Chapter 4: Manifestation

Even when they weren't in front of me, I could still see the eyes, of my Saturday class, staring back at me. Faith left me in peace after she saw my face when we reconvened at the front of the school. I wanted to ask her how her lesson went, but I knew I wouldn't be able to reciprocate an answer to the same question. Halfway through our silent train ride home, I concluded why I could vividly recollect the little faces that witnessed my meltdown. Truthfully, I wished I was them instead– full of an innocence that had yet to face realities that came with age.

Now that I'm older, I'm finding out how what it means to start over; it's much more painful than I ever wished to admit. The abrupt tenderness inside of my chest carried on when we returned to the apartment, and the pain was at its peak when I spotted the bubblegum pink dress on the floor beside my air mattress.

Upon sight, I muttered, "Why did any of this happen?"

Any of it...

Swiftly, I picked up the dress and approached my closet. The goal was to put it away, far in the back where I couldn't see it. These were just fabrics. They was nothing about them to fear, except all the memories I created while donning them. But when I began to hide my bright dress behind a black dry cleaning bag, I paused.

The black dress.

My cousin had no idea that he had made a dress so beautiful for a night so disastrous. I remember apologizing to him a hundred times, trying to give him money and return the beautiful piece. But he wouldn't have any of it. When I met him to return it, his eyes had been locked onto mine. He was waiting to see what I did inevitably let out, after I realized he wouldn't say a word until I divulged what happened. Instead of communicating through form of word, I lamented instead.

He had never seen me like that before. It was embarrassing to reveal a part of myself without knowing that I wouldn't be capable of holding it back.

You've seen me sad before, but never like this.

I couldn't conclude why people wouldn't say a word when they knew something was wrong. I wanted to be asked a question or distracted in any other way. Yet, they wouldn't. They would wait for me first.

Several hours later, I woke to my alarm sounding off. I slept most of my day away again, typically regretful seconds after awaking. I knew what I would be thinking about into the wee hours of the morning. However, this time around, I was going to spend my night taking another step to purge the sore memories.

Cinna Buns pushed open my slightly ajar bedroom door, climbed on my air mattress, and did her best to clog my ears with loud purring.

"Why are you being so sweet?" I grumbled.

I was enjoying her company, until my head was forced up from my pillow when her butt neared my face.

"You foul creature," I complained.

Though, it was hard to stay mad when she rubbed her head against my arm. It was nice not fighting with my cat as she got a little older. I shouldn't have been so surprised to associate age and maturity when it came down to the animal that purred and eased her way on my pillow.

I looked at her making biscuits on my pillow, "Oh girl, you can't sleep on that. But now you're so sweet I'm tempted to let you. What happened to all that attitude you used to–"

I reached out to pick her up, she hissed, and I immediately retracted, "And there it is."

There was the return of some normalcy to my daily routine, and I had to laugh. Despite the loud purrs and whines for food and water, I would barely interact with my cat. My brain was too busy swimming in this haze of ways to convince myself that the last months didn't happen.

I had another hour before I had to remove myself from my bed, so I decided to call my mother to clear my head before making my final trip back to a place I was at less than twenty-four hours ago.

It took two rings before I heard, "Ada, darling, I was just thinking about you."

"Hi, mom," I returned, poorly masking the exhaustion on my voice.

There was a lull before I asked, "You there, mom?"

"Mhm, I was just waiting for you to tell me what's wrong," she expressed in her delightful tone.

"Uh, I got the job," I said with a half-hearted smile.

She cheered, "Congratulations, my love, I knew you could do it! Now... is that the issue?"

I sighed, "There's nothing wr–"

My mother interrupted with a quiet laugh, "Sweetheart. You're on a phone call with your mother..."

What was I even thinking?

Without finagling around the truth, I blurted,"I don't know what's wrong with me, mom. I volunteered today, at a school, and cried in front of children. Children!"

"Oh, okay. I don't see anything wrong with crying in front of the very people who would have the most empathy and understanding of tears."

I shook my head,"I'm supposed to be the adult guiding them for a few hours, and I couldn't even do it."

She inquired, "Adults don't cry?"

"They do but–"

"Then why do you make yourself the exception?" she begged to know.

I pressed my lips into a thin line before constructing my thoughts, "Mom, I couldn't control myself. I feel like I'm too old for this."

Again, she laughed, "My darling, we're never too old to learn. Though, you may never understand what it is that you're supposed to learn if you don't give yourself the chance to accept life's misunderstandings."

But It doesn't feel like a misunderstanding.

My head dropped, and I covered my eyes with my hands abruptly revealed, "It still hurts."

She was quiet. I knew she was listening to what she said she hated and loved the most. My mother always confessed that it tears her apart to see me upset, but had yet to ever admit why she was happy to see me cry too.

"Ada, you are going to be alright," she reassured me.

I wasn't ready to absorb the statement, "It doesn't feel like I will. At least it doesn't right now."

"You will be okay, but if you feel that you won't for too long... the universe may force you to be okay."

