delirium

Jan. 9:entry #1 

Insomnia has gotten unbearable. I’ve decided to try writing in this journal before bed – to empty my mind, as they say – before the roaring in my head suffocates me. 

I still vividly remember last night. 3:21 AM on my digital clock mocked me from Jan. 9: Entry #1

Insomnia has become unbearable. I’ve decided to try writing in this journal before bed – to empty my mind, as they say – before the roaring in my head suffocates me.

I still vividly remember last night. The digital clock mocked me from across the room, showing 3:21 AM. I must’ve closed my eyes at some point because when I reopened them, the bright light of my phone glared up at me. I was scrolling when the notification came. It was from my new seatmate. She said she was tired, tired of waiting and tired of knowing that everything would change on its own six months later. She wanted to try something she hadn’t done before – what did I think of dyed hair? What color should she get? I thought back to our previous class: the birthmark under her left eye, the ease with which she smiled, the ring on her index finger that glittered when she rested her chin on her hand, the strip of late-morning sunlight shining through the blinds of the classroom, turning a streak of her dark hair a brilliant golden brown. I told her to get a blond stripe on her left side. I wanted to continue texting, but my fingers were stiff, and the dream was slipping away. I grasped at its remaining tendrils, squeezing my eyes shut in futility, but the weight of my blankets pulled me out. The clock blinked at 3:27 AM. I rolled over and snatched my phone off the nightstand immediately. There were no messages. Why would there be? She barely knew me. I saw her in class today. There was a gold streak in her hair.

Feb. 14, 4:01 AM: Bedroom

I was in the library when I felt a tap on my shoulder – it was her. I couldn’t stop the smile that forced itself onto my face, though I briefly wondered if it was a product of genuine excitement or an expression of self-mockery. She was awash in a soft glow. The metallic hue of her ring and her dyed hair shone through the luminescent haze that enveloped the whole room. “Hey. I was just wondering if you’ve started our project yet.” “I wish. The longer I wait, the more difficult it is to open the assignment,” I replied. “Thank god we still have a week.” She laughed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I haven’t started either.” “Mhm. I think I might stay here to work a bit. Want to join?” She set her bag down on the table but continued standing, unsure. “Honestly, I’m sick of studying. There’s still time.” “No pressure if you don’t want to stay.” “I’ll stay if you do,” she decided, “or I can drive us somewhere?” I was going to tell her I wanted to leave, but nothing would come out. I could feel the air moving up my throat and through my lips, the words forming on my tongue, but no vibration. No sound. My head felt muffled and feverish; my vision seemed blurry. When I tried to blink the dizziness away, everything went dark. Sensation returned almost instantaneously, and I clawed away at the blankets above me that covered my mouth. The fallout after the dreams always brought on an ache that persisted well into the next day. I could identify them – the odd surrealness, the softness and warmth of my bed in the background, the slightly faint feeling that comes with sleep deprivation – and I could break out of them, I think, if I really wanted to. But in these little moments, I could bask in her attention. Reality didn’t matter.

March 21, 10:10 AM: School

“Discuss the starter question with the person next to you, please.” Through my peripheral vision, I could see her texting someone under the table. There were words, thick and sticky, at the base of my throat; my heart, hammering away at my ribcage; my nails digging into my palms, leaving thin red indents. The murmuring of voices slowly filled the room. I blinked and lifted my head, shifting my gaze from the desk to her profile. “Hey, um, we’re supposed to be talking about the question up there.” “Oh, sorry! Give me a second…” There was a rustling of fabric as she stowed her phone in her bag. I blinked again. There was the desk right in front of me, my notebook open to a blank page; a stiffness in my neck; a dryness in my mouth; and my lips, sealed shut. I was just about to speak. I was just about to ask her what she thought the answer was. I was just about to warn her that class would soon start in earnest, so she should put her phone away before– The voices started to fade. She looked up, expression blank for a moment, before quickly slipping her phone into her back pocket. She faced straight ahead the whole time. I stayed silent.

