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I can still remember when the first autumn leaves, more delicate than paper in the crisp morning air, escaped from their branches and drifted to the ground… helpless, and yet, never before so beautiful. Before long, they had transformed the university campus entirely; no longer was it the place it had been when I enrolled… and although I could only wonder if these changes were any more than aesthetic, I had always associated new seasons with new chances. Hope for a new beginning offered to replace the disappointment of a previous end, and I had welcomed it with open arms, blindly. I always believed that things would be different; sometimes, I was right. With the onset of autumn, in particular, there was never a single thing to stop me from putting the past behind and starting over, moving forward, pushing on. New people would enter my life, new opportunities would find me, and I would be able to forget, at least in part, all those things that had gone wrong in the year prior. Now, especially, with my high school years behind me, it was a fresh start. I had no reputation. I was free to be whoever I wanted to be.
What troubled me was the nostalgia that accompanied my unabated hope and optimism, as I woke up each morning and saw those leaves, changing their colors before my eyes, signaling the cold winter to come. With each new autumn, real excitement diminishes, and I fall back on memories of so many previous years… not necessarily the things that happened during those years, but the excitement that I had felt then – that I was sure I deserved to feel – because I had so fewer times seen this excitement amount to nothing. Still, there was beauty and color where once there had been a dull landscape of bricks, concrete, and grass, the same clean and depressing shades present everywhere. The world had come to life. I would immerse myself in this new and ever-changing environment each morning, periodically reminding myself to take it all in, before it disappeared. Enjoy it while it lasts. That’s what I’m telling myself now, but the colors are already beginning to fade away. My optimism for a fresh start has fallen to the back of my cluttered mind, making room at the forefront for all of the worries and troubles that plague me every year. People never change, and I’m no exception.
A shapeless, lifeless mass of gray clouds blankets the frozen November sky, and stares down at me as I walk out of the campus library, book bag slung over my shoulder, clothing hung on my exhausted body as if it were as tired as I am. Momentarily cringing, as the cold air reaches me, I hastily pull the front of my jacket closed, and push on against what could be my better judgment. Sometimes, when the temperatures begin to drop – when the first snowfall is imminent, and the whole world is waiting – I’ll wish I had never gotten out of bed. I would rather stay under those covers, alone, where it’s warm, close my eyes and sleep forever.
And why not? Why force myself to betray every instinct of self-preservation inside of me, and launch myself yet again into the unforgiving outside world? The answer is obvious: Because I can always think of something to look forward to, even if that thing is just the end of the day, or even if it’s just seeing those autumn leaves and remembering. Something about the new season, the reds and yellows of the leaves and the afternoon sunset, and the liveliness and joy that comes with holidays and new beginnings, all bring a kind of warmth to the atmosphere, even when the air makes you numb… even when the leaves have already fallen, and even when sunset is obscured by clouds. It’s all still there, if you want to believe it.
Taking a left at the bottom of the library steps, I let those autumn leaves shatter beneath my feet, as I walk down the concrete path toward the parking lot. Groups of other students, passing me by as if I were a ghost, are walking in every direction to their dorms, their classes, their cars, and wherever else they belong. A pitiful thought rises in my mind, as I hear their voices around me: I have yet to find out where I belong in this place. For more than two months, I have been here… and still, everyone is a stranger, and every goal seems out of reach. Every day is exactly the same. I still haven’t changed. I still haven’t made up my mind about the future. I still haven’t found time to enjoy myself or make friends. I still haven’t talked to that pretty girl who always sits next to me at ten o’clock on Thursdays. I still haven’t dropped out. Nothing gained and – I console myself – nothing lost. I have to admit that I’m going nowhere. But I still have time. There’s always time.
Then again, how much time do I have? Four years? The same amount of time had given me nothing in high school, all of which was spent going through each day just to see it end, never thinking about the consequences of any action (or inaction), and ultimately, getting nowhere. I always told myself that I had more time, and never made the best of it until it was gone. I could never see that far into the future, and lived in the present until the very moment that it was ripped out from under me.
