The Fray Theory: Resonance Page 2

  Eager to throw in the towel, Neve looks up at the hideous mass-produced clock above the east exit.

  Still 3:53 pm!?

  She slides down in her seat. It feels like time itself is stuck in limbo.

  She could just take off… It’s not like if she keeps sitting here, the correct answers are going to leap off the page at her.

  But then, if she fails—which she probably will—a part of her will always wonder whether it’s because she didn’t give this damn test her all.

  And it’s much easier to blame Holt than to blame herself. So she begrudgingly stays put, and endures another seven or so eternities.

  The moment the proctor announces the end of the exam, Neve springs out of her seat and strides down the steps towards the front of the hall.

  Tight-lipped, she drops her insipid burden on the desk, avoiding eye-contact with the proctor.

  The urge to flip him off is simply too real.

  She exhales the tension she’s been bottling up and turns to scan the crowd for a string-bean in hipster clothing.

  Failing to spot her best friend, Elliot, she makes her way out of the nearest exit onto green university grounds.

  The timid Vancouver sun is peeking through the pillowy clouds. Generous stretches of emerald grass carpet the landscape. But prettiest of all would have to be the cherry blossom trees, their plush canopies flush with pastel pinks.

  Springtime in Vancouver is absolutely enchanting, especially at the University of British Columbia, or UBC as everyone affectionately calls it. And although the stress of final exams is weighing down on nearly everyone, today’s gorgeous weather makes it almost impossible not to smile.

  Neve walks over to the nearest bench and takes a seat, the sunbathed panels toasty-warm beneath her thighs. It’s such a far cry from the sodden surfaces she’s long become accustomed to, so she closes her eyes and pretends to be somewhere else.

  Somewhere different.

  σ

  Like a broken line of ants, Neve’s colleagues slowly trickle out of the building. It’s beginning to feel like she’s been dawdling out here for hours, so she grabs her phone and texts Elliot.

 

  A few minutes go by, and nothing. Neve is starting to seriously wonder about what’s taking him so long.

  She rises from the bench to go back and fetch him, but just then, she receives a text from a number she can’t quite place.

 

  Is it from Elli? Did he lose his phone?

  Neve sighs and plops back down on the bench.

 

  Her text is immediately marked as ‘read’, but no response pops onto her screen.

  After a drawn-out minute of waiting, she gives up on the prospect and rises once more. As she throws her purse over her shoulder, she receives another text from the same number.

 

  Neve’s blood freezes. Feeling dazed, she stumbles back onto the bench.

  ‘It’s Dylan?’ She stares into space. ‘Hey Neve, how’s it going?’ ‘Oh hey, Dylan, what have you been up to?’ ‘Oh you know, just locked up in a cell for the last three years, or I would’ve totally dropped you a line.’ ‘Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny, D. You smart good.’

  Neve shoves her phone into her jacket pocket and begins to tap her foot maniacally. She’s not going to respond. She owes him nothing.

  A few more minutes drag by with no sign of Elliot, so Neve surrenders to her compulsion and pulls up the text again.

  This time, it hits her.

  It’s Dylan.

  σ

  “What!?” Elliot’s door flies open from under Neve’s pounding fist.

  She stares at him deadpan, and then marches into his dorm room and plops down on his couch.

  Elliot swings the door shut and walks over to his bed. He collapses onto it, making his comforter puff up around him like a loaf of bread rising in the oven.

  His room smells like stale junk food, and there are far too many empty cans of beer lying around. But at least she can hear the peaceful sound of ocean waves through the crack in his window.

  Or is it the swoosh of all the cars speeding along the coastal road? It’s hard to tell.

  “I waited for you,” Neve breaks the silence.

  With his face still buried, he draws a deep breath and exhales it back into his comforter. “Sorry.”

  Neve’s gaze loses focus as her mind starts to drift off again. “Dylan texted me.”

  “Confuse me!?” Elliot’s wide and hostile eyes peek from behind his sheets. “Are you kidding me?”

  “He wants to talk.”

  “It’s been three years!”

  “And two months.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Elliot props himself onto his elbow, staring at Neve with equal parts anger and unease.

  It’s coming: another one of his anti-Dylan tirades.

  “I don’t even…” Elliot mutters and sits up.

  He runs his fingers through his mousy hair, which is in desperate need of a good wash. And his eyes are bloodshot. And he seems spindlier than usual.

  “Are you okay?” Neve asks. “How’d you do on the final?”

  Elliot’s posture wilts. “I didn’t go.”

  “Uh… please be kidding.”

  He shuts his eyes and squares his shoulders.

  “Elli—did you actually skip the final?”

  “Yessss,” he groans.

  Neve continues to stare. “Why?”

  “Because who cares? That’s why.”

  She turns her head slightly, eyes still glued to him. “Did you at least call in sick, or something?”

  Nothing. He doesn’t even acknowledge her.

  “Elli—it’s Marcus Holt we’re talking about. He’s not going to cut you any slack just because you’re at the top of his class.”

  Elliot remains stoic, staring into space as though she’s not even there.

