lostandfoundstories

[lostandfoundstories]

Gratitude 11.22.20

Sometimes I think my intense longing for something blinds me to the possibility that I already have it. 

I’ve been looking at a lot of photography, art, and movies, as well as reading a ton, and I look at these things trying to constantly find beauty; trying to constantly learn; trying to constantly discover something that isn’t my own; trying to constantly make something my own. However, what if it already is my own? What if others look at me, trying to find what I find in them?

Sometimes I try to get the perfect angle, perfect edit, perfect note, perfect sentence, perfect relationship, perfect ______, and it’s in those moments, I fail to see everything that got me to those points. I fail to see the other 300 notes I just played. I fail to see the 5+ short stories, 50+ poems, and hundreds of thousands of words I’ve written. I fail to see the river and mountains that are right in front of me, no matter what angle I look at them from.

I have a river there for me at any hour of the day. I have a laptop, a phone, a tv, and a library of books and notebooks, fiction and nonfiction alike, with the knowledge of the world at my fingertips. I have art, photography and Impressionism alike, plastered on every corner of my walls. I have hundreds and hundreds of pictures of nature many only dream of taking. I have a vocabulary with thousands of words to express everything there is to express, and when that fails, I have the 12 major scales (+ some) at my disposal. I have multiple friends and family members that are a text, call, or room away, whom I love. No, I don’t have a romantic relationship currently, but I’ve felt one, and the experience of feelings, I believe, is taken for granted.

I have myself and my life history, in which no one of the other 7.5 billion people living on this planet has experienced. However, if you read my spam, you’ll come pretty close.

[lostandfoundstories]

Empathy 10.10.20

I’ve never understood the claim that Autistic people don’t have empathy or can’t understand emotion. We can. We just have trouble expressing it.

Sure, I don’t cry; I don’t yell; I don’t get passionate, although I feel passionate; I don’t visibly break down, although it can feel like everything from my lungs to the cells that make up my body are breaking down. No, the only difference between neurotypicals and those with Autism is we don’t know how to express emotion. We keep it all inside. We still know how to feel. In fact, we’re the most empathic people that exist. We write endless words to make up for the lack of tears. We find emotion and comfort not in the obligatory, I’m so sorry, but in the poetry and music from those that felt the same at one point. We find comfort in the physical. Touch is a powerful thing. Touch shows us that you’re willing to hold everything that hurts us, even if it hurts you. It’s the most beautiful and powerful act of connection. 

My parents have been arguing a lot more frequently the last few weeks. It always dissolves into insults and yelling matches. Normally, I lock my door and curl up in my bed with noise-cancelling headphones and some of my favorite albums. However, more than my parents, I immediately sense Charlie and Sandy, my dogs. I see their eyes and instantaneously know, they’re anxious. At that, I take off my headphones, put on my brave face, and just lie on the couch. Immediately, they follow suit. They lie next to me, on top of me, and sometimes, both. 

I read people’s facial expressions. I read or overhear their words and I can almost always tell what’s bothering them in a general sense. I can also tell when I’m bothering them.

And it’s this scene I think that expresses my emotion. My face is still blank, but inside, I’m there for my dogs. I’m there for them first. I know, or hope, that my parents will make up. However, my dogs don’t know what’s going on. Anxiety is a terrifying thing, and don’t tell me dogs don’t understand anxiety. What other animal barks the moment you leave the house or enter? What other animal paces and pants when there’s yelling happening? What other animal cuddles you when you’re down or anxious with no provocation? What other animal loves you more than humans?

A personal, sort of funny, belief of mine is that dogs are like autistic people in that we both don’t express emotion in ways that neurotypicals understand. However, we both understand each other in ways that neurotypicals don’t get. It’s why I’m called a “dog whisperer” and most dogs, I like to believe, warm up to me a lot faster than most. 

My face may be blank, but I am a multitude of things inside. I am the ocean. I am the sea. There is a world inside of me.

[lostandfoundstories]

Religion

These thoughts started when I was assigned to read texts written during the Medieval (1100) time period for my Philosophy of love & Sex class. Of course, this time period was the largest boom of Christianity because of Rome and other historical events I don’t pretend to know. Meaning, these texts were regarding Christianity and what they thought about, well, love and sex. The entire text is incredibly sad to me because at first, my own bias couldn’t get past the thought of how brainwashed they were. However, when reading any historical text, you have to get over your bias. I realize they were never presented with any differing point of view, religion, or option. Just like one could go on and on and on about how classical Greeks didn’t believe in monogamy and the love between men and boys was considered the “purest.” Today, we’d call it pedophilia, but that just wasn’t a thing. ANYWAYS, after moving past this bias, my anger just became incredible sadness in part because religious values are all they were told. For hundreds, if not, thousands of years, people lived in fear for who and how they loved. No person is born knowing their gender. No person is born knowing love between the same sex is forbidden. No person is born knowing the 10 commandments, or the bill of rights for that matter. No person is born knowing the Koran. No person is born knowing Veda, Bible, Torah, or Sutras. Everyone is born only knowing how to increase happiness however that may happen. Whether it be through love, sunshine, eating, water, drugs, and/or yes, even religion. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to argue that religion should be outright banned or destroyed by any means. I, myself, believe in an unnamed religion or spiritualism. I take them all and sorta have made my own. My biggest philosophy being that everything is a cycle: water, stars, planets, galaxies, plants, etc., and yes, even humans or human souls. However, I acknowledge I will never know whether I’m right or wrong. I only acknowledge that it’s my belief, and belief is no different than hope. Religion can be an incredibly beautiful thing. Whether or not it’s your belief that it works or is a placebo or mumbo-jumbo, people getting together to pray, to donate materials, to devote their entire being to a single entity, is it’s own kind of beautiful love. Whether or not you, personally, believe it works, it works to them, and that’s all that matters, and that’s a beautiful thing. And this, again, is why I’m incredibly sad. Imagine if for hundreds of years,  religion was used to enact good and allow people to love one another however way they wanted. Imagine if no rules were enacted. Imagine if every religion got together in a single place of worship. Imagine the similarities they’d find. Imagine the “improvement” to their own belief they’d find. Imagine the beauty that would ensue. You can call me naive, blissfully ignorant, or just dumb, but I know humans were created to love, and love can be shown in an infinite of ways: prayer, words, action, sex, religion, sacrifice, and it is no ones place to say one is better or worse. I only wish both “sides” would understand this. As Socrates says that love is neither inherently good nor bad, it’s only what we make of it or do with it. Religion is inherently neither good nor bad, it’s only what we make of it or do with it. You could almost call true, pure religion just another kind of love.

[lostandfoundstories]

Junior Year Speech

I have high-functioning Autism. Technically called Asperger’s syndrome. But why am I here then? Why am I not in life-skills? How do I have all A’s? How am I able to speak? I bet “You never would’ve guessed!” 

