The details are clear, vivid. Most of them, at least. The high was undeniable. The rush was insane. I haven't brought out the purple notebook in ages. Turns out I do not need that to remember the bits and pieces. The purple one was full of happy thoughts. Happy happenings. One week or so. The pages ran out at that point.
Then began the blue notebook. I had a naive, annoying name for it. It hadn't seemed so annoying then. So, yeah. The blue one. Beginning with the second week. The discomfort. The shoving of chairs - an action that had seemed gallant for a fleeting moment - then, with every passing thought, it all seemed more foreign, uncomfortable. But it was okay, right? A small price to pay?
No, it wasn't. The looks on the faces of those dear to me were new, taken aback, disheartened.
In my current flurry of thoughts, a particular memory keeps whirling around. The sad face of a friend I had known since I was five. A defeated face. I could tell. I wish I had at least apologized out loud for the trouble being caused because of me. But I didn't. Why? I'm not sure. A part of it was fear, the other may have been the lost habit of communicating with people the way I should have. I mouthed a timid "Sorry." And he smiled. No defeat in the smile. It was almost nonchalant. With a wave, he dismissed my apology, putting on a brave face. He assured me it was nothing and that it would be over in a matter of minutes. I smiled back, very slightly. I wish I had done more than that, but there was no way of knowing what terror might befall from a proper, full smile. And I was a pathetic girl. And a pathetic excuse of a friend. Which made sense, because I wasn't a friend. Not really.
And there was that time under the retreating afternoon sun , when the call rang out for everyone to stand in prayer - me being shoved away and veiled and pulled back in, all the while the Arabic words beautiful in the background, waiting to be shown respect, but getting none. I wish I had done something. I had tried. I wish I had tried harder, even if it came to nails digging in with an intention to hurt. But I didn't do that. Of course I didn't.
A statue would be built in my memory, you said? Because someone as dishonorable as myself deserved a monument? Isn't that what you said, that statement accompanied by a few words beginning with S and W, poor synonyms of the word dishonorable? Yeah, that's what you said.
I think the blue notebook is with my mom now. Or maybe not anymore. I don't know. I don't ask.
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