Chapter Five: The Awakening

​Silence returned to the apartment, but it was a different kind of silence. It was no longer empty or suffocating. It was resonant, alive, and warm.

​Sage opened her eyes.

​At first, she thought nothing had changed. The bookshelves still lined the walls; the velvet armchair still sat in the corner; the city lights still flickered below. But when she looked down at her hands, she gasped.

​Her skin, usually pale and translucent, held a warm, vibrant glow. She could feel her heartbeat—steady, strong, and undeniable—thrumming against her ribs. She took a deep breath, and the air tasted sweeter, richer, filled with the scent of rain and blooming jasmine that hadn't been there a moment before.

​She turned to look at her desk. The midnight-blue journal was gone. In its place lay a single, fresh sprig of white jasmine.

​Sage walked over to her window and pushed it wide open. The cool autumn wind rushed in, tangling her copper hair, but she didn't shiver. She leaned out, looking down at the street below.

​For the first time in her life, she didn't feel like a shadow. She felt real. She felt present.

​Down on the pavement, a young girl walking home from an evening shift paused, looked up toward Sage’s window, and smiled. It was a fleeting, quiet gesture, but Sage caught it, held it in her heart, and smiled back.

​Sage closed the window, turned away from the glass, and walked toward her apartment door. She didn't look back at the empty desk or the velvet chair. She reached out, turned the brass knob, and stepped out into the hallway, ready to meet a world she was finally a part of.

But still it rang in her head—

𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑, 𝑤ℎ𝑜 𝑚𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑦𝑒𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑏𝑎𝑛𝑘𝑠. (𝐼𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑓𝑙𝑜𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔?)

𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑠𝑘: 𝐻𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑤𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑓 𝑤𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑘? 𝐴𝑠 𝑖𝑓 𝑤𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑛𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒?

𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛.

𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠; 𝑤𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑.

𝑊𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑐𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑟𝑟𝑜𝑟, 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑢𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑑. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑛𝑜 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑒.

𝑁𝑜𝑤, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑒𝑑.

𝑊𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ. 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑤𝑒𝑎𝑘, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑣𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑢𝑝𝑜𝑛 𝑢𝑠, 𝑗𝑢𝑑𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐼𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑚𝑦.

𝑊𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑑 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑒𝑤 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑙.

_______________________

Drowned in unconsciousness,

I flip pages

bearing the blocks of evolution

and revolution,

with windows facing measured light.

I bend beneath the weight of hope and plight.

The childhood door shrinks,

the branches in my courtyard outgrow,

and I mumble and whisper to the walls,

hoping they'll return a nostalgic ball.

The ball returns dipped in ink;

I crawl, I bend, but now I do not shrink.

He placed flowers in my vase,

wild as a beautiful mess.

He drew clouds shaped like laughter

above my head,

but now all I own

are prickled sheets upon my bed.

How can I believe

tomorrow's fruit won't carry bitterness?

Light crawls like a creeper at sunset;

half my consciousness slips into shade.

Old socks lie tangled in pairs,

old shirts no longer fit.

The ball, once splashed with ink,

fades upon my shoes, and I trace my way back.

I bend, and this time, I shrink.

Only consciousness refuses.

__________________________

[Here it ends, and I hope you love that 𝑑𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑒𝑣𝑠𝑘𝑦 𝑜𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 “𝑖 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎𝑡 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝐼 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓” that is what us needs most.]

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***