Let me tell you one thing: I still have never understood this compliment, if that’s what you’d call it. It makes me feel as if it’s something that shouldn’t be noticed or guessed. It’s not something I’m ashamed of anymore. It’s something I have definitely learned through experiences to hide and cope with---experiences I could write a novel about. I’ve learned what makes me different no more than what makes every single human different from one another. No more than stars of different types working together to form a galaxy. And before you ask, yes I’ve had it since before my vaccines. It runs in my family.

And yet, I still have sensory overload breakdowns, become overstimulated

I still find it hard to try new things and accept change from as small as changing plans for dinner to moving 2400 miles away with a 2-month warning 

I still don’t understand all social cues such as when to stop talking or when to start talking, or when to flirt

I still can be too honest

I’m still an introvert

I still need calming techniques such as playing with my hair or watching BBC Earth with my mom, listening to the calming voice of David Attenborough 

I still need to de-stress everyday, which consists of jumping while listening to music or going on infinite-mile walks with music blasting in my headphones

It used to be exhausting mentally just to talk to someone I didn’t know or I wasn’t close with

I wasn’t confident with myself

I always felt on edge in elementary/middle school, afraid I’d ‘break’ and do something weird such as going cross-eyed from overstimulation and my friends would leave me. I was afraid I’d become an exoplanet and break from my solar system within a galaxy of unknowns. Afraid I’d be an F-sharp among G naturals.

I was afraid of people bullying me or talking behind my back in ways I wouldn’t understand---black holes against neutron stars 

Now I can do this.

I can read my own poetry in front of audiences

I can produce quasars lighting up millions of light-years of space 

I can solo on violin or play in symphonies

I can interact with strangers when necessary (I still hate and get overwhelmed by small talk---I’d rather talk about the leading theories on Dark Matter or if ET life would follow biological laws as we know them--or I’d rather listen to Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in G Minor op. 23 no. 5 in my room with black-out curtains, art covering every inch, and fairy lights spreading everywhere like vines over books and records) 

I can cook things beyond chicken tenders and butter noodles by myself (I was proud of myself when I learned how to make scrambled eggs and french-press coffee a few years ago)---although, my parents weren’t when they had to buy eggs and coffee every 2 days. 

I can take myself places on the bus

And I can be empathic and open-minded. 

I’m one of millions. I’m one dust particle in a nebula spanning light years. We’re not one definition or one person. We’re not someone to shrug off or glare at if we embarrass or annoy you. We’re not robots nor  disconnected from insults or love either. 

We’re emotional

We’re intelligent in our own ways- I can’t give you the function of 5x + 6y2 = 456, but I can play you a Beethoven Sonata on violin, or I can tell you the note of a locker squeaking based on almost perfect pitch, or I can ENDLESSLY, and I mean it, talk about space and biology, music both classical and contemporary, and spend an entire day and night star-watching or looking at art.

But that’s obviously not everyone, nor every person with or on the Autism Spectrum Disorder (commonly referred to as ASD), just like not every star is a supergiant or main-sequence star

We’re attached and loving to those who give us a chance

We’re Autistic and we come in all different personalities and elements. 

[lostandfoundstories]

Experience with Autism

Sometimes I forget that my childhood best friend, who would just show up at my door with no warning, is now an influencer and won’t follow or message me back. 

We’d go sledding, build blanket forts, build snow igloos, explore the nearby forest, play Webkinz, and talk for hours. Me, her, her brother, and a few other neighborhood friends basically revolved our lives around one another. 

One time we got the police called on us because she knocked on my window at 7 AM to tell me that her fish died and we went into the forest to bury it and we were gone til about noon or 1. We didn’t think to tell anyone or check the time. I’d be watching a movie and she would see through our huge front windows, walk in, and just join me. She was my first crush. 

We grew apart after she moved out of the neighborhood around 6th grade, and eventually, me moving out of the state before 9th grade. It’s been about 3 years since we sent a single message and maybe 5 or 6 since we actually had a conversation outside of “hey... hey... how’s life... good... how’s hunter (brother).... good...”

...

There was also another friend I revolved my life around one summer after he just moved in. We played video games, had light saber and nerf battles in the park, explored the forest, watched movies, had campfires, even babysat me for 2 weeks once, and had conversations all through the night at sleepovers about absolutely everything. He was the only one I think ever muttered the word “Autism” to in those years. One of the few I jumped around. Then the school year started. We talked less and less. He hung around other kids—-different kids not in my group. At one point, we just never talked again. 

Months later, he was walking with a group of kids I had never seen in our neighborhood. I waved, and they just laughed at me. I was used to insults and laughs, but not from the kid who lived next door.

...

Another friend, same story. 

Our lives were one. All I needed to do was knock on his door. If he was home, we’d be together that day. If he wasn’t, I’d try again tomorrow or even later that day (also happened vice versa). We talked about everything. We played video games together. We made YouTube videos together. We played legos and built cities. We celebrated New Years together. We slept in the same bed. We shared clothes. I looked up to him. He (tried to) teach me how to skateboard and snowboard. He “toughened me up.” He was my big brother. He stayed with me one night while my family unexpectedly went out and I unexpectedly got sick simultaneously. He got me a puke bowl. He cleaned me up. He laid by my side. He called my parents and sister. He canceled plans with another friend he was supposed to be with. He’d tell me all the things we’d do together as we grow older. He was a much better gamer than I was and he would let me press or use his “killstreaks”/rewards. He helped me set up my Facebook and email back in 2010. He was my first friend. I took my first profile picture on his laptop. I memorized his smile, which I can still recall 8-12 years later. 

Another person moved in a few years later. He became a mutual friend. We all shared in these experiences for a bit. However, after a while, they happened less and less, or so I thought. Eventually, they stopped happening altogether, only for me. It was a month or so later that I overheard my sister, who babysat his younger sister, telling my parents nasty things they both said about me behind my back while playing games at his house. I jumped funny and went cross-eyed too often. I was unteachable in sports. “What kid doesn’t like sports?” He’s a “retard.” He’s a “spaz.” We never talked again. 

[lostandfoundstories]

Why?

Why is it when we're exposed to something for so long we begin losing interest or begin to hate it. Why is it the first time we eat mac and cheese, it's the best thing ever. Two hundred meals later it's the grossest thing we've ever had. Why is it that the first date or first weeks of a new relationship we can be so endlessly in love and feel like soul mates, yet after years or sometimes months they feel like another unnecessary commitment. How can you think that someone is really cute while that same person may be hating themselves. Now I know mental illness is a thing and I'm not trying to romanticize it in any way, but where do you think it comes from? From social constructs? Ideas being thrown at us over and over? Same sights and sounds? Why does the same organ (brain) vary so much person to person? Do we hate ourselves because we can't change ourselves like we can change almost everything else? What's scary is after seeing everything we have, it's only most likely around 1-5% of the world and some infinitesimally small fraction of the human population. Yet we begin making assumptions and getting bored of everything, which takes away our amazement or wonder or curiosity, which is what make us alive. When did life become enough? When did people affected with mental illness reach unprecedented amounts?

