Don't Hide

• Vivian Nguyen, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2019

I was expecting only fun on this escape from mundane routine and chaotic life - a good time was all I asked for - but I didn’t get that. I received a choking serving of so much more than what I ordered, only the kind you graciously accept and don’t even think of returning, no matter how confrontingly stacked the extras are towards your unprepared gut.
Because now that I’m here, hushed by the chilled night air and seeing only what the quiet stars choose to illuminate, my calibre is merely a noted expression within a universe so much more unnerving when gulped as a whole. And its complexity spurs indigestion, though temporary.
Because now that I’m here, interpreting the wounded ball of a friend curled endlessly into herself, sensing another convulsing silently away, hearing one compressing shrieks so sudden I jump, adrenaline shocking me into defence, only I never knew how to protect a shattering heart from any more shame, and not within such a delicate frame.
Neither am I equipped with the arts of gently enforcing your irreplaceable worth if you focus on your undignifying past, not if you stare down at the crunching bark-chips at our feet, four pairs of uncertainty, instead of acknowledging the myriad of unformed phrases forcibly clawing at me, desperately grappling for ways to align your darkened minds please, "I’m sorry I was so blind all this time." You all water your eyes and it kills for me to exact why.
Because now that I’m here, seeing moonlight glittering streaks down faces of girls I’d fight a losing battle for, swings squeaking solemnly, collectively under an emotional grasp, I feel all these protests to your conquests and in that eruptive passion to exalt your acceptance of being perfectly beautiful and simultaneously scarred individuals; I see that I have to show what I hide. If not, all I say is a lie.
Because now that I’m here, I know we should be logical enough to feel our emotions. Four of us girls engrossed in a mess of clutched arms and synchronising tears, everyone’s had a head start, it’s due time for me to catch up.
These precious, unforgettable moments in a cardiac-arresting life where just confirming and supporting that we are struggling and fighting on is so… impossibly refreshing: it inspires breathing.
Telepathy could be a muse but connection is affection, so amidst all sniffled defeats and lightning wails, do I dare conclude a consensus? To smooth out the hesitations, none of that clumsy smiling - I jokingly mess, if anything, redirect their tired strands of hair - realise I'm aching, for these gem-faces to gleam raw and proud, not puffy.
So let’s sit on swings and cry, in sync, more often. If you'll let me.