How many real friends did I even have?
As often as I ask myself these questions, I never dare to answer them; I’m pathetically pessimistic and trying not to be. Things, I tell myself, are never as bad as I think they are. If I were so terrible, I would change… but instead, I keep on going down this path. For two whole months, I have been content to stay right where I am… but the crutch that keeps me standing, and standing still, is the promise that I will be able to move forward when I’m no longer afraid to do so. I always have been afraid. I always will be. Sometimes I tell myself that it’s inevitable – that I cannot change – that this is simply how I am, but that gives me nothing to hope for. What good is another chance if you’ve already proven just how little a chance is worth by wasting all the others? It’s another question that I won’t dare to answer.
A raindrop hits my face as I trudge across campus, so cold and sudden, it stings. I can tell it’s the beginning of a downpour; the clouds have been holding it in for hours. Still, I’m hardly even paying attention anymore. I just want to leave this place, go home for the weekend, get some sleep, forget I ever came here, and pretend for as long as I can that Monday isn’t coming. I can always escape from reality, at least for a little while. Then, I suppose, it will all start over, like it always does.
Soon, the raindrop is followed by another. From the piles of dead leaves on the ground, I look up to the sky… one more thing to hate. A girl once told me that she loved the rain. I can’t imagine why.
The other students around me are hurrying to get inside, some of them with umbrellas, others merely hoping not to get soaked, as the light rain quickly becomes heavier. All of them are strangers, a hundred people that I might have known in another life, at another time, under different circumstances… people whom I should recognize, who should be my friends, and would be, if I ever had time to meet people… and all of them nameless, except for one: A familiar face stands out in the chaos, as I stare out across campus. My heart leaps up in my chest when I realize who it is. Leaps, and then stops.
She’s walking straight toward me, although completely oblivious to my presence. Part of me wants to keep it that way – to avoid the inevitable confrontation, and spare both of us what will probably turn out to be an awkward conversation, especially if neither of us have anything to say, which I never do, and I don’t need another night of beating myself up over another mistake. However, the other part of me is all foolish hope, seeing one last fragment of my past and thinking it can be saved before it vanishes.
She notices me before I’ve decided what to say. All I can manage is a quick smile and a nod, hoping that I won’t screw this up like I always do, wondering why my throat just closed up, praying that she remembers who I am, that she hasn’t forgotten already. (And why shouldn’t she?) I’ve known her since grade school, but she never really knew me at all.
When was the last time I talked to her? How long has it been? What did she think of me then? I try to recall if, during our last meeting, I had been such a wreck as I am now. No, I wasn’t… couldn’t have been. And we were on good terms. It was at our high school graduation that I last spoke to her. We wished each other good luck; I joked, she laughed; we got along, and then went our separate ways. It was moments like these – my God, she doesn’t hate me – that saved me from myself. When I found out that we were going to the same college, I was thrilled, full of that same familiar optimism and belief in new beginnings, forgetting that the leaves only change color because they die. Since then, I’ve almost completely forgotten about her, too. There’s no time anymore, for anyone.
As we’re about to pass each other, I’m flipping a coin in my head, weighing the possibility that she might actually want to talk to me with the possibility that I’ll make an asshole out of myself instead. Nearly everything I want to say seems completely inappropriate as soon as I give it a second thought. In all the years I’ve known her, I realize, I’ve never taken a chance. I was terrified. I was afraid of ruining whatever the hell we already had, which was really just her ignorance of my perverted thoughts, her assumption that I was a decent, quiet guy, who just wanted to be her friend. Maybe those things were all true. But what do I really have to lose? I know I can make things right. We could be more than acquaintances, people who know each other but never really care. I can see it all unfolding before me, a reflection of the countless times I’ve gone through the ridiculous scenario in my head, wondering if it would ever happen. So many times, I have entertained the idea that she might actually be interested in anything about me, that I can almost believe it. I barely even realize the absurdity of the course of events that would need to take place in order for me to actually make her love me, when there’s nothing about me to love, and she deserves so much better.