What's even more scarier is after long enough we begin discouraging and holding our finger up to abnormalities and differences, which is what makes us, us. This is where I think the hate begins.

[lostandfoundstories]

Appreciation

I’ve never understood the thought that the science of biology takes away from the “sanctity” or deep cultural appreciation of life. I’ve never understood the concept that science depreciates life. Instead, I believe science gives life so much more meaning and appreciation. Snuggling with my dogs or my partner, and feeling their beating heart and lungs go up and down or their stomach make funny noises is my favorite feeling in the entire world, and this doesn’t even have to be about them. Even just being by yourself and putting your hand on your own stomach or heart, and feeling it go without you necessarily controlling it is such an amazing feeling. Although some might say the mystery is what makes it so beautiful or the idea of God willing everything is what makes them appreciate it, I believe that without science, we have nothing to base this appreciation on. With science, we can appreciate that life doesn’t come out of a magic hat. No, it came from smoldering lava and a Hellish environment. It came from bacteria no bigger than the tip of a pencil. It came from rats no larger than the palm of a hand. And to think, your individual family or generation had to survive everything life can throw and then some. Your distant ancestors had to survive the Bubonic Plague. Your distant ancestors had to survive European expansions and Christopher Columbus. Your distant ancestors had to survive slavery. Your distant ancestors had to survive immigration, etc. With science, we can appreciate the complex processes, some being impossible to artificially copy, that are contained within you. We can stare in awe at the fact that the 6-7 feet of DNA tightly packed in Histones in each of your chromosomes present in each of your cells could extend the entire length of the solar system twice if laid out end-to-end. We can stare in awe that our own bodies have a proof-reader, DNA polymerase, that goes through DNA strands to check for mistakes or mis-aligned bases and misses about one in every billion copies. We can also appreciate these mistakes give rise to adaptation and eventually evolution. We can stare in awe that an animal as simple as a wasp can lay its eggs on a species of spider, and when the eggs hatch, the larvae injects the spider with a chemical or virus that “Forces” the spider to build a web, or cocoon for the larvae, that it wouldn’t normally create.

This doesn’t apply to only biology either. This applies to everything. With science, we can appreciate the perfect conditions of sun reflecting on water just right that must happen for a rainbow to appear. We can appreciate the complex chemistry that make the planets look the way they do. We can appreciate the happy accident that is Saturn’s rings. We can appreciate the Aurora Borealis. We can appreciate literally everything because nothing comes from nothing. 

That is why my favorite feeling is snuggling with my dogs or partner. I think of every event that was against them and every event that brought them to me. I think of every process that keeps them alive. I think of them as precious. 

That is why I love science

“Every one of us is, in the cosmic perspective, precious. If a human disagrees with you, let him live. In a hundred billion galaxies, you will not find another.” - Carl Sagan

[lostandfoundstories]

My Room

For some, their comfort zone might be among the shelves of a library. For some, it might be in the arms of their partner, or in their parent’s room, or at a club, or in the middle of a forest. 

For me, it’s in my room. My room is both my comfort zone and my safe space. It is a space where the walls expand and contract to fit my thoughts. It is a space where the vibration of my four speakers vibrate in my chest (and probably annoy the neighbors). It is a space where the terror and unknowns of the outside world can’t reach me. It is a space where mementos and letters dating back to 2010 remind me of my connection to the world. It is a space where books seem to replace carpet and violin concertos & scales replace air. 

Part of my ASD is having transition issues, and my safe space during these transitions is under my glow-in-the-dark stars and tapestry, amongst my art, infinite salt lamps, and BBC nature documentaries, and wrapped in my five, sometimes seven, blankets (I have four backup blankets in my closet at all times), breathing in the air my ten+ succulents and aloe plants have transformed. My room is one place where no transition ever occurs besides adding constellations here and there, or adding a new poster/art work, or adding a new memento, etc., which is why I find so much comfort in it I’ve assumed. 

The weirdest thing about moving I’ve found is leaving your room, even if you know you’re getting another room at the new place. Whoever moves into your old room will never know what happened there (which sounds like a killing happened or something). They will never know the nights spent crying over dumb boys, or the nights you stayed up til 4 AM writing poems/narratives you don’t even remember or have anymore, or the nights you stayed up til 2 AM talking to people you no longer talk to, or the slumber parties that happened there, or the nights you spent recording videos of you dabbing to various Twenty One Pilots songs during your freshman year, or the mornings you did 50 sit-ups for a week straight hoping to get abs, but eventually gave up after they didn’t come in a week. 

Your room is so much more than just another room, at least for me. It’s a space where you’ve transformed, created a bubble of identity, and de-stress or break down barriers and stereotypes after a long day. Although most importantly, it’s a space where you burrito yourself in many blankets.

[lostandfoundstories]

03.31.18

I think my favorite part about life and nature is that stars on their own seem so insignificant; a pond seems nothing out of the ordinary; a tree seems like nothing new; a day may be boring; and a pebble might seem useless; but in reality they’re anything but. 

Trillions of stars are what shape the unfathomable beauties of our universe, what rule our imagination, what heats our home, and what burns for everything and everyone but itself. 

A pond didn’t just form from nothing, it went through the water cycle, its molecular compounds stabilized and birthed in the heart of a star, it either lightly tapped or furiously hammered the ground, its home to billions of microbes and molecular bacteria that call it a home, and it forms molecular beauties. 

A tree grew from a seed to the tumbling giant it is, it defied gravity, it created hundreds of little pieces of life such as leaves and branches, it shapes our planet with the help of trillions of other trees, it grew even when the environment did everything to stop it, its remains are coursing through our lungs. 

A day may seem like any other, but they’re actually quite rare. Say the average human lives to be 80 years old, that’s 29,200 days. I’ve only lived [18 years 5 months] 6,720 days. The Earth has been around approximately 1,692,000,000,720 days and you’re willing to believe that a day was useless or worthless. Think about how much change the earth has undergone, and how much history has happened. Now think about how much change your own life has undergone. Days seem free and given out without hesitation but you have very few in the grand scheme so treat each one as if it’s a rare valuable and awe in astonishment of where your 29,000 days may take you.

A simple single Pebble was once a part of something much more massive. It was once magma. It was once nestled in the bottom of a sea floor. It was once strewn ashore. It was once kicked around. It was once a part of a road. It was once held down by the pressure of the mantle. When you hold a pebble or any Earth substance, you’re holding a story book whether it seems significant or not. 

