Page 9 of Written in the Oceans

My eyes start to wander, my hands fidgeting with my sunglasses that now rest on the iron table before moving against the fabric of my jeans in an attempt to relax, trying to keep my hands busy.

Everything seems to be happening around me. The steam rising above my coffee, birds chirping in the trees, the hearty laughter of a group of students gathered around each other, engaged in their own riveting storytelling.

A woman sitting in the far corner of the patio.

When you recognize something familiar, you’re drawn to it. It calls to you, sometimes in excitement for something that feels reassuringly nostalgic and sometimes with dread, knowing that what you see isn’t good. It’s discomforting. Like when you see a storm coming with the same dark clouds you’ve seen before, reminding you of the destruction it’s sure to leave behind. Those are the eyes that I see staring off into nothing, exhausted and dispirited to the point of absolute heartbreak. And they feel familiar.

She’s a student, I assume. She has her books lying out in front of her, the pages blowing in the wind, but she maintains no effort to keep them in place on the table. Instead, she keeps her hands tucked into the kangaroo pockets of her sweater as the tips of her dark hair lift around her face every time a soft breeze blows by. The bottom curve of her chin twitches as her jaw sets, and she gnaws on her upper lip, exposing the white tips of her teeth. Her eyes look lost. Like all of the energy that fuels her has been drained and emptied. And every time her eyes flutter and her gaze shifts to something else, it looks as if she was convincing herself to hold it together. To bind everything that held her in place tighter instead of loosening those bindings and letting it all fall apart.

Up until now, I’ve never seen what I feel reflected in another person. I always assume that I’m going through this all alone, that no one can ever understand the battle my mind plays out in my head each day. And I can never tell anyone I feel this way. They would just respond with disapproval and misunderstanding.

How could you complain when you have such a blessed life?

What do you have to be so sad about? You’re so successful.

Just focus on your success. You won’t be sad anymore.

So instead, I wallow in my depression alone, surrounded by the whispers of criticism and judgment.

But this woman…

I watch as her eyes continue to search over her surroundings. As if she’s looking for a distraction from her own thoughts. She buries her face in her hands, her breathing evening out before she pulls at her face and wraps her hands around her neck as her fingers meet at her nape.

When she looks back up, her eyes meet mine. The middle edges of her brows turn up, right where a single vertical crease forms, pleading. Begging me to… I don’t even know. Help her? Drag her out of this incessant pull of water trying to keep her under? The corners of her mouth pull downwards in a deep frown as her chest rises and falls. Her breathing picks up pace as her eyes never leave mine. The air continues to shift around her, breezing through her hair as it cuts across her face in light sweeps.

I know it sounds absurd, but as our eyes remain locked in what feels like a conflict of push and pull, I feel her pain transfer on to me. Like I’m taking on whatever hurt was piercing through her heart, leaving it spent and beyond repair. I feel the moment I see right through her guise and recognize the hurt in every single facet of her heart. It’s as if I can physically see her heart breaking in front of my eyes and for some reason, I want it to stop. I want to fix it because whatever hurt she’s feeling, I’m feeling it too.

Everything in me is telling me to look away, fearing that she might recognize me, but I can’t. I can’t tear my eyes away from hers. They look at me as if she’s willing me to help her, to pull her out from the dark waters that she’s drowning in. I want to tell her that I want to help, but how? How can one person who’s already drowning help another from drowning too?

FOUR

ELLIE

It always happens gradually, the ache, the heaviness. It always starts in my heart, right at the center of my chest. It starts there because that’s where it’s the most painful. And then it spreads. It slowly and painfully spreads to my shoulders and settles into my limbs. At that point, it feels physical. It’s no longer an emotion but an ache that becomes tangible, making it impossible to move, to subsist. So I sink, I drown. I let the harsh water rush over me, smiling at the thought that I no longer have to fight because I’ve surrendered.

It’s the fresh wave of the ebb and flow that I’ve become so familiar with rushing towards me. No warning, just the knowledge that once this too passes, I’ll have to welcome it once again. That old foe that keeps showing up, unannounced and always unwelcome.

It clouds my vision, blurring and clearing as everything in front of me focuses and goes out of focus. All I hear is the happy conversations of the people around me, now a muffled sound that thuds against my eardrums. The iron table in front of me feels cold, my hand catching on the small holes so that I can grasp something real, something concrete. Even my books that were causing me nothing more than a passing moment of frustration a minute ago distort right in front of me.

That’s when I see him.

He watches as I take down every safeguard I surround myself with because I’m so tired. So tired and weary, and I want… My head instinctively shakes. The disbelief of actually knowing what I want, knowing what will take me away from this feeling of being submerged by the pull of dark, angry waters is almost euphoric.

But I can’t look away, not when I feel like he’s the only thing keeping me grounded. It’s as if I can somehow send him a beacon, a call for help. So I can hope. Maybe hang on to some sort of surety that I don’t have to live like this forever.

I have to leave, get the hell out of there. I blink away the blurriness and try to focus as I gather my things. My feet and hands move faster than my brain, every neuron signaling my muscles to move faster, quicker. My books find themselves roughly shoved into my backpack before I beeline towards the exit, tossing my half-empty coffee cup in a nearby trash can. I feel embarrassed, indignant even. After trying so hard to be complacent and never letting anyone have reason to be concerned for my well-being, I let a moment of weakness expose me.

Call it curiosity, call it self-sabotaging, but I instinctively stop on my way out. I turn to take one more look at the man, and he’s still staring at me with an impassive look stretched over his face. The lip of his hat is pulled low, hovering over his eyes that reflect like a kaleidoscope of varying blues. Cobalt, aquamarine, cornflower, all blending together seamlessly. His hand is shielding the bottom portion of his face with his elbow propped against the arm of the chair, fingers fanning over his mouth and jaw. Only the upper curve of his nose is visible over his index finger.

I look away, disheartened yet thoroughly bemused, and continue to walk out, unsure of how to comprehend this out of place exchange between two complete strangers.

When I’m met with a gaggle of people crowding towards the coffee shop, I feel broken free of whatever stupor seemed to tether me to the coffee shop behind me. I look down at my phone to check the time. After trudging through classes all morning and not being able to get my coffee until close to lunch time, I still have another half hour until my next class. I take my time walking towards the lecture hall where my statistics class is located, leaning against the cold wall once I arrive, just as my phone vibrates in my hand.

It’s Claire.

We’ve been friends since our freshman year at UCLA when we sat next to each other in a crowded auditorium. We were both fresh-faced eighteen-year-olds, ready to face the world of adulthood only to find out how ill-prepared we were. Her bright smile and confident spirit drew me to her right away. She has always been a welcoming presence since. We’ve been looking forward to graduating together at the end of the semester. A culmination of the last four years and our hard work finally paying off in one ceremonial day.

Claire:Hey. When are you done with class?

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