Young Writers Society

IMPORTANT INFORMATION

This is a spoken word - meant to be read by two people. 

The bolded, italicized writing is the character "Cora" while the normal font is an unnamed male character.

It was the tap on my shoulder before I stepped onto the bus at the end of the day. It was the glance across the room, the conversation of looks. We somehow knew exactly what each other was thinking without having to say a word. It was the anticipation of opening the folded paper, anxious to see what’s inside. It was all of it. All perfect.

“He called it perfect? I suppose. Maybe great or just enough, perfect was more like the way he ended his sentences with a little dotted line to say what he didn’t know how to. It was the translation of three words into a stroke of his pen. Or maybe the way he listened to music. Headphones on, eyes closed, just slightly swaying to the beat like no one was watching. It was the carelessness. The confidence. That was perfect.”

With a name like Cora, you couldn’t help but wonder what she was like. She used have long brown hair that covered her eyes when she looked down but one day, it was all gone. In its place was the prettiest short hair in the world, it was grey now. You could see her eyes, blue and bright. I asked her why, she asked me why not. She was so comfortable in who she was. Who she once Was.

One day, Cora dropped her pen, mumbled something under her breath, sighed, and searched the ground. She wouldn’t find it there. It rolled all the way to the back of the room, right where my desk was. She didn’t find it and I didn’t give it back to her. I waited, one day, then two.

Day three a note arrived, stuck to top of my desk. All it took was that single sheet of paper that started an endless conversation. For the rest of the year, we had a symphony of post-it notes, each one better than the last. Questions asked, then answered with not a momentary delay. No awkward silence, because to be silent on paper is to just leave it blank. It was perfect. Until it wasn’t anymore.

“He said the perfect ended? Well I don’t think it was ever there. We had classes that became conversations then before we knew it, we were studying each other. A friendship? I suppose, but it was more than that. Not in the way of love, but a connection I didn’t even know how to control. A collection of note cards that acted as a voice when weren’t supposed to speak at all. The feeling of rebelliousness that came with the words passing back and forth until we knew so much about each other we could write biographies from start to finish. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe we knew too much.”

Too much? Not enough. She was still a mystery to me. A mind revealed through each 3 by 3 piece of paper I read, one at a time, concentrating on every curve on each letter. That was the too much she was afraid of but I think she knew that her brain was a dam, holding back all of it so if one thing breaks the rest will pour out, destroying everything in its path. A waterfall of words that had been held back by barriers made out of fear. She feared losing me by saying too much but I’m just afraid of not knowing everything. We shared smirks with each other that spoke for themselves but she always looked away before I got the chance to hear the end. Now, she wouldn't look at me. Those smirks became blank stares past each other's’ faces. The classes became classes, an hour and a half of seeing her and missing all that we once had. The notes from Cora now laid on the ground, crumpled up memories creased in a certain way that broke the part of my heart that longed for it to be back to normal. BUt there she sat, not fazed at that fact that she now wrote in a notebook to hand into the teacher not a note card to past back to me.

“Biographies, more like psych evals. He could see through my wall no matter how strong I built it up. He could analyze me in a way I didn’t even understand. How can he call me perfect but see my flaws with a prescription no glasses of mine could ever have? My emotional wreck of a brain and my unstable sanity, but he managed to call me perfect? He knew me inside and out, he had figured me out before I even got the chance to do so myself.

The last note was too much for me. My immediate reaction was to crush it in my hand and let it drop onto the ground. The way it fell was in slow motion, every rotation erasing our friendship before both of our eyes. I tried to convince myself that it was for the better but I couldn’t. Once it hit the ground, I felt his heart sink because together, ours operated in unison, when one broke, we broke together. But this time, I took a deep breath and pushed each feeling to the pit of my stomach. I let the notes sit on floor in a pile of guilt staring back at me. I felt so indebted to him. I owed him everything, but I couldn’t give that. I ran away from the good that was there to avoid the undeniable fate of disappointment that I anticipated. That’s why it wasn’t perfect and that’s why it never could have been.”

The last thing I told her must’ve scared her away. Those four words must’ve chased her.

I love you Cora.