[lostandfoundstories]

A Real Love Song

We both knew our fair share of struggles. Parents and teachers who didn’t seem to care; not broke, not rich; not living, not dying; friends but not soulmates; happiness but always temporary. When we met, it was like any other day at first. The same monotony. 

...

At 7:30 AM my dad pounded on my door, rattling it’s loose and old hinges. “Get up!” He yelled. 

“I am!” I protested. Same old, same old. 

I could smell brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts being toasted as I made my way to the kitchen, hair still wet from my shower. 

“Charlie! Hurry up! You’re going to be late for school-” A car honked outside.

“Oops, that’s my ride. See ya, shitface,” interrupted my sister. 

“Iris!” Replied my mom. It was too late as the front door was already shut. 

“Anyways…” There was a long pause. It took awhile for my mom to get back on her train of thought after an interruption. 

“Where was I?... Oh right! Charlie, you’re going to be late!” Finished my mom.

“Yeah, I’m aware,” I replied. “But not if I don’t eat.” 

“Charlie!-” But the door was already closed.

My mom was left with four steaming brown sugar cinnamon Pop-Tarts. 

I pulled out my phone and texted Makayla. She always picked me up if I couldn’t make the bus. She was one of the few people at my high school who had their own car. 

Makayla and I are what I would call friends but not soulmates. We’re there to comfort each other, pick the other up to get to school or a concert, and share homework problems. However, I don’t truly know much about her besides her name, where she lives, soci-economic level, and maybe her dad’s name. Isn’t that with every high schooler though? How much do you truly know about your classmates? Where does the line between knowing and friendship and soulmate lie? What if all there is to life is a life of Makaylas that switch in and out of your life until you eventually marry one in ten years and have more Makaylas who meet even more Makaylas to the point that you wonder what contributions you have made in life until you die and you’re left with this question, unanswered? 

Makayla arrives and opens her car window.

“Hey Charlie Brown,” she ceremoniously says. 

“Hey stereotypical rich white girl,” I ceremoniously reply. 

The door clicks and we’re off to the halls of Washington High: the converging of all the Makaylas, Kayleighs, and Chads. 

“What made you late this time?” Makayla asks. 

“Nothing momentous really. I just spent a little long in the shower combined with sleeping in about five minutes extra.” Makayla raises her eyebrows at me. “What?” She then makes the jacking-off motion. 

“Jesus!” I reply. “No, I was just thinking, you know? Everyone thinks in the shower.” 

“Whatever you say,” she says. I roll my eyes in response.

After a bit of silence, I see Taco Bell in the distance. 

“Yo, I didn’t eat. Can we pull in here?” I ask.

“Charlie, we might actually be late if-”

“Please?” I cut her off. Two sausage breakfast burritos sound really good. 

“Fine,” She concedes. 

“Yesyesyesyesyesyes! I love you!”

“Whatever,” she chuckles.

When we pull in, we notice that the drive-through isn’t available. It looks like it’s under construction or something. 

“Ugh,” Makayla says. “Be quick.”

“Thank you! I won’t call you ‘stereotypical rich white girl’ for a week after this. I promise… Did you want anything?” 

“No! Hurry up and get in there!”

I pull open the door to the Taco Bell, and I’m immediately overwhelmed and taken over by the potato, fake meat, and cheese aroma. 

I order and pay for the two sausage breakfast burritos. While I’m waiting for them to be made, I notice someone walking in who looks like a high schooler. However, he doesn’t look like a Makayla, Kayleigh, or Chad. He has a Declan McKenna, girl in red, and Muse pin on his backpack, complete with a Cavetown shirt. He has long curly dark hair, which is practically a satanic symbol among the popular faded, short gelled hair. He also has a green corduroy jacket over his Cavetown tee and cuffed jeans. He’s busy smiling at his phone.

“Charlie!” Yells the Taco Bell worker. I grab my food, and as I’m passing the mystery boy, I tell him, “Yo, I love all of those artists.” 

I’m in the process of opening the door as he replies, “Sick” in a thick Scandinavian accent.

I head back to the car as Makayla gives me a dirty look.

“We’re going to be late!” Makayla yells. 

“Yo it’s fine-” Makayla screeches the car out of the parking lot as soon as the door is closed. I almost dropped my burritos. “Yo! We’re fine!” 

As soon as we’re on the main drag of the road, I start eating and Makayla can sense my mood shift. “What’s up with you?” She asks. 

“I saw a cute boy,” I replied. I’m grinning. 

“What- Where- When?”

“In Taco Bell.”

“What did he look like?”

Silence.

She raises her eyebrows at me and grins back.

We’re silent the rest of the way.

…

We pull up to the large but rarely used parking lot of Washington High. We still have 5 minutes until the passing bell rings, but Makayla rushes out of the car, locks it as soon as I’m out, and takes off. 

“Love you, Charlie Brown!” She yells over the cacophony of high school.

“Love you too!” I yell back.

I make my way, slower, to the trash can placed at the front of the school to throw out my Taco Bell wrappers, and that’s when I see him. He’s getting off the bus that’s also placed in front of the main entrance of the school. He’s making his way over to me, and I’m getting butterflies for the first time in- for the first time in- for the first time. 

I’m going over everything that I could possibly say to him: Yo… Hey!... What was your name again?... Taco Bell dude haha… But as soon as I realize he’s making his way over to me, it’s over. He comes over for the trash can to throw away his Taco Bell wrapper as well. He doesn’t so much as recognize me. And with that, the bell rings. 

…

After three periods, the bell rings for lunch. I’m not hungry, so I immediately head to the table where Makayla is sitting. However, as soon as I’m in view of it, I don’t see her. Instead, I see the mystery boy. I immediately pull out my phone to demand an explanation. Makayla has already sent me a text, and all I read is, “I won’t make it for lunch. I’m finishing up homework  in biology. Sorry!” I see no mention of the boy. Perhaps he just saw an empty table and needed a place to sit? That’s most likely it. How could Makayla even know what he looks like or how to find him, much less convince him to join us at our table? 

I’m about to leave and just head to the library or something until I hear his phone go off really loud. Who keeps their notification sound on? I thought everyone uses vibrate? Whatever, I’m about to round the corner into the hallway that takes me to the library until I hear, very loudly, an AI voice say, “TEXT FROM MAKAYLA. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO READ IT?” The boy replies out loud saying, “Yes.” The AI voice continues: “I WON’T MAKE IT FOR LUNCH. I’M FINISHING UP HOMEWORK IN BIOLOGY. SORRY.” 

I’m now really confused. What the hell? How do they know each other? I’m now just standing still in the hallway, utterly confused and curious as to what will happen next. 