All the memories of those years that I knew her escape from where I’ve hidden them, trickling through my brain as the ice around them melts away. It was always the same: I want to say something to her, but I can barely even look her in the eye without turning away ashamed. I want to tell her how I feel, but I don’t even know; there are so many things to say, but I cannot put any of them into words, and could not manage to tell her most of them without breaking down or destroying everything that I’ve tried to maintain through careful silence; and now, I want to tell her she’s more beautiful than I remember, but I can’t. I want to cry, but I won’t. It’s so easy to understand, and yet difficult to accept, that she does not need me as much as I need her, that nobody needs me as much as I need a friend, and that my childish infatuation alone is not and never was an excuse to assume that anyone feels the same way about me.
After what seems like an eternity of hesitation and uncertainty, she smiles back, and says hello; I give a quick reply and bashfully look away, and we pass each other without another word. All in a second. Like so many times before, I’m left with a sick feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t even ask her how she’s been… not even that much… and I’m not even sure why. Perhaps it was because we were both in a hurry, and I didn’t want to waste her time, and standing in the rain is no place for a conversation, and the circumstances were all wrong, and I wasn’t given a chance. Or perhaps it’s the voice in my head that tells me, every time I open my mouth to speak to her or any other girl, “give up, she hates you. She doesn’t need you, she doesn’t want to talk to you, so don’t bother her. She deserves better. She has her own friends, and doesn’t need a social outcast like you ruining her life with your God damn complaints and your lack of confidence and your awkward silences…” And it’s true. The look on her face when she recognized me… she was trying to be nice, but nothing more. This is how it always was. Reality slowly works its way in, and everything collapses.
The sound of autumn leaves under her feet fades away and gets lost in the hissing of the rain on the pavement, as she continues in the other direction without looking back. The truth is that I’ve never really tried. I always wait for things to happen, and they never do. Countless hours, I have wasted, imagining how things could be, and wishing that my life would get better, all while doing nothing to make those things happen. I haven’t changed since sixth grade. I’ll never change. No one ever does, except for the ones whom you wish with all your heart would stay the same.
Still walking, I find myself intentionally avoiding eye contact with everyone else I pass. If I see someone who might recognize me, I pretend not to notice them, and hope to God that they don’t care, because I don’t want them to see the tears in my eyes, at least until I know what the hell I’m crying for. The rain, streaming down my face from my hair, hides it all… but I’m still shivering in the cold. As soon as things start to make sense, I can only wish I had never figured it out.
I had this fantasy that she would somehow come to me when she needed help… that when her world was falling apart, I would be there to make things better. I would wipe the tears from her eyes, and tell her it would all be okay, and let her cry on my shoulder, and let her know that I cared. She would always be crying. Why? Because I needed an excuse. She would never waste her time with me if she were happy. I imagined that she needed me like I need her, that she was just as miserable as I am, because that’s the only way it would ever happen… for me to be the one to comfort her, to make things right, to protect her, to solve all her problems, to say I would do anything and then actually do it. Or maybe it’s because I’m sick. Maybe I want her to be miserable, so I can take advantage of it. Maybe I’m only sad because everyone else is so fucking happy.
As I walk, I slowly become aware of the silence around me. Everyone else has gone inside. By the time I reach the parking lot, the commotion is gone; there are no more voices around me, nor can I hear the crunching of those autumn leaves under my feet. The water has already soaked them, defiled them, and now they are nothing but filth, sticking to the bottoms of my shoes. In a matter of minutes, everything is ugly again, and the only sound to be heard is the rain, destroying everything in sight.
