Thump Thump. Thump.
The bass of the EDM music boomed rhythmically in my ear as I was cleaning my room with the motivation from that random energy spike you get after months of procrastinating. I bent down to collect trash from under and around my bed and that’s when I noticed it—my box, which ever since what happened, I do not use anymore. Things are much better now. I threw away the box, and the chocolate wrappers scattered on the floor, without a second thought while I thought about what had happened.
I had opened my little cardboard box of trinkets, embellished with intricate white patterns and lace along its edge. It was quite small and fit into both of my hands. Dust, accumulating inside the box for several years, escaped from its captivity and into my nostrils, suffocating me. A long time ago, I got that box and put some things inside. Its contents were things I associated with certain things or people. I observed the dust. It had embraced every corner and detail of the box and its contents and formed an impenetrable layer. There were minor bulges here and there from where my treasure yearned to poke out to bask in the light of day. I thought that even though it had caused me a few diseases, all not very severe, I could not remove the dust. I just… couldn’t. I picked some lint to access what it covered while holding it by the very tips of my fingers so it retained its shape.
I picked up a paper crane one of my friends made, which I named after her. But the sheath of dust around it discolored the paper. It was once a white so spotless and bright you’d be careful not to damage your eyes. But now it was a hideous brown, with uneven spots in areas where the dust seeped into the paper. Unfortunately, I could not remove the dust since I had accepted it as a part of the box. Opening the box still comforted me. It made me reflect on time and how grateful I was to still be friends with some, despite the dust that ruined the things tied to those memories. Snapping back to reality, I closed the box frantically, keeping it under my bed, and continued my day. I did not want to give my family a heart attack at the sight of me smiling at something in a box like a lunatic if they walked in.
The next day was a Monday, and I had to go to school. It was a place I loved because I was most productive there and could get work done, but I also loathed it because of the people, especially the other students.
“Hey, quiet kid! How’s that silence working out for you? No way you’re one of those lame emo kids.” Someone approached my lunch table and asked while he nudged his friends, prompting them to laugh.
I ignored them and ate my lunch. Sometimes, silence is better.
I am perceived as the quiet kid at school, but it is because I have nothing to say. I chose never to get involved. They despise me for this belief, yet also advocate for the validity of all opinions and the right to express them. This makes them all the more confusing. Moreover, everyone has turned toxic and downright fake once they enter secondary school. There hasn’t been one day that someone has not given me a weird look or pretended they didn’t know me, but I try my best not to heed it.
Even my friend who made the paper crane had been acting strange. She had formed other friends who were the worst influence on her. They convinced (or even forced) her to start doing things I cannot even talk about. Her words, once so smooth and sweet now pierced people. That wasn’t my loving, soft-spoken friend. I had made several efforts to try to stop and make her reflect, to have her hear what she said and see what she did but all efforts were futile.
“That’s none of your business,” she said.
I wish I could have done something but in my defense, the distance between us increased day by day. She went from being passive-aggressive to not showing up during free sessions to hang out (something we always did previously).
Too embarrassed of my current dilemma, I approached one of my good friends. I will name her Orchid here, as those are her favorite. She said, “My problems don’t get to me, they sure get to my subconscious.” However, that day, I felt ecstatic, like nothing was wrong, like I did not care about a word people said or thought about me. I cannot describe it, but it felt different, in a good way—and I would know because I had never felt that way before.
After a well-spent school day, I returned home, bolted to my bedroom, and bent over to grab my box from under the bed. It was not in its usual spot.
“Mom! Where is my box?” I screamed with apprehension to my mom in another room.
“Oh, that thing? I found it under your bed when I dropped your sock while folding laundry. That thing was so dusty, it was in dire need of a good clean. No need to thank me.” She replied, and shortly after came into my room to return the box. I stood there refusing to believe anything she said, every word of her echoing in my mind.
“Here. Don’t seem so startled; I forgot to give it to you.” She said before she left.
I stood there in disbelief, shock, and anger. Not only because she had touched my box but also because she had cleaned it.
But that’s when it hit me.
It had never been about my box and it certainly had never been about the dust. It had simply been about ME. Me making peace with my past and the people in it — just to live in the present.
Bzzzt.
I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. Someone’s calling me. Fading back to reality, I noticed my smile, one of nostalgia and one of joy to be over that stage of my life. But I quickly reverted to a neutral expression and took my phone out to see whose caller ID it was. Orchid. Through her, I have learned to let go and live in the present.
“Hey!” She says.
I reply with an enthusiastic “Hey!”
“Our friend group was thinking of going for lunch. You wanna join?”
“Yes! I could so use a good meal with my favorite people right now.” I say eagerly, thinking that past me would have never said yes.
As I exit my room’s door, I give my box one final look, which now lies crushed in my trashcan and step out of my house. Here’s to new beginnings, and a new life.
By: Khushi Raste
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