After less than a minute, I hear the AI voice clearly again say, “TEXT FROM MAKAYLA. WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO READ IT?” The boy replies out loud, again, saying, “Yes.” The AI voice continues: “IF CHARLIE HAS NOT YET SHOWN UP, HE WAS PROBABLY SCARED OFF BY SEEING YOU.” 

I have no idea what to do. 

I end up just making my way to the library. I still have twenty minutes left of the lunch period. However, as I’m pulling out my Algebra homework, I see him again. He’s looking for someone. Without thinking, I duck under the study table. I’m getting a few weird looks, but none from the person I’m trying to avoid. 

It feels like I spend eternity under there, but after about five minutes, I slowly make my way out from under the table and peer around the library from where I’m at for any sign of him. I no longer see him. I spend the last fifteen minutes of the lunch period wondering what the hell that was about and how he knew where to find me. How did Makayla know he was who I saw at Taco Bell? How did she find him? How did she invite him to our table and then to the library. Why did he have such a loud ass AI voice reading to him his texts? I just want today to be over. 

As I’m packing my bag in preparation for the 4th period bell that’s going to ring any minute, I realize I forgot my ID and only way to get on the bus. Fuck. I’m going to have to text Makayla and ask for a ride.

The 4th period bell rings and I make my way to algebra. While waiting in my seat for the start of the period, I shoot Makayla a text: “Hey, I forgot my ID and only way to get on the bus. Can you give me a ride home again, please? Thanks” I put it away and go through the last three periods without bothering to check it once. 

... 

At the end of the day, I make my way outside to the spot where Chads find their workout partners or girlfriends or hookups, and friends get together to play Call of Duty later or talk shit. During homecoming or other holidays, it might be larger groups that are planning parties. However, it’s only April, in between everything. Monotony.

I pull out my phone and see ten texts from Makayla. I’m still too confused to read them or answer them. I only see a few glimpses of text previews: 

“Yeah, I can take you... 

“ALSO”

“Where were you... 

“Bjorn was asking…

“Oh yeah, I…

Eventually, I find Makayla. She looks mad.

“What the hell!” She yells over to me. We garner a few looks, but only for a second. 

“I should be asking you the same thing,” I reply more nonchalantly. “Why did you invite Taco Bell boy to the table at lunch, much less how did you find him?” 

A mixed look of horror and realization begins to cross her face. After a few moments of silence, I ask her, “What?”

“Oh fuck,” she replies. 

“Again, what?” 

“I had no idea that Bjorn was Taco Bell boy.”

“WHAT. How do you know him? Who is he? Where did he come from?”

“Okay, shut up for a moment.”

I’m finally quiet.

“Today, in my Scandinavian studies in class, there was a new student introduced. He’s a transfer student from Norway and he was placed in our Scnadinavian Studies class as an aid. His name is Bjorn. He’s also still learning English, and he can understand it really well when hearing it, but he still has trouble reading and writing it.”

I remember how he used an AI to read his texts for him.

“I saw he had a Declan Mckenna, girl in red, and Muse pin, along with a Cavetown tee. I know you love all of those artists.” She pauses for a moment. “Anyways, I got to talking with him and I knew you both would get along really well since he’s different than just about every boy at this school... besides you. Although I didn’t realize how well you’d get along…” She winks at me and smiles. “So I invited him to lunch. He makes the exact same comments you make and does the same gestures. I texted you that he’d be coming after I told you I was stuck in Biology, but you apparently didn’t read it, even though you can ask me for a ride.” She rolls her eyes and sighs.

“I-” I reply.

“It’s fine. I know how you are,” she says.

“I know, but I’m still sorry. I just freaked out. He’s SO CUTE and I had no idea where he came from nor how you knew him.” 

“I do not agree that he’s cute, but that’s fine…” She pauses and grins. “He’s all yours.” She pauses for another moment. “Oh, by the way I invited him to hang out with you after school. Normally it’d be us I know, but my mom needs me home for something. I thought I could drop the both of you off at your house.”

“I- Uh- Uh- I-” I stammer.

“Perfect!” 

With perfect timing, Bjorn makes his way over to us. 

“Hey, Makayla!... And Charlie… right?” He says.

“Yeah… and Bjorn right?” I reply.

“Yeah. I see Makayla finally reached you,” he chuckles. 

I just tense and stand in silence. My face goes a little red. Thankfully Makayla comes in and rescues us.

“So... I’m taking you both to Charlie’s house, right? We should get going.”

“Right,” Bjorn replies.

“Uh- I- Uh- Right,” I say. 

The entire car ride to my house is silent.

... 

We’re pulling up to my house, and Makayla is the first one to talk. “Well, this is it.” She smiles at us a little too excitedly and awkwardly. 

Bjorn is looking at me for what to do and when to leave. “Uh- Yeah, I guess it is. Thanks for the ride,” I say.

“Yes, thank you,” adds Bjorn. 

“Of course,” says Makayla. When Bjorn is turned away to look at my house, Makayla winks at me. 

I open the now-seemingly huge red door and enter the house first to check if anyone’s home. “Hello!” I call out. No answer. Bjorn is standing still behind me, smiling. “Well, I guess no one’s home.” After another awkward silence, I pass the entry foyer and enter the open-concept living room and kitchen to set my bag down. Bjorn does the same. 

“Well, this is mitt hjem,” I say. 

“My home in Norwegian. Nice,” he says. I’m really glad I took a semester of Scandinavian studies before I dropped out. 

He smiles and begins eyeing everything. The dark wood floors, the white linoleum countertops, dark wood cabinets, dark blue couch, and plants everywhere. The lighting is also very subtle. Not too bright, not too dark. 

“Can I get you anything?... Do you want a tour? Do you want to just watch TV?...” I ask.

No response. Bjorn is still eyeing everything.

“Do you want to hang in my room and listen to vinyl or-” 

“You have vinyl?” Bjorn interrupts me. “Er- I’m sorry for interrupting, but yes, I would love to listen to vinyl.”

“Okay… Anything else? Water, soda, alcohol, weed, snacks?” I reply.

“No thanks,” he says. 

What the hell was Makayla thinking? 

“Alright,” I say. I go down a hallway just past the kitchen that has one of two bathrooms, Iris’ room, and mine. I open the door to my room. “Well, this is mitt rom.” 

He smiles. “My room. Nice,” he says. I sit down on my bed, but he continues to stand in silence just eyeing everything. He sees my piles and piles of books, my tapestries, art, records, and tons of headphones and speakers. 

“The Handmaid’s Tale was good,” he says out of nowhere. He sees the book lying out and is pointing at it until he sees me notice.

“Yeah, I have to read it for a class,” I reply. 

“I did too,” he says.

There’s another few moments of silence. 

“So, what do you want to listen to?” I ask.

“What do you have?” He responds.

