To ask or not to ask

Yet again I was left to wonder, exasperated by my own heart. Sighing, I shut off my phone and shoved it in my pocket. 

I stared at the trees, the breeze against my skin cool and gentle, the sound of the leaves rustling ever so soft. My head felt empty, my thoughts seemed to scatter away ever so subtly with the wind. I was grateful for the peace of mind. 

The moon was full tonight, and through the parting clouds, I could see it clearly, glaring in the dark, leaving a streak of light across my side. I rarely came up here at such ungodly hours of the night, but I felt like I needed fresh air more than anything. The roof is where I felt like my curiosity could do no harm. I felt like I was finally alone, staring at the vastness of the universe, without having to stop myself from seeking to know, without having to think about too many things at once. 

Impulsively, I wondered if she was staring at the moon like I was.

Yes. 

I close my eyes. I shouldn’t have asked that. It was inappropriate and a violation of her privacy—

—my lips curved into a smile, despite everything. I couldn’t help it. She was staring at the moon too. 

We were alike in so many ways, yet she was so remarkably outstanding and unique. I couldn’t help but feel attracted to her the day I first met her. That very attraction is what complicated everything for me.

I used to ask away without asking, simply knowing. Whatever question came to my mind, an answer would be ready. I can’t recall a day in which I did not have this ability. It was so incredibly natural to me; I used to believe everyone had it too. I suppose some may have thought me arrogant, I had always assumed people knew the answers to their questions. When they asked them aloud I would always feel a tinge of annoyance, I would ask them why they asked if the answer always came to them faster than anyone else could conjure it. It dawned on me, after several of these instances, that perhaps I was a bit different. 

Nobody else I knew had this. I was the odd one out. I grew up nearly silent as a child, everything happening in my head. People used to talk about me, insinuate my having a low IQ, talking about sending me to doctors. Yet my mother seemed to understand me in ways other people could never. I started wondering if she had the same ability as I did, yet upon questioning, it turned out she didn’t. She loved me enough to let me be myself, without ever trying to change me.

Early on in my life, I set boundaries for myself. I realized that too much could be too much. I would get excruciating headaches had I asked too many questions, had I been too inquisitive. Yet I hadn’t realized how disadvantaged I was by my ability.

Because all answers came to me, I never really could form close friendships with anybody. I didn’t see the point of speaking, asking them questions, it seemed like a burden more than anything else. It became too overwhelming for me. I didn’t mean to ask myself those types of questions, things that were personal to the people I knew, but I always ended up knowing more than I should. I was overwhelmed with information, but also with guilt. I felt as if I had wronged people by knowing things about them which they hadn’t told me yet in person.

When she came, it was as if a switch flipped in my head. I never understood why, exactly, but I realized I couldn’t keep my distance with everyone the way I always had. I wanted to get to know her, genuinely know her, not simply through answered questions, but through shared experiences.

Here I was, two years later, still confused by what I felt for her. Much has changed since that moment. I came to learn that I could use my abilities in ways I never imagined before.

* * *

“Welcome back, welcome to all,” said the group therapist, a hint of a Jamaican accent to his voice. He adjusted the glasses perched on his nose and looked at all of us, smiling wide. I smiled in return, glad to be part of this group. Out of all the therapists I’ve met, Mr Lacroix was perhaps the most passionate and engaging, always looking to help us to the best of his abilities. 

Group therapy was every Thursday after school, and I had been attending it for the last two years. The room was rather large, and it was empty except for the 9 seats placed around in a circle in which we all sat. The windows were open; I could smell the grass outside, freshly cut. I felt the sun on the back of my head and pulled down the hood of my sweater. It felt peaceful.

“Today, we’re going to talk about ambitions,” announced Mr Lacroix.

A collective silence resonated in the room. 

Was anybody here even sure about what the future would hold for them? No.

Guess that was settled.

“Now come on, I’m sure-” started our therapist, interrupted by the whooshing sound of a door swinging open. Everyone turned to look at who it was, and my jaw dropped the moment I saw her.

What was Aiza doing here? Group therapy.

“No shit,” I whispered to myself, annoyed by that obvious response. 

Nobody had heard this remark, but Aiza turned to me as if she had. Her eyes widened in disbelief when she recognized me, yet she said nothing to me.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, I completely lost track of time and there was already so much traffic,” she started, nearly breathless.

“Hey, welcome, and no worries! I’m glad you could make it, despite the change in schedules. Take a seat, we’ve just started,” answered the therapist, calming as ever.

“As I was saying,” he continued, “today we will be talking about our ambitions.”

