class of 2013 ✓

09 | sapiosexual

Despite being literally perfect, Aria was probably the most humble person I've ever met. Seriously, whenever someone complimented her, she'd instantly return the favor. Whenever the spotlight was on her, she tried to deflect the attention onto someone else. Whenever she won an award, she wouldn't even tell us.

I don't know if that infuriated me or made it hard to hate her.

I mean, she had to know that she was extraordinary. She practically heard it every day. Still, she never let any of it get inside her head, something both admirable and genuine.

Now, even a cracked picture frame couldn't hide the way she just commanded attention. Even in this old photo, she looked so happy—a smile etched onto her face as my mom proudly wrapped an arm around her frail shoulders. Mom never smiled like that when the two of us took a picture together.

If I'm not mistaken, this was taken when she was in 5th grade and I was about 2 years old. She had just won a spelling bee—the first of many wins she'd rack up.

She would've been 26 if she was alive today. 26 with a bright future.

Truly a shame. I wonder what went wrong. She wasn't exactly an open book. More like the type of girl to smile through the pain.

I'd give anything to crack open that skull and see how her brain worked.

Groaning, I place the frame back on my desk, flopping back first onto my bed. Creeping into my mind is a highlight reel of yesterday's events: the paint, Ms. Valencia, and my sudden outburst. Not my proudest moment, and now that I have had time to cool off, I realize I might've overreacted. That doesn't mean I was in the wrong though.

All I want to do right now is curl underneath the covers, close my eyes, and take a fat nap. I can't, though. I have school work to worry about.

My journal settled on a chair stared back at me. Inside, between those pages, are words that bare my soul. Words that could possibly say so much about myself if read between the lines.

Aria wanted to eventually publish a novel. She was so obsessed with leaving a legacy. To never be forgotten. To be immortalized through her words. But my mom eventually steered her off that path. After all, dreams don't pay bills. Something more practical will be better to invest all this time and money.

Bummer. She was really talented. If anyone could've made it, it would've been her.

If she was still alive, I picture her sitting here on my bed next to me, watching me with curious eyes.

"Remi," she'd say to me, squeezing my shoulder, "Hey, you gotta do your work, alright?"

"I don't want to," I groan, turning so my back is facing her and my face is on my silk pillow.

"C'mon, you have to do it."

"I don't have to do anything."

"It won't take long," she'd insist, "if you focus, I promise you'll be done in no time. Anything is possible if you put your mind to it."

"That's so easy for you to say," I murmur, "it's always worked for you. Me? Not so much."

"Don't say that," she'd sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose, "you're acting like I've never ever had any problems at all."

"I don't see why I have to listen to you. You're not real. You died 8 years ago. You're a figment of my imagination."

"That doesn't mean what I say doesn't matter."