“Tons.” I start flipping through my vinyl collection. I eye and point at his bag with pins on it. “For starters, I have Delcan Mckenna’s first album, girl in red, and all of Muse’s albums… I also have Alt-j, Beatles, Clairo’s Immunity, Glass Animals. Anything alt, I most likely have it.”

His eyes are completely wide open. I give him a few moments, and while I’m waiting, I see my phone screen buzz while I’m knelt by the vinyl. It’s a text from Makayla and the notification says, “I hope you both…” I move to flip it down. I don’t think Bjorn saw it. 

After more silence, I eventually say, “I can pick for you if you want.” 

“I’d like that,” he replies.

I put on Declan McKenna’s What Do You Think About the Car? We both settle onto my bed while the needle situates itself on the record player and the record begins. As soon as we’re both settled in, sorta sitting up but also lying down, the opening chorus of the first song, “Humongous,” washes over us. After the first song finishes, neither of us have said a word. In the silence between the songs, we finally turn to look at each other, and it’s then that I truly see him. I truly see Bjorn. I see him past his pins, curly hair, cute Scandinavian accent, and similar interests. I see myself but cuter.

The opening guitar intro to the second song, “Brazil,” seems to be even louder. It’s as if I see and imagine nothing but Bjorn next to me, and I hear nothing but the soft chords and rough voice of Declan McKenna. 

It goes on like this until the end of “Isombard” when one of us has to turn over the record. I hardly even notice the A side finished until Bjorn starts getting up and I almost ask, What are you getting up for? Until I notice the lack of music. 

As soon as the music comes back on with the simplistic beginning of “I Am Everyone Else,” the trance falls over us once again. 

This morning I believed there was nothing more to life and to people than Makaylas, Kayleighs, and Chads, but sitting here now in this moment with Bjorn, I know there’s so much more. I know it’s possible to truly fall in love. I know the fairytales, novels, and Tumblr posts are the most real things on the planet. 

…

After 3 records with 0 words spoken by either of us, I’m interrupted by Bjorn’s stomach grumbling. “Are you hungry?” I ask. 

His face turns red, and he seems to be embarrassed. I immediately feel bad.

“Uh… yeah,” he replies.

“What are you in the mood for?” I pause for a second. “We have tons of options. I’m personally in the mood for mac and cheese.” He sits up after I say that.

“Oooh, yeah that sounds good,” he says.

“I’ll go make it and be back in a bit.” 

“Okay,” he replies.

I get up and head into the kitchen. I notice that it’s 5:00 and the sky is starting to get dark. I wonder where everyone else is. I open up my phone and check unread texts. Makayla’s full message says, “I hope you both kiss ;)” I roll my eyes and see a message from Iris: “Mom told me to let you know that I’ll be over at Isaac’s.” The next message is from mom: “Work went late for both me and your dad. Make something for yourself. We’ll hopefully be home by 8, and I told Iris to text you with where she’s at. Love you.” 

I put my phone away and open up the cupboard for mac and cheese. After the water starts boiling and I put the noodles in, I listen and notice that the record has changed. Now it’s playing the album The Lion’s Roar by First Aid Kit. It’s on the last song: “King of the World.” My dad used to play this song all of the time for me when I was little. I wonder if Bjorn knows that. No, how could he? Regardless, I’m still feeling really nostalgic. 

As soon as the mac and cheese is done, I separate it into two bowls for me and Bjorn, and I head into my room. He’s smiling a really big smile when he sees me. We eat in silence. 

It’s Bjorn who breaks the silence. “How long have you lived in Oregon?” 

“My entire life,” I reply. 

After some moments of awkward silence, I add, “How long were you in Norway and how long will you be in the U.S.?” 

“To the first question: my whole life, and to the second: just this last trimester.” 

My gut dropped. He would be leaving in only two months and I knew nothing about him. God, I want to kiss him. I don’t know how though. Is he even gay? Bisexual? Pansexual? He’s going to be gone soon and I might not even get to know him. Will I be able to talk to him after he moves back to Norway? Will I continue to be cursed to this boring existence of Makaylas? How do I- 

He kisses me. 

“Is that okay?” He asks. I’m shocked into silence. I don’t know how to respond. God do I want to. I begin parting my lips but nothing can come out.

“Please say something,” he pleads. An eternity of silence passes over us.

He begins getting up and gathering his things. 

“Yes!” I finally say. He stops.

“Yes, what? Yes it’s okay?” He responds.

I get up so I can reach him, and I kiss him back. 

We’re now just sitting on my bed, kissing. I have no idea what’s playing, if anything even is. All I hear is the sound of our lips colliding; the sound of my heart; the sound of the sheets and blankets moving and becoming tangled; the sound of my hands finding places naturally. I have no idea what comes next.

After 10 minutes, we finally pull apart. Both of our smiles could be used in a Dentistry ad. 

“Yes, that was most definitely okay,” I say first. Bjorn grins and softly laughs. 

I let my body fall onto the bed. I notice how tired I am all of the sudden. Bjorn follows my lead and falls next to me.

No music is playing and I offer to turn on the TV to a cute show. We turn on Spongebob because it’s all that’s on. 

As I’m almost asleep, Bjorn kisses me goodnight and he rests himself on my chest. I have no idea what time it is. 

“Thank God for Makayla,” I say, very dazed and sleepy after kissing him on his forehead. 

“Yes, thank God for Makayla,” he says and smiles.

The last thing I notice before my eyes become too heavy is Bjorn holding my one and only stuffed animal super tight while he rests his head on my heart.

[lostandfoundstories]

Loss

I wake up and begin groggily sitting my body up. Nothing is as it seems. I was supposed to be dead. All of the online forums I had read said an entire bottle of oxy should kill you. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to die. I know there’s life out there. Hell, I lived a good ten years before everything went to shit. I just knew that I couldn’t keep living like this. I even mixed the oxy with liquor to help me feel more relaxed. Why does God hate me? Maybe it’s not my time to go. Regardless, I sit up and begin analyzing my surroundings, or at least as best as I can. Everything seems too perfect. Everything is perfectly neat and tidy: my bed is made, my desk is organized, the oxy I took are nowhere in sight, the walls are painted white, and all of my clothes are hung up. What the fuck is this? Am I in a dream? Not even a second after thinking that, my door opens, and a man I’ve seen from somewhere before enters. It seems like deja-vu until it finally comes to me. He’s my biological dad.

...

I was incredibly close with my biological dad. He was before the drugs and thoughts of suicide. He was the dad every mom wanted, and what every dad aspired to be. He tucked me into bed every night, asked me how my day was, dropped me off and picked me up from school every day, packed my school lunch, and took care of me in ways I would never know again. He made sure I was never alone. I would’ve done anything for him, and he would’ve done anything for me. He was both a single and working dad with a kid, yet he never showed it. He was my rock and all that I needed in life. I never knew my mom, nor had I felt a need to know her. My dad did everything. If he was stressed, looking for another wife, or felt bad about anything, he never told me nor showed it. He wanted me to be my best and never surround me in negativity.

