things, I see the sun!’. 4 hours have passed. The characters in my show have fallen out and made up again. My stomach grumbles. In this moment, I pity my body for getting stuck with me. If a body is a temple, then I am an atheist, and when this era is merely a chapter in a history book, it won’t even warrant a footnote or a photograph of the car park built on top of it. When I close the app for the fourth time, I imagine what my profile will show next year. I’ll post every week, there will be recurring characters who wrap their arms around me, delicious food, enough humour to highlight I don’t intend on showing off, I really am that cool. Casual. I won’t even think I’m cool, it’s just my life. I won’t know what everyone else is up to, but they’ll know about me. Next year, that’s when it’s going to change. I’ll move city again. I’ll walk into a room, curls styled, outfit unique but not too unique, all nonchalant and normal. I’ll lock eyes with someone and something will click. Not in a romantic sense, but it will be undeniable, and we’ll have no choice but to follow the ribbons of fate and allow ours to tangle. I will look back at my life before them and wonder how I managed it. I will no longer be able to fade into the background, because someone truly sees me. I know I thought this last time, but this time it truly will be. I know I also said this when I completed my GCSEs and started sixth form, but I’m not the same person. I’ve learnt things. I’ve grown. I’m more interesting. I watch friendship groups on the television, all ages, mixed genders, it’s so easy, of course I can do that. I talk to myself all the time, to the people on the screen, my conversational prowess and humour begs for an audience. If I could step into the screen, they’d welcome me with open arms, I’d fit right in—so long as I could freshen up first. I breathe into my palm, lifting it up to my nose. It’s unnecessary: I can taste the dankness in my mouth, feel the buildup on my teeth when I run my tongue along them. The knots in my hair tickle the nape of my neck. When time is present, slow, stuck in quicksand, this is my rope that I use to pull it out. Counting down the days. For now, I’m in the part before the story really begins. The prologue if I’m lucky, the backstory if I’m not. I haven’t met that person, received that news, visited that place, that kicks everything off: my catalyst. I must bear the boredom until then. And so I will continue to count down the days. Over and over and over, until time passes me by too quickly. Monday becomes Friday, March becomes November, I’m forty and I have laugh lines that others worked hard to put there. My stories will be etched into my skin, my body strong from adventures and various hobbies, the hole in my heart no longer filled with plastic things. The future will no longer be an uncertainty, the past will fall so far away that it can never reach me. The gloomy tendrils that encase my room will fade as I lord over them, before bidding them goodbye forever. This place will no longer be a prison of my own making, but a home. All of this will be just a memory: a series of my neurons communicating via electric signals. Already there are stark memories I possess that now hold little power over me. It’s sobering to realise how a moment that felt so apocalyptic, like an oncoming tsunami, later splashes your feet in little waves. Few things last forever. Time will pass, however slowly. I can be patient. I have nowhere else to be.
January, February, March, April—a blur, but not because they sped past me, growing smaller and smaller as they vanished off into the distance. Instead, I say, it’s hard to differentiate months, years, when each one is the same. Each day is the same, and when I think back, I only just recall what show I was watching at the time, or the type of coat I had to wear on the rare occasion when popping to the shop. But May means one thing for the university student: exam season. And, for me, more time waiting by my door, throat parched, stomach grumbling, listening out for the Housemate who prefers to study at home. My May is exam free, given I’ve vaguely dropped out. As in, I stopped attending lectures and they got the hint. It turned out my degree of choice wasn’t for me—it’s not that I’m not smart enough, I excelled in secondary school without ever trying—but one missed lecture turned to another, and then I missed a group project and, I suppose, took it as a hint. 10 minutes pass before I decide it’s been long enough; any longer and the risk of the Housemate’s appearance actually increases, as they ‘like to stretch their legs’. They last thudded up and down the stairs 20 minutes ago. This is my chance. I don’t breathe as I push down the door handle, wincing at the slight creak. I open the door enough to catch a glimpse of the no-man’s land beyond: warm sunlight pouring through the window by the front door, a spotlight, adding to the difficulty in escaping unseen; soft, hoovered carpet, an unnecessary reminder that the hoover has never seen the inside of my room; the kitchen door, opposite, more than an arm’s stretch away; the stairs, to the right, which I glance up at to confirm they’re clear. A pause, breath still withholding. Clear. I slip out as fast as my feet will take me. Light as a dancer across the hall, and then into the kitchen to enact my plan that I’ve gone over many times. Which cupboards to go into, how much I can hold in my hands before I’m slowed down to the point I could find myself trapped, cornered. Also, a backup: I haven’t take my antihistamines, so I can come across as ill, and oh, how nice I am to try and prevent it spreading. It’s early enough that my pyjamas shouldn’t summon questions or judgements, so long as they don’t look too closely. My eyes are still adjusting to the light. I’m grateful for the net curtains blocking someone’s view from outside, lest they see me skulking around like I shouldn’t be here. They diffuse the light and when my eyes glimpse the outside, the garden, the road, they’re obscured, like they’re not real. Beyond these walls the world is a mirage, the shapes that move across aren’t real people, just wisps of the imagination. Harmless. None of it matters. None of them matter. Only one does, capable of infiltrating my bubble, away from here. I fall back into the sink when I see the Housemate enter the room, relatively dishevelled, paired with a small smile. Idiot. I was distracted. I return their smile, or at least I hope so. It’s been a while, the muscles around my lips ache easily, but they give me a nod. I turn back to the sink. Water splashes on the side as I turn it on and up to its most powerful, watching my large glass fill with trepidation. Like an hourglass, counting down the seconds. My hands are wet, there’s a dark patch on my top, but I’m done. I retrieve my snacks from behind me and make to retreat. “Looks like we both slept in,” they say. “I… didn’t hear my alarm.” I’m on the threshold. So close. At least they’re far away enough that they can’t smell my non-brushed teeth. “I’m a night-owl, so.” I’m not looking at them. I’ve politely not ignored them, but I won’t invite further conversation like that. The safety of my room is but steps away. Back to the same. Back to the dark. “Good luck with the rest of your studying,” they say, and I take my leave.
