Never in my life since I started college have I questioned what I do. I've always been content to over-pack my schedule and be constantly busy. It was the way that I liked things. This summer, at least in terms of my usually frantic life, was a summer off. I only worked one job, I swam in the afternoons and the rest of the time was free time. MY time. Yes, there were points where I was starting to get a little stir-crazy and itching for something, but it all balanced pretty well. I was allowed to be lazy (to the extent I would allow myself).
Then I took a 5-week "vacation."
This consisted of three glorious weeks in London and two in Ohio, one down in Columbus for my cousin's wedding and the other at Cedar Point with a lot of my good friends from school and home. These five weeks were jam-packed with fun and life and left me coming back to Ithaca refreshed and ready to take on the world (albeit also with a sinus infection).
Now that classes have started and my workload is, once again, piling up, it doesn't feel right to me anymore. To its extent I like the distraction, but I don't know if I can any longer relish in a schedule that's not just busy, but OVERLOAD busy. I need things to do: I often crave to be doing something but... To never have time to breathe... I don't know how I did it all those years.
It's been such a long time since I've been anything but completely sure of myself, now there's some small something that just doesn't feel right anymore. And if what's felt right to me for three years doesn't feel right anymore, what does?

The Way Things Are

She sits on the balcony wrapped in a bath towel, her hair still dripping with water from the shower she had just taken. She glances across the highway, watching cars fly past in both directions. She is counting. Four red. Seven blue. Twelve white. Eight blue. Six green.
She sighs and turns back to the glass door and looks at her reflection. Her face is breaking out. She should probably start a strict washing routine before it gets too bad. She is starkly aware of the lack of life in her empty apartment. Unwashed dishes gather must in the sink. Dust mites cling to the air like a haze of smoke, dancing in the sun beams that refract through the window.
She pushes the door open. Closed. She sighs and turns back to the highway. Five red. Seven green. Three black. Thirteen white. A blue box of American Spirits rests on the flat part of the railing. A pink lighter is on top. She opens the pack, takes out a cigarette, puts it in her mouth and pauses as her hand reaches for the lighter. She sighs, puts the cigarette back and closes the box.
She looks back through the window and sees him crossing the living room towards her. He is only wearing his boxers and looks like he's just woken up. The door opens. Closes. A bird is singing in a nearby tree. Another calls back. He reaches for the cigarettes, playing with the lighter casually.
"Do you mind?"
She shakes her head, watching him open the pack and pull out the cigarette she had been about to smoke moments earlier. He lights up and kisses her temple gently before taking his first drag.
"You should forget about me," he says, the smoke rising into the air and catching the wind. "You know-"
"Don't say it," she says, looking back to the highway.
Four black. Nine blue. Eight green. Five black. Six red.
She can feel his eyes on her, then hears a noise as he shifts and leans over the railing, spitting onto the ground two stories below. He takes another drag of the cigarette. The smell is starting to sting her nose. She picks up the lighter and begins to click it open and closed. Ten blue. Seven red. Eight red. Fourteen white.
"How many?" he asks finally.
"Ten blue, eight red, five black, fourteen white and eight green."
He nods and takes a last long drag from the smoking stick before crushing it out on the railing and flicking it into the bushes below. He looks at her. She looks at him. She has a thousand things she could say to him, a thousand casual lines she could toss his way, a thousand scenes just like this one running through her head. She is speechless. He takes the lighter from her and closes it with one final click. He picks up the American Spirits and puts them in her hand with the lighter.
"It's better this way," he says. "Don't complicate things. Just let it go."
He opens the door and motions her inside.
"Would you stay if I asked you? Would you change?"
She can't stop herself from asking the question.
He looks at her and half nods, doesn't quite smile.
"I might want to. Don't ask me. Don't think about it."
"Are you scared?" she asks instead.
He looks into her eyes.
"Me, too," she says.
He walks away and disappears into the bedroom. She walks into the bathroom and runs a comb through her wet hair. She's thinking about his lips and the way it felt to have his arms around her. She's thinking about all the ways that things could be if they weren't the way they are. She's thinking about work tomorrow and the next day and she smiles.
He is leaving now, his backpack slung across his shoulder. She walks into the front room. He's wearing faded jeans and a wife beater. His tennis shoes are on and he's ready to go. He reaches out to hug her and she wraps her arms around him, but only for a moment. He nods and makes his way down the stairs.
"Thank you," she says before he walks out the door. He waves one last time and is gone. She sits on the couch and stares at the blank TV screen, a movie playing in her head. She wraps her arms around herself and smiles.

Dear Sir

Dear Sir,
I said at the beginning of this I was going to forget you. I told myself and sort of you that it was one weekend, and that I wouldn't look beyond that because, whether it was timing or circumstance or both, it wasn't plausible. I went home and told myself for three weeks to forget about you, because that's what you would, and did, me.
Honestly? I didn't forget about you. I don't live every day wondering "what if," but I do wonder who you would be if I got to know you. Would you be someone I can connect with outside the bedroom? Would you be a great personality with a face I like to look at? Would you be someone I could fall in love with? I'm not saying I'm in love with you, but I'm saying that I wouldn't mind the opportunity to find out if I could.
I don't put up pretenses and I don't play games. Who I am is who I am and, for better or worse, it's who I will always be. I have an irrational fear of initiating conversations with guys (whether calling them on the phone or simply IMing them) and anytime I do it is usually after a lot of up talking and really honing my courage. Silly? Yes. Me? Without a doubt.
I'm not perfect, nor do I pretend to be. I'll admit when my neuroses are showing and I'll admit when I'm wrong. I just wanted to tell you that you're someone that I'd like to get to know: That you're someone I will never be able to completely put out of my mind and that if someone were to be the person to turn my world upside down and prove me wrong about my take of realism, I'd like it a lot if it were you. I pretend to have all of the answers, I'm not going to lie. I pride myself on the phrase, "I'm always right," but I would love nothing more than for you to prove me wrong: To write an ending to this story that isn't the harshly gray shades of realism I've grown used to.
As it stands, thank you for at least giving me one great weekend I'll never forget.

-Heather