He started explaining what we would do as a group, but I couldn’t focus on what he was saying. I stared at my friend, still shocked at her arrival. She walked towards our circle, looking for a free spot. She caught my eye, and I got up from my seat and motioned to her to take it. I walked to the back room and grabbed another chair, silently walking back to the circle and placing myself right beside Aiza.

“Aiza, if you’re comfortable with it, would you like to introduce yourself to the group before we begin the activity?”

I looked around and then back at her. Was she comfortable enough to do this? Yes.

“Yeah, it’s okay. My name is Aiza, I’m 17, and obviously, this is my first time in group therapy…” she said, smiling shyly. 

The session seemed to fly with Aiza next to me, I couldn’t help but wish time had slowed down. As everyone was leaving, I stayed back to talk to Mr Lacroix.

“I feel like Mateo was going through a harder time than he let on, sir.”

The therapist looked at me with a sad smile.

“I feel like you may be right, Sam. We have to remind him that he has all of us and that he can trust us.” he sighed. “But we can’t force him. All in its own time.”

I nodded in agreement and bid him goodbye. Just a few weeks ago this interaction would have been punctuated by questions as to how I seemed to know all of these things, but Mr Lacroix came to understand how I could read people in a certain sense. 

Much of my presence in this group was, in fact, reading my peers and providing insight, as I was more comfortable talking about my problems privately. I did lay out some ground rules for my questioning, however. I didn’t want to feel like I was intruding in their personal lives, which was pretty often. I tried thinking about the most general questions I could ask myself, such as whether something said was accurate or not, or concerning emotions someone was feeling. I felt like I could help out this way, and not just by informing Mr Lacroix. I grew close to some of these people, despite them having their own groups of friends. I figured this was the best way I could use my special ability.

As I left, I suddenly felt hands on my shoulders. I turned to see Aiza smiling at me, and at that moment I felt my heart melting. Out of embarrassment, I lowered my gaze. I didn’t want her to see me blushing like an idiot. Why was I- no. I won’t ask.

“That was rather ambitious of you,” I teased, raising my eyebrow. “You didn’t need to wait for me.”

“I know, but what are friends for?” she replied with a wink.

Friends. Right.

“Plus, I need your help for my maths homework, so you’re coming to the library with me,” she added, holding my hand and leading me away.

* * *

“She sure seems uncomfortable,” Aiza said, subtly nodding towards the woman seated to our left. 

We were taking the bus home after having spent over an hour at the municipal library. I hadn’t asked her about why she was in group therapy because she didn’t bring it up, I didn’t want to pressure her into telling me anything. I knew I would find out soon enough, through the sessions.

The bus itself wasn’t overly crowded as it was past rush hour. Through the windows, I could see the sun slowly setting, a fiery vision of the horizon.

I slowly turned my gaze to my left and noticed the woman my friend was referring to. Immediately, I knew something was wrong. The woman was probably in her early twenties and was seated a few feet away from a middle-aged man who was openly staring at her.

Does she know him? No.

Is she uncomfortable? Incredibly.

Is her stop near? Yes. Could it be the same as ours? It is. 

Impulsively, I turned to Aiza and whispered to her, “she’s getting down at our stop.” 

Without waiting for an answer, I stood up and walked to the woman.

“Hey! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you, how have you been?” I asked her loudly. From the corner of my eye, I could see the man was still staring.

Had he heard me? Yes.

“Hey!” she exclaimed, her eyes conveying her thanks. “Glad to see you here! I’ve been great, my boyfriend and I just celebrated our anniversary last week!” she added, emphasis on the “boyfriend”. Aiza had caught on to what I was doing and joined me just as the woman was answering. She held my arm and started talking with the woman, continuing the conversation. It felt like hours later that we finally arrived at our stop, and the three of us got down from the bus. I looked behind us; the man hadn’t moved from his seat. I let out a sigh of relief.

* * *

“Girl, you’re going to have to tell me sooner or later. How did you even know she was getting down at the same stop without even knowing her?” Aiza told me, exasperated by the lack of explaining on my part. She had been bugging me about this since yesterday and wasn’t buying my “it was a coincidence” excuse.

I thought long and hard about this. 

Should I tell her about what I’m capable of? Would she avoid me after? Think I’m a creeper? 

Silence. Those types of questions went unanswered, even to me.

Annoyed, my mind went straight to my next question, which I had asked myself hundreds of times, and I knew to expect silence.

Are there even people like me in this world?

Yes.

Wait, what?

---------------------------------------------------------------

2,008 words.