Hours later and I am still cursed by it, replaying the scene in my head. A matter of seconds, I fumbled, a walking cliche, a ‘night owl’. I might as well have held up a can of redbull and joked about requiring caffeine to stay sane. My exit was too hasty, too obvious. I should have said I was awaiting a call from an old friend, or had allotted only a couple of minutes to a break between revision. They don’t know me. I could be busy. I lay, splayed, on the floor. A hint of sweat brushes my nose with each inhale. The soundtrack to a particularly action-packed fantasy movie roars in my ears, feeding my panic, my fight or flight that still thrums through me, although the moment is long over. I picture us in the kitchen, my weapon sheathed, hand hovering over it. I don’t look back, unsure if I’ll find their sword pointed at me, and I don’t have the energy to fight. I make the mistake of moving. A can rattles across the floor, hitting my laundry basket. Biscuit crumbs stab my upper arm, forcing me to sit up. My head is too heavy, so I move back to the bed. The next song comes on, this time an epic anime soundtrack. The scene changes: the kitchen peels away, the wind blows through my hair as I stand on a great wall. Below, far below, they stand amongst a hoard of monsters that I must defeat for my freedom. I clench my sword, wondering if freedom is worth it. It’s nearing the precipice. The violins, the piano, the drums, speeding up, my heart speeding with them. So close, I’m nearly completely lost in my head, in the other world, away from here. My earphones die. Silence permeates, the sound of my breathing taunting me, reminding me I’m alive, I’m real. I toss them off in a rage, needing to relish in the satisfaction of punishing them, letting them smack against the wall. Only, they catch my hair, pull on one of the knots, and I cry until I get it free. I hold a small tangle of curls in my hand, intertwining with the earphones in a pitiful mess. My head tingles where the hair was ripped free. It hurts, but for a moment I’m distracted from the other one. But it loses out; the failure of pretending to be a normal human being hurts worse. I should let it go, I need to, but I cling onto it. My heart races, my vision blurs, but I replay it again. A sound breaks me from my trance. Cries, wafting from the ceiling. Violent, relentless. If I were anyone else, the emotion might permeate my space, leak into me. I find myself looking up, as though I’ll be able to see them. They’re as much a mystery to me as I am to them, I’d wager. Most of the image stems from the photos they’ve posted, detailing their fairy lights and Polaroids and their crisp linen sheets. Instinctively, my hand reaches for my phone. I pull up their socials, their name already at the top of the search suggestions. I’m instantly thrust in their little world, with friends, so many, too many. One cannot dedicate enough time to so many people, surely? How are the rest of us to make any friends if one person is hoarding them all? Then, I see it: most recent, a few minutes ago, a photo of some pleasantly laid textbooks and handwritten notes, with them in the corner pulling a silly face. See, they’re fine. Maybe they’re watching a movie. A lie. But if I acknowledge the truth, am I duty bound to go upstairs and ask if I can help? And then, how could I help, when I cannot even help myself? Truly, we are both better off if I feign ignorance, the walls are thick, I was asleep, why, did something happen? It’s called being polite. Believing the lies they’ve unwittingly told me. There’s only silence after that.