I couldn't think of a time in my life where the universe ever swooped in to light a fire under me. I've felt weakness and pain before, but my methods of getting through them were clear and self-driven. Since childhood, I didn't like to feel as though I had no control, so I would find a way to get it back on my own.

Where was that ability now? Where was Ada Young? It's been years since I've felt that I knew where I was going. It's been years since I've been able to define myself without needing to name another person who would actually be the one shaping my latest identity.

When I've felt strong, I also felt weak. When I've felt bright, I also felt burned out. When I've felt love, I also felt empty.

Until, I crossed paths with him...

My mother went on, "Ada, if you have feelings, don't ignore them. If you neglect them, they will overflow at times you may never see coming."

My feelings were strong, but they made me feel weak. I didn't want to feel victim to a man that I thought I knew.

"You have to embrace what you feel when you feel it, Ada."

I was glad my mother couldn't see the distant look in my eyes, when I asked, "What if I don't want to?"

She didn't waste a moment to answer, "Then you will cry in front of strangers again and again until you understand what your heart is trying tell you to do."

"It... it still feels broken," I confessed, with clear luster of suddenly blanketing my eyes.

"I know, my love, and that's why it's telling your mind to send those streams down from your eyes."

My face twisted once more, and the very streams she acknowledged had finally run down my cheeks. I wanted to control it– the aching thing inside of my chest. I always thought it was easy to suppress, and it was, when I had living distractions to give it temporary doses of lies. But now there was no one to drag out my fears. I was by myself for the first time in almost ten years, and once again, my mother's voice was my only saving grace.

She knew she could be heard through the weeping, "My love, tears are a beautiful thing. There is strength in everything, and there is strength in them. If you know your heart is in pieces, then let it try to mend by opening its pathway to your mind. You can embrace and combat your sorrows, when you realize that crying is truly the first step to healing."

And it was at that moment that I opened my eyes and realized my internal retaliation had resounded with mighty staccatos a long time ago.

"My little girl's heart will always be bigger than her ego. Always has been, always will be. Because that is who you are, Ada Young."

*

My last trip to the old apartment had finally commenced. The clouds had melded into a dark sheet and blocked the moon, making it an extra dark night with no glimmer of the moon and stars. Headlights, streetlights, and a few measly lamps hanging off of buildings were the best assists to vision, and from a block away I could see my salvation parked in front of my old apartment. There was the mercy of knowing I didn't have to see any faces associated with my original move into the space. There was an abundance of relief within me, but the head of my hired moving team wouldn't have known from my dog-tired appearance.

I approached him beside the small white moving truck that already had it's backdoor slid into its ceiling.

"Ms. Young?" he questioned with a thick Polish accent.

I weakly smiled with a nod, before handing him a key, "Here you go."

He was perplexed, "You don't want to up with us, Ms. Young?"

I shook my head, and sighed, "No, sir. Everything that isn't in a box or Saran wrapped stays. It's not much."

He paused for a moment, before returning a slight shrug and signalling to two other men that they follow him with a short, loud whistle.

I couldn't fathom going back inside of that memory-ridden spot. I never fathomed that I wouldn't be able to afford to stay at the apartment for internal versus material reasons. There was a lot of emotional wealth lacking within that small studio apartment, and I wanted some of it back knowing I was removing another piece of Ezra from the picture.

When the first mover returned, lugging my twin-sized mattress,  I moved out his way and eased around the truck. Thinking back on more memories I wanted to leave behind for good, it was instinct for me to look out into the street and make sure there was no familiar black car loitering underneath any distant streetlights. It wasn't around, and I was right to assume that he wouldn't dare to interfere with me.

I didn't want him to follow me. I didn't want him to text or call me. I didn't want to be telling him to leave me in peace ever again.

Less than twenty minutes had passed when my old key was put back into my hands.

I asked the leader of the trio, "We ready to head off to my new place?"

"Yes, ma'am, but... I did notice something you might have left in the kitchen with your name on it," he huffed in a slight sweat, while pointing back with his thumb.

I lifted a brow and ran my thumb over the metal notches of the key in my hand. "I have an Uber that should be here any minute for me. It's supposed to be a white sedan. If it arrives before I do, please let them know I'll be out. I'm just going to be a minute checking on this thing in the kitchen."

Still confused, I had no idea what he could be referring that I left behind. Moving quickly, I kept my head down and rushed to the door the movers had propped open with folded cardboard. Veering into the kitchen, I twisted around, not seeing a box nor anything that else that solely belonged to me. "What was he talking ab–"

I had stopped in my tracks at the sight of an envelope on the small kitchen counter. Walking closer, I realized that the mover was correct– there was a wrinkled envelope with my name on it. The handwriting made my stomach turn and I pinched my lips tightly together.

"Is there a fucking heartfelt letter in this shit?" I growled.

But when I snatched it up, I felt the weight of what wasn't paper. Carefully, my finger untucked the flap to the stationary, and I looked inside. Just when I was getting ready to turn in a key to one place, I'm handed back another– golden with the RFID still attached to it.

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Number of hidden songs: 1