December 18th

                                    

                                          
18th
                          
"Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness." - Maya Angelou.
                          
Yesterday, after my brief conversation with Ed, I'd told myself that I don't need Imogen's friendship. I was wrong. Oh my God, I was wrong.
                          
I feel distinctly bare as I enter the classroom for registration, without my best friend to be my shield. It only makes the loneliness worse when I glance across the classroom and see her chatting animatedly to Kayleigh and some other popular girls. Like I don't even exist.
                          
Sucking in a deep breath, I head over to my seat and pull out my iPod, turning on my special playlist from my Secret Santa. At least I know that, regardless of what else is going on, I have this one anonymous person to rely on to keep the loneliness at bay.
                          
The majority of my day is spent like that, with nothing but the music in my earphones to keep me company.
                          
At lunchtime I go to my locker to find a thin envelope almost impossible to spot amongst my books. Heart pounding, I snatch it up and stuff it in my pocket.
                          
As I make my way to the safe haven of the school library, possibilities race through my head. Is it another letter, like on the first day?
                          
Once in the recluse of the near-deserted library, my fingers make swift work of tearing open the envelope. Inside is a piece of paper, which I unfold to find covered in the same handwriting that I've become so familiar with. The red ink has bled a little into the paper; I have to focus in order to read it.
                          
I do not love you
                          
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
                          
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
                          
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
                          
My eyes scan over the words, then again. I know this poem. I recognise it instantly as my favourite work by Pablo Neruda, whose poetry I adore. But this is impossible; as far as I can remember, I have never shared my love of poetry, much less any specifics.
                          
If Imogen and I were still on speaking terms I could casually drop it into conversation, in case it turns out I've mentioned it without realising. But obviously that's not going to happen any time soon.
                          
The idea of this Secret Santa knowing me so intimately that they even know my favourite poem is slightly unsettling. I mean, of course they are somebody who knows me, but I didn't realise they were so close to me.
                          
I read through the poem once more before I realise, with a jolt, that my cheeks are wet with tears. Blushing despite the fact there's nobody around to see me, I stuff the paper back into its envelope, then into my bag.
                          
The end of the lunch hour is fast approaching, so I wipe my eyes with the sleeves of my school sweater and stand up. For a moment I consider plugging my earphones back in, but decide that a personalised, touching playlist isn't going to help with my abnormally tearful state.