The outside world is dark today, shimmering with heavy rain. I like it better like this. Most people will be inside, and happy about it, shuddering at the thought of being out there, as I do, most of the time. In this I feel a brief kinship, even if it does force the Housemate indoors also. I know this because they’re sat at the table, letting out a long sigh as they look out at it, drumming their fingers. They must’ve had plans. How nice, to have plans that could be cancelled. How vain, to look sad at the rain, instead of happy. I haven’t said anything of the other day, polite as I am. It nearly slipped out due to shock, when I saw them as I entered. They’d already seen me. I couldn’t leave. The fear of small talk left the incident on my tongue, but I held it. “Do you remember the first and only house party we had?” The sound of their voice startles me. So frozen were they, looking in a daydream, I was foolish enough to think I could slip in and out without incident. I clear my throat, silently commanding the kettle to quicken. “Uh, yeah.” I see what they’re looking at. “It rained.” A simple question, but one I resent. Of course I remember. When I lie in bed, sleep refusing to come hour after hour, tiredness lowering my defences, it comes to me. The party. Back when I had hope. Back when the days were counted and I eagerly awaited to see what this new life had in store for me. I didn’t drink. The Housemate assured me it was fine, others wouldn’t be drinking. The issue? Those people didn’t stay long. The second issue? When a party is at your house, your small house, you can’t leave. My bedroom had become the preferred hangout spot, as the old living room, with the corner sofa in it. I had styled and diffused my hair for the first time in 3 years, sweated through one shirt and then opted for one without sleeves. Somehow, it was the first week, and everyone already knew each other. I was surrounded by small, huddled groups, shoulder to shoulder, fenced off. One person would arrive and know the right word, the password, and work their way in. I tried asking one person where they were from, they then took one look at me and spoke over my head to someone behind. My gaze kept lingering, falling to my phone, to the minutes that ticked on by. An insect, hoping not to be trampled on, I retreated to the corner, glass in hand, lifting it my lips despite it being empty. Was it written on my head? Where I came from, my history? Was the word ‘loser’ carved onto my forehead, or did my scent ward them off like a predator? The only other person of colour sought me out, added me on their socials, and then never messaged me. And then, the rain, laughter, dancing in puddles, and people yelling ‘Oh, I think I’ll always remember this. The heavens are dancing with us!’. And I agreed. I would remember, too. I haven’t blinked in a minute. The final, striking memory comes at last: the following day, the Housemate waking up at noon, asking if I’d been there, they hadn’t seen me. Bile has risen in my throat. I need to retreat, this isn’t safe, danger lurks in innocent questions and haunted memories. I need the music, to drown out the sound of my own heart, my own head. I need to be somewhere. I need to be someone else. “Would you—“ I’m gone.
It is the apocalypse and I’ve stocked up. Stored water bottles slosh as I move on my bed, ramen cups snap underneath them. My new kettle sits on the floor. The only line I dare not cross is a collection of piss bottles, so I drink as little as my head will allow. The world outside may as well be a barren wasteland, pick any apocalyptic movie you want. The threat is just as real. The thought creeps in, uninvited: if I died here, how long would it take someone to know? The answer also creeps in, equally without invitation. Either the smell would cause alarm, or it would be the landlord when I was ‘unable’ to move out. I reckon that would lose me my entire deposit. A familiar, tired sigh whistles free. My gaze drifts to the television, the friends are all together, one of their new boyfriends is crazy. I respond when one asks a question, and laugh. Don’t get me wrong, I’m self aware. This is a rather pathetic existence; the type wherein someone would say I was just ‘existing’ and not really ‘living’ whilst being wholly accurate, if not rude. You could replace me with a sack of meat and the scene would be the same. The smell. Although I’d likely be more useful in that form. But it’s not forever. I was accepted into another university, different, far away. Completely different vibe, people, more me. I’ve added it to my calendar, a little green box representing the starting line for the rest of my life. The ‘day in my life videos’ fill my viewing history, I can see exactly what it’ll look like. I’ve picked the lectures I want, estimated the best student accommodation with the right amount of people, already bought myself a new wardrobe in preparation. The clothes sit in the corner of the room, still in their packages. This version of me doesn’t need to wear them, nobody will see them. Someday, though. Someday. I’m scrolling through the uni’s social page when there’s a knock. I freeze. There’s no sign I’m here, I could be out. Why else would my room be so dark, so quiet? The whole time, neither of us have crossed the precious threshold of one’s door. To touch it, to knock, is to invite yourself in. I wasn’t even crying. I must’ve misheard. Someone knocking on the front door, and they’ll come down in a second. If they didn’t hear it, it’s not my business. But then, again, the knock. Louder this time. Well, they’ve done it. Ensured that my silence will be more awkward and painful than speaking. A whoosh sounds as I whip open the door, with enough speed to convey annoyance. They steps back, before taking me in. I feel my head, the bonnet still on it, and pull it off. Shit. My hair looks worse than the bonnet, for certain. I tried to detangle it using a rare spurt of energy, cried, and cut some of it off. The trimmings are still in my bin, as though I could hide what I’d done. Silly, when the evidence is on my head. “I… I’ve looked at books for too long,” they mumble, avoiding me. “I wondered if you’d want to join me for a walk?” Not only have they broken the sanctity of my space, they want me to break it? To venture to the world out there, most of it foreign and unknown, unpredictable, asking to be perceived and seen? For what? My supplies are nowhere near running out. It takes little energy to summon my excuses, a headache, I’m still studying, I actually don’t like walks. Only, they say, “I saw on your socials you like walking. Figured I’d ask.” I do, don’t I? Or, I did. I should say no. My mouth is primed and ready, I don’t even have to think, it’s second nature. But I pause. There are bags under their eyes. Spots crawl up their cheeks, and their hoodie has a stain on it. They were crying. I grimace. “Alright then.”
