“Waiting you. Lower gate,” the text read. A few words which led to a weird night.
Jade wore a black dress and a good amount of gold on her neck. Dark lipstick, no purse, no fear. She walked the street like she owned it, remembering, recalling and walking through the nostalgia of a fantasy, except that it wasn’t a fantasy, but a true one-time reality. Footsteps echo in her head, as she contemplated how at one time, she was torn between the man of her dreams and the guy she was with. It’s like he was still next to her. Walking the street.
She reaches the gate and waits.
The reverie of thought stops when Lena finally comes along. Her hair up-tied into a long mane of dark chocolate. She wore an Adidas outfit skin-tight, which highlighted her perfect curves and, not to mention, her colossal behind. Best friends were prone to notice.
“Babe, what’s the matter?” Jade asks.
“I feel like shit. Need to go to ER. Do you mind?”
A silent pause.
“I’m so sorry I’m ruining your night,” Lena croons.
“It’s not okay,” Jade chuckles. “But it’s totally okay.”
She’s her best friend. She’ll go anywhere with her, dolled up or pajama’d down.
We walk into the waiting room, my hands in my pockets, Lena’s face white in pale as we take a seat. Oxygen and other cable ports in the wall. I wonder what all these chemicals are for.
The doctor calls us in and we make it into the emergency admit, room E3. She lays down on the bed and I sit by the bedside, looking around. I learnt not think with emotion so long ago, and although I think I do love Lena deep down, I try to distract my emotional self with questions like, “do i need to be here?”
Those are pretty selfish thoughts, frankly speaking. But at the same time, they seem relevant. I hated hospitals. Every bit of them. I’m needle-phobic. I hate blood. I hate prickly things. Sterile settings freak me out. I cringe.
“I want to take a picture of you. You look so pretty,” Lena tells me.
I’m not sure if she actually meant it, or if she’s compromising for making me get out of my dorm at 10 pm to sit with her in the hospital. But at the same time, I think I would be really upset if she hadn’t done the same for me. In fact, it hurts thinking of myself alone in a hospital. I’m barely 20, not 85. I should have a whole army of mates around me. But, reality begs to differ. I don’t have many friends. I choose who I want around me to a point of self-hate.
I gush at the compliment anyway, being the socially anxious mess I am – a girl who couldn’t take compliments for shit. Heck, I’ve known Lena for four years, already. But then again, that doesn’t count because I blush when my own mother compliments me. I am so lame.
“Not here though…” I look around and laugh at the scene. We’re at the damn ER and it’s almost midnight. I stare at Lena, wondering what’s next. She could barely talk. She had a migraine. We start laughing. There wasn’t a joke, but we just started laughing silly. It was almost hysterical.
“We’ve been through everything together, Jade. You’re a true friend,” she says.
And the tears came flowing down inevitably. I don’t think anyone would understand why, because I barely understand why. I don’t think people would understand me if I tell them, “Being loved is a hard thing to be.”
Your family wouldn’t understand, neither your close friends or your partner in life. They’ll explain to you: you are lovable.
And indeed, you are. And you are worth it all. No exceptions.
But I can’t seem to see that. The very act of crying, to me, was disastrous. God forbid anyone see me cry. Love is a weakness I can never bear the burden of. Tears are not weakness, but people will ask why and every reason will become one. I could never free myself enough.