May 3, Evening, Car

She held the door of the library open for me. “Thanks for staying after to finish the project.” “Yeah, of course. It’s my responsibility, too.” “Well, I’m sure you’re already stressed enough, being a junior,” she responded. “I was definitely busier this time last year than I am now.” “It’s not too bad.” “That’s good to hear.” Upon stepping out from under the overhang, we were greeted by fine droplets of rain, immediately dampening my clothes. She hugged her laptop bag to her chest. “I wish I brought an umbrella.” “Sorry, I don’t have one either,” I said. “Do you need a ride?” “I was going to walk, but that might be better. If you don’t mind, of course.” across the room. I must’ve closed my eyes at some point because when I opened them, the bright light of my phone glared up at me. I was scrolling when the notification came. 

It was my new seatmate. She was tired, she said. Tired of waiting, tired of knowing that everything would change on its own in six months later. She wanted to try something she hadn’t done before – what did I think of dyed hair? What colors should she get? 

I thought back to our previous: the birthmark under her left eye; the ease with which she smiled; the ring on her index finger that glittered when she rested her chin on her hand; the strip of late-morning sunlight shining through the blinds of the classroom, turning a streak of her dark hair a brilliant golden brown. 

I told her to get a blond stripe on her left side. 

I wanted to continue texting, but my fingers were stiff, and the dream was slipping away. I grasped at its remaining tendrils, squeezing my eyes shut in futility, but the weight of my blankets pulled me out. The clock blinked at 3:27 AM. I rolled over and snatched my phone off the nightstand immediately. 

There were no messages. 

Why would there be? She barely knew me. 

I saw it here in class today. There was a gold streak in her hair. 

Feb. 14, 4:01 AM: bedroom 

I was in the library when I felt a tap on my shoulder – it was her. I couldn’t stop the smile that forced itself onto my face, though I briefly wondered if it was a product of genuine excitement or an expression of self-mockery. 

She was awash in a soft glow. The metallic hue of her ring and her dyed hair shone through the luminescent haze that enveloped the whole room. 

“Hey. I was just wondering if you’ve started our project yet.”

“I wish. The longer I wait, the more difficult it is to open the assignment,” I replied. “Thank god we still have a week.” 

She laughed. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I haven’t started either.” 

“Mhm. I think I might stay here to work a bit. Want to join?” 

She set her bag down on the table but continued standing, unsure. “Honestly, I’m sick of studying. There’s still time.” 

“No pressure if you don’t want to stay.” 

“I’ll stay if you do,” she decided, “or I can drive us somewhere?” 

I was going to tell her I wanted to leave, but nothing would come out. I could feel the air moving up my throat and through my lips, the words forming on my tongue, but no vibration. No sound. 

My head felt muffled and feverish; my vision seemed blurry. When I tried to blink the dizziness away, everything went dark. Sensation returned almost instantaneously, and I clawed away at the blankets above me that covered my mouth. 

The fallout after the dreams always brought on an ache that persisted well into the next day. I could identify them – the odd surrealness, the softness and warmth of my bed in the background, the slightly faint feeling that comes with sleep deprivation – and I could break out of them, I think, if I really wanted to. But in these little moments, I could bask in her attention. 

Reality didn’t matter. 

March 21, 10:10 AM: school 

“Discuss the starter question with the person next to you, please.” 

Through my peripheral vision, I could see her texting someone under the table. There were words, thick and sticky, at the base of my throat; my heart, hammering away at my ribcage; my nails digging into my palms, leaving thin red indents. The murmuring of voices slowly filled the room. I blinked and lifted my head, shifting my gaze from the desk to her profile.

“Hey, um, we’re supposed to be talking about the question up there.” 

“Oh, sorry! Give me a second…” 

There was a rustling of fabric as she stowed her phone in her bag. 

I blinked again. There was the desk right in front of me, my notebook open to a blank page; a stiffness in my neck; a dryness in my mouth; and my lips, sealed shut. 

I was just about to speak. I was just about to ask her what she thought the answer was. I was just about to warn her that class would soon start in earnest, so she should put her phone away before– 

The voices started to fade. She looked up, expression blank for a moment, before quickly slipping her phone into her back pocket. She faced straight ahead the whole time. 

I stayed silent. 

May 3, evening? car? 

She held the door of the library open for me. “Thanks for staying after to finish the project.” “Yeah, of course. It’s my responsibility, too.” 