I was ten years old, and it was the last day of 5th grade, June 10th, when a police officer showed up to my school and began approaching me. He assured me that I wasn’t in trouble, and he told me to get into his car. Being an unassuming ten-year-old, I obliged. He even let me sit in front. After we were privately in his car, he told me that my father had been on his way to surprise me and pick me up from school early. To celebrate the last day of elementary school, he wanted to take me to the arcade and the Mexican sit-down restaurant that was my favorite. They found this out from reviewing texts he sent to his colleagues and friends. However, when he was on the highway, a car sped incredibly too fast from an entrance ramp. My dad had no time to yield or speed up. The speeding car, before anyone knew what was happening, smashed into his door which sent him skidding across the 4-lane highway where multiple cars hit him. He finally skidded to a smashing halt at the guard rail. When passing cars could safely stop and get out, they immediately went to his car and reported he wasn’t moving or breathing. He had no pulse. 

“He looked like a zombie,” I would later hear from a passerby in an interview on the news. Police and paramedics were called, and he was officially pronounced dead on-scene. The initial driver that hit him was also dead on-scene. Police never determined why he was speeding. 

“I know this is hard to take in,” the police officer assured me. Initially, I don’t even remember crying; I was just in shock. I had no emotion. The police officer put his arm on my shoulder like he’s a brother who just said he’d take me out for ice cream. I shoved it away, and that was when the crying began. I wailed and wailed while the police officer just sat there awkwardly. After around 10 minutes of crying, I began to lighten up; just small tears were slowly falling now. I had nothing left. 

“Now what?” I asked.

“I can take you to his body to say goodbye if you want,” The officer said. There was a small pause. “Only if you want,” he added.

“Please.” 

The officer took me to the morgue, and as soon as told me the room where my father is being kept, I broke free from his loose grip and bolted there. When I first saw him, I didn’t believe it. The police officer caught up with me and entered the room. The room was very sterile and bleak. The light was dim, everything was white, and I felt out of place with my bright red sweatshirt and backpack. The coroner uncovered more of his body. He showed his feet and arms. Ignoring the coroner’s warnings about contamination, I held his hand and laid my head on his chest, breathing in my last smell of him---the smell of the shampoo he always bought at the dollar store mixed with gravel and my tears. What felt like hours pass, and I finally sat my head up. 

I told the officer, “I’m ready.” He nodded, and we left while the coroner in the background talked about never doing what I did again.

Back in the car, he began explaining and thinking out loud about where I’ll stay: “Family services and my fellow officers have been wondering where you’ll stay until you’re 18. I know your mother didn’t live with you, but do you know if she’s alive?” 

“My dad never said otherwise. However, I’ve never talked to her in my life.” I respond.

“We’ll start there. How about I get you ice cream and take you to the station where you can meet her.” 

“That’s fine.”

...

My dad just began crying. Fifteen years had passed. I was now twenty-five, and he would have been fifty. However, he didn’t look any different than when I had last seen him. I couldn’t believe it. “Who the fuck are you?” I asked.

He replied in the tone as if it were obvious: “I’m your dad?” 

“Like hell you are! My dad died 15 years ago. What kind of sick joke is this,” I said. “I must be hallucinating.”

“I know Ollie,” he responded. 

“What? How do you know my name?” My name is Oliver, but my dad and only him called me Ollie. 

“I told you.”

“The oxy and liquor must be mixing in weird ways. I must just be imagining you. Get me out of this.”

...

I would spend the night at the police station. They left an officer to chat with me if I wanted, and they made it clear I wasn’t in trouble and could leave my cell if I wanted to. The following morning was when my mom and her husband arrived. I saw from the paperwork that their names were Juno and Jacob. They surprisingly lived pretty close; they lived just 5 hours east of Eugene. The only odd thing was the fact that they weren’t happy, surprised, or have any emotion towards seeing me. It was as if I was a stranger on the street, and they were only fulfilling their lawful duty to take me in. They took me to their home, dropped me off, and then immediately left without telling me where. I was ravenously hungry and went looking for something to eat. To my surprise, there was nothing to eat. Literally nothing. The cupboards only had a small bit of flour leftover from God-knows-when. Something I would grow accustomed to. 

The house was maybe 800 square ft. at most. It was in a trailer park full of drab brown dusty trailers and cars in the middle of nowhere. Dishes were scattered; stains were everywhere; clothes and books were opened on the floor; the overhead lights were burnt out; and the windows were partly cracked so when a strong wind blew, there would be a high-pitched whistling. It was worst at night. Being a ten-year-old used to a neat and warm room every night, I thought ghosts were haunting my room. I later learned I should fear the known more than the unknown. 

My mom and Jacob, I refuse to call him step-dad, were never home except when smoking, drinking, having sex, or doing drugs. I would rely on school food to eat. I wouldn’t graduate because of the $2,000 in my lunch account that racked up over the remaining eight years of school---I think the lunch workers only fed me because they assumed it was my only meal. They saw how I scarfed down what they gave me, and they listened as I asked for seconds.

A few days after the accident, someone knocked on the door. It was the same police officer who showed up to my elementary school. He had all of my minor possessions including my violin, books, and journals. He said that there would be a moving truck later today with my bed, desk, shelves, and armoire. I thanked him and he left. Just like he said, a few hours later arrived the small moving truck. The man driving the truck knocked on the door. I answered and he asked, “Where are your parents?”

“Out,” I responded.

“Well then, I just need you to sign here.” I signed his digital pad he held out for me.

“Thanks, and could you give me a hand?”

I’m sure he had other stops to get to and things to do. He’d probably be reprimanded later, but I think he saw the pity in my eyes.

“Sure.” While we were moving my things inside, my parents showed up. Jacob came out of the car first and yelled over the racket of heavy things being moved: 

“What the fuck is going on?!”

“We’re moving my things!” I yelled back. Jacob eyed the moving guy, realizing he couldn’t slap me in front of him.

“Fine,” he simply responded. I realized that was how life would be for the next 8 years. No one giving a shit about me unless I got in their way by existing. 

At eighteen, they kicked me out, and I left with what little I had and nowhere to go. For the last seven years since then, I’ve been couch-surfing and homeless. 

The last stranger to let me in had some oxy for an injury she sustained while skiing. She also had liquor for a reading group she’d host once a week. I definitely knew of liquor, but oxy was new to me. I’m not into drugs. The thing that got me through everything was busking with my violin, a pair of headphones, and an Ipod full of music I bought for $20 at a thrift store. However, when drugs were offered or sitting out, who was I to refuse? The last thing I searched was a Reddit thread on the effects of different drugs and pharmaceuticals.