  Failing to inspire a sense of urgency, Neve rises from the couch and sits down next to him on the bed.

  Still nothing.

  “Elli,” she takes his hand, “I know it’s hard. I can’t even imagine how hard, but you gotta push through these episodes.”

  “Neve—” he grimaces, “don't shrink me. Please.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Well, don’t,” he lies back down, his hand sliding from Neve’s gentle grasp. “It is what it is.”

  Neve bites down on her lower lip. “Look—I know this is probably the last thing you want to hear, but I really think it’s time you see a professional.”

  Elliot frowns. “Were you counting the ceiling tiles in Ethics class?”

  “I think I might’ve been fluffing my pillow.”

  “Every shrink’s first priority is to cover his own ass. They don’t give a shit about their patients.”

  “They’re not all like that. You just need to find one you click with.”

  “Thanks, mom. Are you going to tell me to wait at least an hour before I go swimming?”

  “You know—you can be a real chore sometimes.”

  “Then why don’t you go hang out with your other bestie? Ohhh, you can’t.” He crosses his arms behind his head, challenging Neve with raised brows.

  “I would if it didn’t cost me a flight to Paris.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure little ‘Miss Croissant’ is just dying to hear about your epic adventures in Neuroscience.”

  And for a moment, Neve wonders if Elliot’s got a point. That it’s naïve of her to cling onto a childhood friendship strained by a five-thousand-mile gap.

  “You’re still here,” Elliot grumbles.

  “Elli—” Neve lies down next to him. “It is not easy being friends with someone who has depression. Not because it’s a burden, but because you love them. So their pain becomes your own.” She rests her hand on his chest. “You really expect me to just sit by and do nothing?”

  “Y
ou’re the one to talk.”

  “Anxiety is different.”

  “No, it’s not. Shut up.”

  “It is,” she chuckles, smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt. “When I have a panic attack, I just want to ride it out without someone suffocating me.”

  “That whole ‘suffocating’ thing goes both ways.”

  “Except my attacks come and go, and last a couple of minutes, tops. Some of your episodes have lasted for months. You can’t keep brushing this off.”

  Elliot shuts his eyes and exhales through his nose.

  “Look—I can start looking for a psychiatrist—”

  “It’s all bullshit! They all sit there, looking at you like you’re damaged. They nod at everything you say, but what they’re really doing is making mental notes of what not to say to you, just in case you decide to go and off yourself.”

  And suddenly Neve is six years old again, tightly clutching her mother’s hand.

  The waiting room is well-lit, but its aura is darker than the night itself. The woman sitting behind the front desk is beautiful, yet there is something unnerving behind her glossy smile.

  Like a poisoned candy apple.

  Elliot stares at the ceiling with vacant eyes.

  His defeated expression is practically a portrait of Neve’s childhood. She was too young to know how to write, so she would draw. She would awaken from a dream and dive straight for her little notepad.

  And just draw.

  So that once her dream came true, she’d be able to prove to everyone that she wasn’t making it all up.

  But instead of being applauded for her initiative, she was chastised. Her enthusiasm was extinguished, time and time again, until she became just another rehabilitated child.

  A statistic.

  “Elli,” she props herself onto her elbow, “It’s easy to look at other people and feel like you’re alone in this. But just because we all pretend to be fine,” she shakes her head, “doesn’t mean we are.”

  Elliot’s chest deflates. “I guess.”

  “Just hang in there while I look into some options for you, okay? And summer’s just around the corner! We can go to the night market, bike the seawall—”

  “Ugh, activities.”

  “Alright, fine. We can have one of those sarcastic movie review marathons you like so damn much.”

  Elliot smiles in spite of himself. The first smile she has seen on him in a while. And it’s a good one.

  “I can’t believe Dillweed had the balls to call you.”

  “Texted.”

  “You didn’t text back, right?”

  “No!” Neve says, sounding offended. “Not yet.”

  “Yet? Do we need to go over this again?”

  “I just want to hear him out.”

  “Why? Why give him the satisfaction?”

  “What satisfaction?”

  “Even responding is going to come off desperate. Like you’ve been sitting around, waiting for him to reach out. Which isn’t that far from the truth...”

  “Look—I know, okay?” she lies back down. “I do. But this could be my chance to finally find out what the hell happened.”

  “Neve. You were a mess.”

  “I know.”

  “No… I really don’t think you do. When we first met I thought you didn’t even have a personality.”

  Chuckling, Neve swats him on the belly with the back of her hand. Not that he’s wrong. It’s just hard for Neve to remember how it felt… being numb.

  “And besides, you got way too much to do before tomorrow,” Elliot adds.

  “I know. I’m heading to the gallery right now,” she says, then faces him. “You do know if you skip it, I’m going to kill you, right?”

  “Sssss, yeah… I was hoping to get my haircut..?”

  “Like—hunt you down, and kill you dead.”

  Elliot laughs. “So, are you selling at a fixed price? Or doing a silent auction?”

  “Auction,” Neve sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed. “I figured it’s a good way to test the waters… see what people think of my work.”

