Jump to someone else's story

Seated across from Elise in her bedroom—a cozy sanctuary adorned with string lights and brimming bookshelves—I'm awash in awe and exhilaration. Elise is captivating: her auburn hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face I've doodled in the margins of my notebooks more often than I'd like to admit. Her eyes, an airy blue, possess a disarming sparkle that makes you feel like the most important person in the room. Today, she wears a simple white blouse and high-waisted jeans, an ensemble that speaks to her effortless style and subtly underscores her lithe figure.

Her demeanor has always been inviting, warm to everyone but never too close to anyone—least of all to me. Our past interactions have been friendly but superficial, which makes this intimate setting all the more tantalizing. "How about this problem?" she asks, gesturing to a complex equation on the open page before us.

The numbers and symbols suddenly align in my mind. "Ah, you apply the chain rule here," I explain, sketching out the solution with an unexpected clarity.

Her hazel eyes meet mine, luminous and approving. "Jared, you're really good at this," she observes, her voice tinged with genuine admiration. A current of potential charges the air between us, leaving me breathless and hopeful.

As we both lean in, the textbooks and scrawled equations become insignificant background details. I sense the barriers falling away, the emotional distance shrinking, all of it converging on this singular moment. We're about to bridge the gap, lips a breath apart, when the harsh ring of my alarm clock slices through the dream, severing the tenuous connection.

Blinking awake to a glowing 6:30 AM display, I'm unceremoniously yanked back into reality. A part of me aches to stay suspended in that dream, in that room with Elise. My hand hovers over the snooze button before decisively hitting it. I sink back into my pillow, willing myself to re-enter that imagined sanctuary, but my room—adorned with aged band posters and textbooks that look as unopened as they actually are—sighs it's knowing silence.

The alarm sounds its second battle cry. "Alright, alright," I mutter, finally prying myself from the comforts of my bed. I head for the shower, where the water takes its sweet time choosing between hot and cold, eventually opting for a tepid middle ground. I avoid locking eyes with my reflection in the fogged glass door, choosing instead to watch the water spiral away, as if it might unveil some hidden answers.

Clad in casual wear, I join my parents at the breakfast table. My dad's laptop is open, its screen populated with pre-market analytics. "Morning, Jared," he says, temporarily diverting his gaze from the screen's myriad numbers. "Tech stocks are looking promising for today."

"Morning," I reply, acknowledging but not sharing in his anticipation of the market's opening bell.

"Hey," my mom interjects, sparing me a second from her ceaseless scrolling before returning to her smartphone.

I pour some cereal, fueled more by morning ritual than actual hunger. The clink of my spoon against the bowl punctuates the room's tacit atmosphere. My dad, sensing a window of opportunity, extends an olive branch. "Packers are up against the Bears this Sunday. I've placed a few bets. Want to watch it on Aunt Jean's new 70-inch TV?"

I give a non-committal shrug, my interest in football and sports betting markedly absent. My mom shoots me a quick, puzzled glance, a silent query that evaporates when she returns to her phone.

As I toy with the idea of dedicating myself to guitar or to calculus—to anything, really—I calculate the time it would take to become proficient. I imagine a future version of myself, aged twenty-one or twenty-two, meandering through a college campus instead of basking in youthful high-school glory. The timeline seems ludicrous.

Slinging my backpack over one shoulder—a repository of textbooks and untouched assignments—I step into the morning air, its heaviness settling around me like an unspoken admonition. As I meander toward the bus stop, I cross paths with Mrs. Thompson, formerly known as Ms. Anderson when she taught me in elementary school. She's jogging in what appears to be high-end, somewhat revealing athletic attire—her early retirement courtesy of a wealthy husband. Her golden retriever matches her pace, both appearing almost ethereal in the morning light.

She lifts a hand in greeting, the diamonds on her ring finger glinting in the sunlight, and I reciprocate with a half-hearted wave. Yet, I cannot escape the fleeting shadow of disappointment that registers in her eyes—a subtle echo of the expectations she once held for me, back when I was a student brimming with untapped potential. It's a disquieting reminder, set against the backdrop of her seemingly perfected life. Redirecting my gaze to the pavement beneath me, I focus on the cracks that splinter outwards, leading to a multitude of directions, yet somehow feeling as though they lead nowhere at all.