Sold To My Crush

                Lost in plain sight

The Florida sky hung low and bruised—an unnatural, swollen purple that bled into the horizon like an open wound. July’s heat pressed heavy against my skin, but inside me, everything felt frozen, brittle, breaking.

Senior year was over. Exams done. Goodbyes half-hearted, like whispers lost in a storm. Yearbooks were scrawled with signatures that never reached me—words meant for someone else, a ghost version of myself. Dad said I should be happy. Graduating was supposed to be a celebration. But my chest was a hollow cavern where joy refused to echo.

High school had never been a dream. It was a fragile bubble, thin and fragile enough to keep the sharp edges of the world from cutting too deep. Now that bubble was bursting, and I was exposed, raw to a future I didn’t want.

And worst of all was the silence I’d never escape.

I could no longer see the boy who held my heart. Hear his rich voice that sounds like velvet soaked in honey. He never knew I watched, waited, worshiped from a distance.

This is tragic, so no— I don’t think I’m thrilled to be graduating.

***

"Good morning princess!.” My father’s voice floated from the doorway, rich with excitement. Harry O’Sullivan—a merry name in my opinion for a merry man. He had a lopsided grin on his pale white face, the same one he wore whenever when he brought home surprises or dragged me to bad rom-coms. He had always been like that—my dad, always trying to put a smile on every face. Still I must admit that there were times that I found him— overbearing.

"Come right in Dad!.” I rolled my eyes, pulling my thick duvet over my head. "You ever heard of knocking?". My voice came out mumbled.

"Get up already, it's the last day of senior year.” He dragged his words, tugging the duvet gently. “You should be excited.” He pointed out.

There was some sense in his words, I knew he was trying to help. I just wasn’t ready to pretend yet.

"Okay dad." My voice came out quietly, barely above a whisper but I knew he heard me because he finally let me be.

I dragged my weak limbs to the bathroom, exhausted from a night laid wide awake, anxious about today. I played a thousand and twelve versions of the What if’s of today —yet, nothing was certain. The day still remained a mystery the only difference was how drained I felt.

Anxiety and fear siblings I birthed and nurtured—insidious and potent.  

After a quick shower, I slipped into my usual amour; loose pants and an over sized T-shirt. My go-to amour.  

Comfortable. Safe. Just like my name—Lily O’Sullivan. Plain, forgettable.

Reluctantly, I grabbed a hair tie from my dresser and pulled my long wavy brown hair into a ponytail. I could now see myself clearly— my big emerald eyes, full pink lips that has been alleged a hundred times to be fake, a sharp pointed noise and red big bunny ears that had seen better weather conditions.

The longer I stared at my reflection the more I began to see bits of myself more clearly—the dark circles around my eyes, the faint bruises on my neck. This meant that other people could see too.

My breath caught.

Instantly, I yanked the hair ties off, allowing the thick and untamed beauty flow down my back, framing my face. I love my hair, it was one of the few things I like about myself— it’s ability to keep me hidden.

Just like my outfit hides my curvy body. A curvy body I have loathed all my life, for all the misfortunes it caused me, the hungry eyes and hands that can’t decode no. A curvy body, another reason why I can never be his. The girls usually glued to his side

were all angles and air. Supermodels in training.

Maybe if I was skinny, he would see me. Maybe then I’d be enough.

A curvy body inherited from my mum— a woman carefully hand crafted by the divine, exceptionally beautiful in his image. She always praised my beauty, perhaps it was coming from the voice of a loving mother. None of such beauty I have ever seen myself, not when no one else wanted me, not even as a friend, except for Tiffany Morgan.

That, in itself, felt like proof.

A tear escaped, surprising me. I hadn't realized I was crying until it traced a cold path down my cheek. Memories of Mom, of our short lived moments together, flooded back. Those evenings we would sit together in the dark balcony, silently overlooking the city. Many words were not shared but still we were content.

The times I would accompany her to any place or remain at home with her, even when every other person was out. People called me her purse and I never argued with them, neither was I ashamed.

It has been three years since she passed, yet it still felt like this morning I’d heard the mortifying news. Stage four cancer. It was too late. If only we’d known sooner, she’d still be here.

Sometimes I wonder if the rest of us were left in the dark while she knew all along about her condition. That was like her—strong, selfless, silent in pain.

At first, I’d been furious at her, thinking she had not fought hard enough to stay. Now, maybe I understood, maybe she’d had enough of this world. But it still hurt so much, even after all this time. I could not move on, and when I caught myself happy, even for a moment, guilt twisted in my gut. I wasn’t supposed to be happy when she wasn’t here.

My quiet sobs escalated into desperate, hysterical wails. Deep ugly sobs that made my chest ache. All the pain, all the guilt from missing her so much... it surged like a wave.

The door creaked open, and Dad was there. I launched myself into his arms, clinging to him. “Shh, it’s okay, my princess. Everything will be fine.” He murmured.

Eventually, the sobs subsided.

“Do you think you can still make it to school today?” He asked softly.