Liv looked out the window of the library, watching the people outside as they walked or sat or ran. A stream, really, individual lines of ants dutifully heading to this class or that, snaking off a thousand pathways. Wending around islands of friends, seated near a tree or on a bench, back packs in front of them.
A girl leaning against her boyfriend's chest under a tree, watching something together on her wallet. A group of people talking animatedly and passionately about something important. Three guys standing around laughing and goofing off while kicking around some kind of ball.
And all around them the bright green of late spring, blooming flowers and trees, flitting of birds and insects, seemed to hover and shimmer.
She looked out the window, wondering why she was here. Her pack was unopened. Less and less could she make herself care about microbiology. It was another unopened book that kept calling her attention. She lightly fingered the corners, felt the uneven paper edges along the side. Her heart pounded.
Absently, she touched her eyebrow, felt the slight ridge of demarcation that split it. Just a tic she did without noticing. It was the book that sang to her. But the seranade brought with it pain. The little deaths, infinite slices, cutting her heart a sliver at a time.
She clenched her jaw, feeling hot wetness behind her eyes. Ilesha's words had stayed with her, though, angering her at her own cowardice.
Father was happy with his shop, husbanding flowers and plants, nurturing them into their most beautiful selves. She saw the way he looked at her, the way he and ma looked at her. Filled with love and concern. Wanting her to find joy again.
And Andrei, little brother that he was...somehow, the brat had disappeared. Mostly. He still left the seat up. And god, but he was such a slob. But he was also funny, always trying to make her laugh.
She had good soil to grow in. Dreams still ahead of her. Connection. The people out there, they had it. Whatever it was she sought, they had it.
She turned to the book, forcing herself to open it. A Survey of Impressionism- 1860 to 1945. Carefully, reverently, she turned the pages, the emotion and color drenched images bring a sense of peace and serenity.
And disquiet. The call. It was so strong. And she was scared.
A girl leaning against her boyfriend's chest under a tree, watching something together on her wallet. A group of people talking animatedly and passionately about something important. Three guys standing around laughing and goofing off while kicking around some kind of ball.
And all around them the bright green of late spring, blooming flowers and trees, flitting of birds and insects, seemed to hover and shimmer.
She looked out the window, wondering why she was here. Her pack was unopened. Less and less could she make herself care about microbiology. It was another unopened book that kept calling her attention. She lightly fingered the corners, felt the uneven paper edges along the side. Her heart pounded.
Absently, she touched her eyebrow, felt the slight ridge of demarcation that split it. Just a tic she did without noticing. It was the book that sang to her. But the seranade brought with it pain. The little deaths, infinite slices, cutting her heart a sliver at a time.
She clenched her jaw, feeling hot wetness behind her eyes. Ilesha's words had stayed with her, though, angering her at her own cowardice.
Father was happy with his shop, husbanding flowers and plants, nurturing them into their most beautiful selves. She saw the way he looked at her, the way he and ma looked at her. Filled with love and concern. Wanting her to find joy again.
And Andrei, little brother that he was...somehow, the brat had disappeared. Mostly. He still left the seat up. And god, but he was such a slob. But he was also funny, always trying to make her laugh.
She had good soil to grow in. Dreams still ahead of her. Connection. The people out there, they had it. Whatever it was she sought, they had it.
She turned to the book, forcing herself to open it. A Survey of Impressionism- 1860 to 1945. Carefully, reverently, she turned the pages, the emotion and color drenched images bring a sense of peace and serenity.
And disquiet. The call. It was so strong. And she was scared.