I gasp through tears, stumbling after her. “But I am ready!
I’m ready!”
I press the button again and again, sidestepping and
twisting through the crowded pavement.
“Please, I’m ready! Please! Stop! Everything’s ruined!” I
trip over my feet and crash to the ground, scraping my knees
against the concrete. My chest caves in on itself as I stumble to
my feet again.
Shoulders convulsing, I press my hands to cover my eyes.
Trapped. I’m trapped. I’m trapped here.
When I lower my hands, the sidewalk is clear. She’s gone.
Headphones are back in my ears. Nobody speaks to me,
despite the tsunami spilling down my face. That’s the way it is
on the Tube. You can always trust people not to talk to you.
Shame snakes through me.
I made Pilot cry. Wendy doesn’t
like me. I killed Sawyer. I didn’t stay late when there was a
meeting I could have listened in on. I haven’t made any tea at
the office. I have no connection to the internet. I told Pilot to
go back to Amy! All my files are gone. I can’t reset.
I ride
aimlessly, switching lines every once in a while, feeling
perpetually nauseated.
The sky is streaked in darkness when I step outside again. I
exited at a stop called Bethnal Green. My eyes are swollen and
raw as I roam the sidewalks.
At some point, I come to a halt, blinking at the building
across the street. It’s … a bookstore? There’s a bookstore.
I swipe my face dry and cross the street. Inside,
the air
smells of wooden shelves, fresh paper, and a hint of must. I
inhale it gratefully. The place is narrow, but there are two
floors, and every inch is packed with book-laden furniture.
I explore thoroughly, slowly winding through the shelves,
reading every title, running my fingers over spines. I pick up
and caress books I’ve already read. I examine all the different
editions of the classics. I haven’t picked up a book that wasn’t
medically relevant in so long. When did I stop reading fun
books? Two years ago? Before that? How did I let that
happen?
My lip curls up the slightest
bit when I finally stumble
across the Harry Potter section. It’s been years since I’ve
reread them. I miss them. I slide out the British edition of my
favorite,
Prisoner of Azkaban,
and hold it to my heart.
I stroll around the store with it, hunting for the perfect
reading spot. When I’ve scoped out the least visible nook
between shelves, I slide onto the floor. As soon as my butt hits
the ground, I’m gasping for air again.
I am stuck six years in the past.
I drop my head between my knees. This means I’m redoing
the last few months of London
in an internship where they
don’t take me seriously, with no computer, and reliving the
nightmare with my parents.
I can’t do that. I can’t handle it. I
don’t want to. I want out. I want to go home. I want to start
over.
I’ve lost my one connection to the rest of the world. This
phone I have is a piece of crap. I can’t do any of my internet
stuff without Sawyer. My body shakes.
I focus on the book in my hands. Breathe. My favorite
book. I have my favorite book. An edition I don’t own of my
favorite book. Breathe. I run my fingers over the British cover
art. These are the stories that made me want to write stories.
These are the stories that shaped my heart. I slowly pull open
the cover.
My breath catches at the sight of a handwritten note.
There’s a note in the book. I huff an airy laugh. I’ve heard of
people doing this, leaving notes for
strangers in Harry Potter
books. I heave in more oxygen and dip closer to read the tiny,
slanted handwriting.
Dearest Reader,
Even in the darkest of times, one must only remember to turn on the
light.
Dreams live up in the highest of mountains; the pursuit is
ominous, but without them, we’re just asleep.
When you need it, Hogwarts will always be here to welcome you
home. x
New tears slip down my cheeks. I read it again. And again.
And again. And again. And again. And again.
For fifteen
minutes, I sit there and read it. Then I swallow hard, sniffle,
close the book, and bring it to the register.
I have a fucking mountain to climb.