“Well, I’m sure you’re already stressed enough, being a junior,” she responded. “I was definitely busier this time last year than I am now.” 

“It’s not too bad.” 

“That’s good to hear.” 

Upon stepping out from under the overhang, we were greeted by fine droplets of rain, immediately dampening my clothes. 

She hugged her laptop bag to her chest. “I wish I brought an umbrella.” 

“Sorry, I don’t have one either,” I said. “Do you need a ride?” 

“I was going to walk, but that might be better. If you don’t mind, of course.”

“It’s no problem. My car’s right there.” 

I pressed the unlocking button on my keys. The beeping noise and the flash of lights were all that could be perceived through the mist of rain as we walked towards the car. 

“Where to?” I asked once we had both climbed in. 

“We can drive anywhere – you decide. As long as we’re not out too long.” 

I furrowed my brows. 

She spoke again, her voice clearer this time. “Um, do you want me to repeat my address?” I felt my face heating up. “Oh, sorry. I blanked out. Can you type it in here?” 

She took my phone. “Sure.” 

Soon enough, I was navigating through the winding neighborhood streets. The swish of the windshield wipers and the gentle pattering of the drizzle permeated the small space. A quick glance to my right side showed her turned towards the window, her arm resting against the edge of the door. Under the dim glow of the streetlights, her ring glinted back at me. 

This time, there were no words stuck in my mouth. I see her around sometimes, always amongst people – chatting, laughing, gesturing animatedly. I had accepted that we would never really talk, that we would never really be close enough. I had accepted that my imagination, my anticipation, my thrill would never amount to anything, that every glimpse of her would leave me emptier than before. 

But I had my dreams to sustain me. I had our tiny, meaningless interactions to fill what would otherwise be nothingness. 

It was worth the fallout. 

My phone beeped, signaling our arrival. 

“Thanks for dropping me off,” she said, already climbing out. “Bye.”

“Bye.” 

I sat in the car for a while longer, not moving, soaking up the lingering scent of her perfume and the residual warm feeling of her presence. Both were fading quickly. Too soon, I was plunged back into the cold air, the dark street, and the pattering of rain against the windshield that blurred everything. 

June 8:entry #152 

The graduation ceremony was over, and the crowd had dispersed. I walked through the field in the scorching sun, amidst the monotonous whirring of voices. The world – bright, buzzing, oddly foggy – was beginning to sound exactly like inside of my head. 

I caught a glimpse of her near the gates. She was smiling, surrounded by her friends, with a stunning bouquet of blush pink and blood red in her arms. The ring glittered in the sunlight. 

In the end, I walked past her to get my bike, eyes cast downwards. Part of me hoped that she would see me, call out my name, and wave me over. Say goodbye. 

She didn’t, of course. I don’t know if she noticed me. I looked back at her once more when I was nearly out on the road; I tattooed the moment into my mind, letting the hot needle that is my memory leaves a permanent, stinging trace. 

Her smile. 

The birthmark under herlefteye. 

The golden streak, slowly fading. 

What little details had almost escaped my attention? What little details would I never know? 

Perhaps I will wake up tomorrow, and I will realize he was a figment of my imagination. Or perhaps, in five minutes, I will open my eyes to the sound of my alarm, and my clock will read June 8, 7:30 AM. I’ll head to school, sit through the tedious ceremony, and find her outside the gates – no. This time, I’ll find her before graduation, when she’s alone, and I’ll take a photo with her. I’ll keep it in my “favorites” album, and I’ll look at it once in a while, and I’ll remind myself that it was real– 

At least, part of it must’ve been.

Or, perhaps, it’s better not to have any reminders. 

I forced myself to turn away. The handlebars on my bike felt too rough under my hands. Thetearsthatsprung to my eyes felt too real – I tried to blink them back, but it only made them spill out, leaving cold traces down my cheek in their wake. 

In the end, I glanced back again. Snapped my head away. Then glanced back. I couldn’t stop the involuntary tugging upwards of the corners of my lips, or the tears, or the glancing back until her figure became an indiscernible dot on the horizon. I couldn’t stop the brittle hope from mending itself each time it was shattered, or the dullness that would surely settle in once I realized I would never see her again. 

My clock reads 11:57 PM, June 8. When will I wake up? 

I think I will burn this journal.