The disorienting feeling of being horribly misplaced passes through me again. Here I am, at the beginning of the end of my education, and I still try not to think about the future. I have no plans. I have no desire to graduate. I have no motivation to be anything more than I am now, because no matter what I become, nobody will care. No matter where I go, I will always remember the past, and wish I could go back to it. More importantly, the future terrifies me. Whatever lies at the end of this road is, as it always was, a hazy and intangible reference point, placed infinitely far ahead and out of reach. Yet, at the same time, I can feel it approaching, and it cannot be stopped. My life, as I know it, is ending, but I care not what lies beyond it.
For all I know, what lies ahead is failure. I was never really smart enough for this. One semester into my college education, I am already having doubts about whether or not I’ll be able to graduate at all.
My car is on the second level of the parking garage at the edge of campus. Blinking a few times to get the water out of my eyes, I reach into my pocket for my keys, and I walk inside. The stairwell is dry, but cold; I’ve never felt so alone. Another day, another week, has gone by, and all of the things I said I would do – always tomorrow – have not been done. Always tomorrow, and never today. I know it’s my fault, but sometimes, I still don’t think I was ever given a chance. How could things have turned out differently? How far back would I have to turn the clock in order to change anything at all? Slowly climbing the stairs, I imagine how my life could be, if I were not such a coward… if I were someone else. I always try to imagine myself in another life, but I never fit; I always have to cut a piece of myself out before I can make it work, only to realize that it’s not me anymore. That better life is something I can never have.
Reaching the top of a flight of stairs, I turn and start up the next. It takes me a few seconds to realize that I’ve passed the second floor of the garage; my car is below me, but I keep walking, not quite wanting to leave this place yet. I’m listening to the echo of my own footsteps through the silent, empty spaces around me, and thinking… just thinking, the way I do when I wake up in the morning and wish I could go back to sleep. For a moment, I think I hear another set of footsteps nearby. When I momentarily stop in mid-stride, all is silent again, so I continue. Before I know it, I’m at the third floor, and still no one in sight. I keep moving, for no other reason than to distract myself from my thoughts.
But it doesn’t work, and the thoughts keep churning through my brain. I remember my childhood, and how happy I was then. I remember high school. I remember all the people whom I used to see every day, and not all of them even knew who I was, but I miss them. I miss them so much, and I just want to go back and tell them how much I care. I miss them more than anything in the world, and I’ll never see them again… no one here can replace them. I never asked for new friends. I never asked for a new life. Looking down at my feet, I see the stairs beneath me begin to blur. I feel lost. I feel tired, and afraid. I always have been, and nothing is going to change.
Within seconds, I’m running, and I don’t even know why. Tears, cold as the rain that still falls from the heavy clouds, are streaming down my face. I’m trying not to let myself lose it, when on the inside, I just want to let go of everything, and scream. What am I going to do with myself? What will I do, when all of this is over? Sniffling, panting, hyperventilating, and barely in control of myself, I stumble up the last steps on the fourth level. I can feel the blood rushing far too quickly through my veins. I feel like I’m going to pass out.
Darkness closes in from the edges of my eyes, but I’m still running. I’m still moving. Terrified and blind, I’m still going, up another flight of steps. When I stop, and open my eyes, I find myself on the roof of the parking garage, standing out in the rain again… only this time, where no one can see me. I just want to forget everything. I want it to end. Without thinking, without giving myself time to think, I dart towards the edge of the roof, barely catching myself on the short railing, nearly tumbling over the edge. That terrible tingling feeling creeps up my legs, as I look down and out across the campus, now lifeless under the pressure of the cold rain and the wind that threatens to blow me right over the railing and off the roof.
As my legs become weak, and start to tremble beneath me, I feel as if gravity itself is tilting towards the ledge, as if I might fall off at any moment without even meaning to. I can feel the building, though I know it is impossible, leaning to one side, to throw me to the ground. Over and over again, I take that trip down to the asphalt in my mind, wondering just how easy it would be, or if I would change my mind half-way down, and just how painful it could possibly be. But as perilously close as I come to losing my balance and falling to my death, I stay right where I am, as always.
