Categories > Original > Drama
There’s a hallway in your school near the lower classmen rooms that is designated for the things the student body loves. High up on the wall reads the unfinished phrase “I LOVE…” each letter demanding attention, stark black against the white paint.
You take your time walking past it, skimming the rainbow of post-it notes. You like imagining who wrote which item, or what must have inspired them to write it. The English teachers usually bully their kids into writing something when the wall gets cleared at the beginning of every semester.
You like it. It should seem messy and you should think it’s stupid, but you don’t and it’s not. You like it so much that you circle your route to class around the hallway, enjoying the confessions you read in passing.
There are ones that say, my boyfriend or my girlfriend.
Cold pizza.
My family.
My right hand.
Books.
Sunday morning coffee.
Her smile.
The smell after it rains.
You like their voices. You like the written pieces of their hearts, the little things that make up the meat of their souls.
One day you find a blue one stuck to the floor.
It reads, writing tiny and cramped, myself.
Myself.
At first you frown. Your initial impression criticizes it as narcissism. A joke. Something a boy wrote to make his friends laugh.
At the second thought, why would they have written it so small if it was a joke? Why didn’t they check to make sure it stuck to the wall?
When you’re home from school, you remove the note from your pocket and stick it to your mirror.
Never before had myself been written on the wall.
You stare your reflection in the eyes, study the features of your face and the contours of your body. You pass those over and skim the curves of your personality. Your bad and your good. The life you lead.
How long did it take to finally say it?
I love you, you say to yourself, words tasting alien on your tongue.
How much longer to actually believe in it?
"thank you":https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3r33ihLVfsk
-az
You take your time walking past it, skimming the rainbow of post-it notes. You like imagining who wrote which item, or what must have inspired them to write it. The English teachers usually bully their kids into writing something when the wall gets cleared at the beginning of every semester.
You like it. It should seem messy and you should think it’s stupid, but you don’t and it’s not. You like it so much that you circle your route to class around the hallway, enjoying the confessions you read in passing.
There are ones that say, my boyfriend or my girlfriend.
Cold pizza.
My family.
My right hand.
Books.
Sunday morning coffee.
Her smile.
The smell after it rains.
You like their voices. You like the written pieces of their hearts, the little things that make up the meat of their souls.
One day you find a blue one stuck to the floor.
It reads, writing tiny and cramped, myself.
Myself.
At first you frown. Your initial impression criticizes it as narcissism. A joke. Something a boy wrote to make his friends laugh.
At the second thought, why would they have written it so small if it was a joke? Why didn’t they check to make sure it stuck to the wall?
When you’re home from school, you remove the note from your pocket and stick it to your mirror.
Never before had myself been written on the wall.
You stare your reflection in the eyes, study the features of your face and the contours of your body. You pass those over and skim the curves of your personality. Your bad and your good. The life you lead.
How long did it take to finally say it?
I love you, you say to yourself, words tasting alien on your tongue.
How much longer to actually believe in it?
"thank you":https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3r33ihLVfsk
-az
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