  “Make sure you have a Reserve Price.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Like a minimum bidding amount?” Elliot’s brows soar, creasing his forehead. “The last thing you want is for someone to bid three bucks on a painting you spent five months working on.”

  Oh God… Mom was right, what am I doing?

  “Yeah, no, I will. I have.” Neve rises from the bed, feeling completely disoriented. “Um—make sure you schedule a make-up exam before it’s too late,” she throws her purse over her shoulder. “I mean it, Elli. Call them today.”

  “Go away already,” he pushes her toward the door with his foot, but she lingers.

  “Are you absolutely sure I can’t text him back? It’s been three years.”

  “And two months.”

  Chapter 2

  Encore

  On the green outskirts of the university, Neve enters a quaint little café. The rich aroma of freshly-ground coffee tickles her senses, enveloping her in memories of a not too distant past. It takes her back to when she and Dylan would rendezvous here at all hours of the day, almost every day. Back to when she thought of change as adventure, and not loss.

  She looks about the space, taking in the changes.

  The espresso brick walls have been painted ivory, and the stainless steel counter has been retrofitted with a thick slab of reclaimed wood.

  But they’ve kept the marble mini-tables and the black metal chairs. So that’s something.

  With the baristas engaged in idle chit chat, Neve bypasses the semi-obligatory purchase and wanders towards the back of the café. Towards the industrial chandelier that put this place on the map. Back then, she just couldn’t understand why Dylan was so crazy about it. To her, it was just a thick, square block of wood with mismatched light bulbs dangling from it.

  But today, the mere sight of it makes her want to burst into tears.

  Beneath the chandelier, a pair of worn-out leather armchairs bracket an old coffee table. All three look like they’ve taken quite a beating since her last visit.

  She sits down in the armchair facing the fireplace. In the same seat she always took whenever she and Dylan were lucky enough to grab this corner spot.

  It was always such a treat. So warm and cozy.

  With their books sprawled in front of them, they’d sit here for hours on end, sipping their drinks at a glacial pace while chatting about nothing.

  And that was by far the most precious thing this place gave them.

  Time.

  Neve nestles herself in the cushy comfort of her chair, reminiscing about the obnoxious stories they dreamt up for their fellow caffeine devotees. Dylan would pick someone at random and come up with an elaborate conspiracy theory. And Neve could never resist a forbidden love affair between the unlikeliest pair in the café.

  But today, their favorite setting is nothing more than a refuge for the lonesome.

  Neve reaches into her purse and pulls out her old diary. The one she reads more often than she cares to admit. The one she has long stopped writing in.

  Ever since Dylan disappeared without a trace, her collection of memories slowly morphed into a safe. A secure asylum where she locked away her entangled thoughts and unruly emotions.

  It’s easy for Elliot to dismiss Dylan’s text.

  With each passing moment, Neve’s decision to not respond is feeling more and more like a tragedy in the making. So with hopes of stumbling upon some hidden wisdom, she runs her nail along the edge of her diary and opens it to a random page:

  And sometime next week, I will run into you at a café. And I will hate myself for not having bothered with makeup that day. And you will kick yourself for not taking the time to shave, even though you had plenty of time.

  We will both make and break unintentional eye-contact, trying desperately to conceal our inner thoughts.

  Mine, of missing you. />
  Yours, of wanting me.

  You will strike an overzealous conversation with the barista, pretending to not have seen me at all.

  And I’ll burn a hole in the chalkboard menu with my concentration, then pretend to text someone who cares about me.

  We will each put on an act of just how well we’re doing.

  Standing feet away, yet miles apart.

  And then, we will strategically part ways to avoid confrontation, and once home, sink into the nook of our comfort zones, feeling lonely, rejected, and maybe even heartbroken.

  Neve caresses the black ink that’s bled deep into the paper. She was so sure of her imminent run-in with Dylan. So certain it would be a matter of days.

  She flips to another page further in her diary:

  To tell you the truth, I don’t want to move on. I don’t want time to heal my wounds and wash away my feelings for you into nothing but faded memories. I don’t want to become jaded, skeptical of love, and go on to question everything because I now know the pain of loss.

  It breaks me to think that I will never see you again. That I’ll never have the chance to tell you what I thought the first time I ever saw you: that I’ve never seen anything greener than your eyes.

  The words on the page blur beyond a veil of tears.

  They made plans. They were going to backpack through Europe after graduation, slumming it from hostel to hostel on their own dime, as if neither came from a wealthy family. They wanted to venture into the unknown with nothing but a map to guide them.

  Instead, Neve is sitting alone in a place which no longer feels like home, wondering how none of it turned out the way she thought.

  “Neve,” a familiar voice nears.

  Neve quickly collects her amassing tears with her sleeve, and then looks up at the silhouette towering before her.

  Oh my God…

  Her heart drops like a heavy apple snapping off its branch. Darkness frames her field of vision, and her bones befall a deep ache.

  Dylan…

  He steps into Neve’s memory of his face as though walking into a mask.

  His features are far more defined than they used to be. His blood-red locks are longer, fuller, and set ablaze by the sun’s warm gleam. And his hauntingly beautiful eyes are even greener than she remembers.