Each step away from the house is agony. Blistering heat sinks its claws into my black clothing, pleased to get me at last. The sun shines like it has nothing better to do, following our every move. Everywhere, the world is still. We’re the only ones in it—presumably many others are studying, or at the beach. No wind rustles the leaves, no cars rush past, no cats flop onto the path, asking for attention. I need to ask them where we’re going. We’re not even walking in step, they’re slightly ahead. The tarmac between us says, we’re not friends. They might be taking me somewhere to kill me. If I ask them nicely, I wonder if they will. We’re near the middle of campus. A waddling duckling following their parent, I follow them around the bend and towards a set of fire escape stairs. Why did they ask me to come if we’re not speaking? My stomach drops. Home is too far away, and I sense they do want to say something. Forget the duckling. I’m an executioner following the guard to my final meal. An employee following their boss into a surprise meeting, as in, surprise, you’re fired. Our shoes clang on the metal stairs, twisting around and around. The rail rattles as I cling onto it; I haven’t drunk enough, I’m dizzy. We reach the top. Without a word they sit, feet hanging over the side. Equally, wordlessly, I sit beside them. Beyond, the rolling country hills appear lush and green. Small dots, birds, fly across the sky. I’m tempted to yell. How dare it try to appear so beautiful? It is only me. It needn’t try so hard. So bright and colourful and filled with people; I keep my fist clenched by my hip, nails digging into my palms. “Just thought it’d be nice to get out, you know?” It’s excruciating. “Yeah.” A pause. They take a great inhale, as though breathing it all in. The fresh air, the warmth, the pollen, the emptiness. “I only have one more exam. I’m going home after that. Don’t worry, I’ll still cover my rent. Just… figured I’d let you know. You’ll have the house all to yourself.” Alone. Alone. The thought of my decaying body, worm-infested, reeking, and it wouldn’t be found. “Oh. Thanks.” Another pause. They’re probably regretting bringing me up here. There are things I know I should say, but it’s blank. It’s gone. “I may leave early too.” A lie. “I’m changing uni. Fancied a change of scenery, and I didn’t really like the course.” They hum. “I did that too. I thought it would be better the next time.” Thought. I don’t push. It doesn’t matter. We’re different people. Their experience wouldn’t equal mine, I know how to be better next time. Don’t I? “I always thought you seemed cool.” My foot slips from its position on the railing. They pick at her fingernails. “I don’t know. You always seem so un-apologetically yourself. Like, at the party, you refused to drink, just because you didn’t want to. When I see you in the shop, you don’t seem to put on this act, or try to impress anyone. You once wore some kind of anime headband and didn’t even blink. I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk more. Although I rarely know what to say.” They’re sorry? I’m delirious. There are fishes in my head and they’re swimming. Unapologetically myself, what does that even mean? I consider the headband, that I’d been wearing as a ridiculous scarf. Bought years ago, when I used to watch new things. When I used to read. When I went to comic-cons and read fan fiction and saved art. When I liked walks. This person, waiting for the story to begin, who are they? The person I used to be… the person I want to be, I can’t tell which is further away. Both are out of reach. It’s hard to say when I became lost. It happened slowly, day by day, until I knew nothing else. To the point I was convinced I always was this way. But what they said used to be true. I reach for the ghost of my phone, but I left it back in the room. I think of the calendar, the days, that day in the future it’s meant to change. The version of myself that’s happy, that deserves happiness. Someone who, if people got to know, they wouldn’t hate. Someone worth knowing. They’re not real. At least not like that. I wince, willing it down. I can’t. It hurts too much. The day is dry, no clouds blemish the sky, but soon my face is stained with wetness. I lick away the salt on my lips, try my best to stifle the sniffles that come with it. “I can show you the anime, if you want,” I mumble. If they don’t hear me, then that’s what’s meant to happen. They turn. “I’ve never watched one before. But why not?” My lips are quivering. My hands are shaking. My heart races like I’m being hunted, the stakes are high, exposure poses a significant risk. But I look at the sun, now setting, bleeding oranges and pinks and reds into a delicious cocktail across the sky, and think, how did time pass so quickly?