My senses have returned; my breathing has returned to normal, now, but my hands are still trembling. Slowly, with one final sob, I sink to the ground, turning my back to the ledge and leaning against the railing. Would anyone care? I dare not answer.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps coming from the stairwell, and the sound of the heavy steel door opening nearby. Then a voice. “… is that you?” Overcome by shame, I turn away, instead of answering. I want to be alone. Only curiosity causes me to look, out of the corner of my eye, to find out who is behind the familiar voice, for I know I’ve heard it somewhere before. She says my name, quietly and softly, as she sees my face, and has the saddest look in her eyes. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” It takes me a moment to realize who has found me. Standing there, closed umbrella at her side, is a girl that I recognize from class… the quiet one who always sits next to me. I’ve never really known her.
The rain has stopped.
Before I know it, she’s helping me to my feet, and back to the staircase. I haven’t said a thing. Still at a loss for words, I can only follow in silence as she leads me by the hand. Stopping for a moment, when we reach the stairs, she turns and looks at me again, as if to ask me if I’m going to make it. Those eyes… looking right at me, right into me… they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. For a moment, I’m not even sure if she’s really there. Feeling rather stupid, and thinking I should probably explain myself, I open my mouth to speak to her, but nothing comes out. I don’t know where to begin.
Unable to hold back the tears, I start to cry again… but then her arms are around me, holding me, and her voice is whispering in my ear, telling me it’s all going to be okay, don’t cry, it’s all right, oh God, you poor thing, please don’t cry. This only makes the tears come stronger and faster, and I can no longer control it. I can only imagine how pathetic I must be. What did I do to deserve this? Why is she here? Someone does care, and I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to ever notice it. The more I think about it, the more ashamed I am, but she still holds me, even tighter than before, probably knowing that I’ll fall apart entirely if she doesn’t. Slowly… slowly, I am able to get a hold of myself. The tears stop flowing, and I take a deep breath, hesitating before letting it out. After a few seconds, she lets go. The two of us sit down at the top of the staircase, side-by-side, in silence. I’m still trembling, telling myself it’s from the cold.
For a moment, I think she’s actually waiting for me to tell her what’s wrong, and explain what the hell I’m doing up here on the roof, alone, soaking wet, with my car keys still clenched in my left hand. (Looking down, I see blood seeping out between my knuckles, where I held them too tightly.) I almost open my mouth, and tell her everything, but she’s not waiting for an answer. It doesn’t matter why. It just matters. She doesn’t care why; she just cares. “Thank you,” is all I can manage to say, and I know she understands. Sometimes, I realize, even the small things matter. Sometimes, just being there for someone can make a difference, even if you’re not really doing anything at all. At one time or another, everyone needs someone to lean on… everybody needs somebody, but it’s only the best of us who know when we’re needed.
I wonder if she knows that she saved my life. She doesn’t need to. She only did what I would have done for anyone. I can only imagine what I might have done if she hadn’t. “How did you find me?” I finally ask, my voice quiet and broken.
“You passed me on your way here. You were crying.”
“I didn’t see you there.”
“I know.” For a few more minutes, we sit together in silence, although I’m still lost in my own thoughts, entirely separate from hers. The gray clouds have broken, now, and the first rays of sunlight are leaking through, warming the earth again. Slowly, she puts her arm around me, hand on my shoulder. I can only wonder what will happen to me now. I realize that nothing has really been fixed… I also realize that all of her kindness could be nothing more than pity – that after this is over, when I’m no longer on the verge of collapse, there will be no reason for her to speak to me. Or maybe it’s the beginning of something more important… but it doesn’t matter, now. I just have to take it one step at a time.
“Are you going to be all right?” she asks.
I smile, as I look up at her. “I think so.”
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too close for comfort
Posted Jun 18, 2008
I find myself relating to the person in this essay quite strongly. Reminds me of myself, I suppose, and my own experiences among the crowds. Descriptions of the leaves and other relatively minor things added extra depth. I really liked the imagery of the clothes seeming just as tired as the body,... (
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