Page 28 of Tilly in Technicolor
Babble is a social media platform that can be best described as blogging, Pinterest, Twitter, and AO3 having a baby and said weird social media baby displays everything in a grid you could click through: endless rabbit holes of art and writing and conversations.
I haven’t opened it in probably three years, but I could never bring myself to delete the app. I made an account in middle school, using it as, regrettably, a very public diary. I had about four rando followers so I didn’t think it was a big deal. But, one day freshman year, a girl from school stumbled across my page and told everyone.
It wasn’t like I had written anything bad on there—it was 90 percent massive infodumps on whatever latest obsession had me by the throat. I saved my wilder ideas for fanfic, which thankfully was never discovered—but my class for some reason decided it was hilarious and an easy thing to make fun of me about.
In a fit of total mortification, I deleted all my posts and melodramatically vowed never to write on there again.
My finger hovers over the little yellow app now, the sharp sting of the teasing as fresh as when I was fifteen. I start to pullmy hand away. I don’t have anything worth saying or sharing. Why would I set myself up to risk embarrassment like that again?
I look back at the painter. She’s started a new project—the first piece leaning against the leg of her easel—a sharper energy in her posture and movements. Her hand moves quickly, long slashes of pencil on the canvas as her head flicks back and forth from her blank page to a young girl in front of her who’s dancing and twirling around the cobblestones with a rainbow of ribbons clutched in her hand. The little girl lets out a screeching giggle as the ribbons tangle around her waist. She quickly unravels herself and keeps dancing.
The artist picks up her brush and palette, her hand moving in a blur as she mixes colors then swipes them across her canvas, eyes focused on the child.
In a few minutes, streaks of watercolors transform the page to a soft likeness of the joyful scene. I want to fall into that painting. I want to feel the freedom of that little girl, the sureness of the artist’s hands.
I want…
I want…
You know what I fucking want? To be myself.
I’m sick of pretending to like things—feel things—less than I do to make other people more comfortable. I’m over lying to myself that I don’t have anything important to say. I have so many thoughts I sometimes think my skull will crack open with all of them.
I click on the app.
I scroll through the grid for a moment before hitting the little plus sign in the corner, pulling up a blank slate, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
The urge to edit my thoughts, hold things back, constantlyworry about how others might perceive me is fresh and sharp and tempting to hide behind.
But with a deep breath, I let all of that go.
And I start to type.
The idea of love, almost always, conjures the image of a pair. Two hands entwined. A mother cradling a baby. The mirrored curves of a heart.
I’m in the city of love, surrounded by people and art and centuries of memories, and I’ve never felt lonelier.
I’m not sure what I expected.
Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly what I expected. I expected to enter a new city and find a new me. Step in to some alternative life that fits me better. One where loneliness isn’t a constant dull ache in my chest. One where the ghosts of failed friendships don’t hover over my shoulder.
I’m crying again as I continue to write, my heart in my hands as I put my feelings into words.
I don’t want to surround myself with more people who don’t want me. Or who think I’m a burden. If I was looking to embrace that lifestyle, I would have stayed at home in Cleveland.
This trip isn’t about Mona or her opinions. Mom and Dad and Mona organized this trip to change me, I think. To entice me into college and business and plans and power suits. But I’m not here for that. Or for them.
I’m here because I want change. I want to get rid of the pieces of myself that others have forced on me, the ones that don’t fit. I want to strip away the parts that pinch at my skin and hold my armstight at my sides. Proudly wear the bits of me that let me breathe. Let me throw my arms in the air and kick my legs and sprint in whatever direction these beautiful cities call me.
I already love the world, now I’m ready to experience it.
I read it over twice, heart thumping and tears drying on my cheeks.
Then I smile as I hitpost.
Chapter 15Hate This Journey for Me
OLIVER