...

My dad, or whoever the fuck this is, seemed to understand this without me saying it. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry. I never told you about your mother because I was trying to protect you from that,” he said.

“Yeah, I understand that now.” In my anger, I couldn’t contain myself. “Why did you have to die! Why did you have to go onto that fucking highway and leave me! Why are you here now!”

“I understand-” he responded, but I cut him off:

“No, you don’t fucking understand! I had to live in hell for the last 15 years of my life! God, why is this happening? Why am I dreaming this.” I begin smashing my head on anything to wake myself up. For some reason, I feel no pain. “Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up, please wake up!” I begin muttering to myself like a crazy person. My dad just flinches and watches in agony.

Eventually, he just says it as if it makes total sense: “Ollie, you did die! You are dead! This is the afterlife!” This just makes me angrier. I lunge to go and punch him. However, when I punch him, the part of his body that’s hit just evaporates for a second and reforms. He doesn’t feel it either. 

“What- what is this?” I stutter. 

“I’m telling the truth.” He responds. He’s stopped crying finally and sounds clear like he always did when I grew up with him in my first ten years.

“No- it can’t be. God isn’t real. He wouldn’t have taken you away from me” I say.

“Well, he is. He’s not what you think though. He isn’t a single person or being. He’s everything. He’s the cycle of the universe. He IS the universe. I thought just like you when I arrived here after the crash. I just screamed and screamed: Where is my son! Why am I here! Wake me up! Please!” He says. “I was alone in the arcade where I always took you to the movies. The only thing that kept me from going insane during those hours was the thought that I would get to see you again. My dad---your grandpa---finally showed up as a form of ‘God’. He gave me a choice because everything in life is a choice. When stars dissipate they can either become floating gasses that contribute nothing more, or they can form new stars. All of life has the choice to reproduce or not reproduce. The two choices were: I wake up and survive from the crash, but I wouldn’t have any memory of you or anything besides basic functions like language, movement, and math. Or I stay here and I see you from afar. I chose to stay because you were my only purpose in life. If I couldn’t remember you, why would I want to be alive?”

“Bull fucking shit.”

“Believe me or don’t. But I need to tell you why I’m here. ‘God’ has a similar proposition for you. He told me to deliver the news to you because I was the only one who you would believe and if he chose my form for themself, you’d see right through it. As we both see, you’re still suspicious. Doesn’t matter. The proposition is that you can wake up and survive from this drug overdose. Paramedics are currently trying to revive you. If you choose to survive, you won’t have any memory of this encounter with me or the afterlife. You will continue with the life you are living. The second choice is that you will die and reincarnate. You don’t come to the afterlife or see me. Instead, you are reborn into another life as a baby with no memories of the life you’ve led with me or your mom and step-dad. I’m only here because ‘God’ said I’ve fulfilled my purpose. That’s the only way you enter the afterlife and become a part of everything. ”

“I- I don’t know what to say or decide. This is all too much. God I’m never taking oxy again.”

“Choose the second option. Please. It’s time for you to put these last fifteen years behind you. Maybe your purpose will be done after the next life. I’ll forever have the ten years we had together. The ten years that made my previous twenty-five years worth it. You were the reason I stayed living. I’m so glad I continued.  You deserve to live those ten years again and more with someone else. I’ll still watch over you. Consider me your guardian angel.”

We’re both crying at this point. This is when I notice something. I look out of my window, and it’s a bird’s point of view of events in real-time. The bird is on the dead tree that stands outside of the stranger’s house. She seems to have come home from her job and called paramedics. I’m looking at paramedics still trying to revive me. They’re losing hope though as time goes on. My dad notices too and reminds me: “You don’t have much time left. If you don’t make a choice, you’re returned as energy with nothing. You simply become an infinitesimally small part of the meaningless energy of the universe. You may become a star or a moon or a planet if you’re lucky.”

I close my eyes, say goodbye to my dad, and silently think of my choice. The next time I open my eyes, I’m in a hospital room. I feel slimy, and the fluorescent overhead lights strain my newborn eyes. I have no reason to cry, but I find myself instinctively crying. There are about 3 nurses surrounding me. I hear one yell out: “It’s a boy!”

“That’s what we wanted!” I hear another unknown man to the side of the room say. He looks a lot like my dad. As I begin thinking of my dad, his image fades. This is what I deserve. In a few seconds, I don’t even remember what he looks like. This makes me cry even harder. Slowly I begin understanding less and less. The nurses wrap me up, and as they’re wrapping me up, I can’t remember what they’re called. Was it doctors? No. Maybe sisters? Once my new mother holds me, I’ve lost all words. 

[lostandfoundstories]

Sometime Long Ago

My legs trembled as I walked into the violin shop. I was four years old, full of excitement and nerves, aspirations, and the want to be just like my sister who was thirteen years old. My sister was the definition of a child prodigy. She was winning concerto competitions and soloing with symphonies beginning at age eight. Only four more years, I thought eagerly, as my trembling fingers grabbed ahold of the tiny neck of the 1/8th size violin. After sizing a violin many times before, I stretched my arm from my neck to the scroll of the violin. 

“Perfect,” said the violin shop owner. This made me bounce with excitement. “How does it feel?” 

“Amazing,” I answered.

“Will that be all?” He asks. This time directed to my mom.

“Yes.” My mom answers. However, I give her the pleading eye and beg for a bow and rosin too. The violin shop owner sees this and brings out his cheapest beginner bows and rosin. I immediately pick one of each, and my mom reluctantly says yes to both. 

“Fine!” My mom defeatingly says. “But you better practice every single day! I’ll be checking in with you and hearing how you sound once a week.” 

“Of course!” I eagerly respond

It only takes another five minutes to pack up and pay. As soon as we’re out of the violin shop, the only thought on my mind is showing my big sister; I now have my own violin, bow, AND rosin. 

We arrive home pretty soon. My sister immediately runs down the stairs. “How did it go?” She asks.

“Perfect!” I respond. “I got a violin, bow, AND my very own rosin!”

“Can I see the violin?”

“Of course!” I begin to take out and show her my gentle 1/8th size violin. As soon as I hold it in my hands for the first time in my possession, it’s as if the glossy red varnish on the violin radiates; the silver strings shimmer; the black finger-board as smooth as silk; the scroll ornately carved; the baroque-esque chinrest fits neatly into my small soft cheek; and the delicate wood vibrates as I take my first bow strokes. It’s as if it’s the most beautiful thing in the world at that very moment.  

The next few hours involve what I would later recall violin screeches. At the moment, I thought I sounded just like my sister; imitating her playing Paganini’s Caprice No. 1 in E. I would whip my bow violently around on the strings while moving my fingers wildly. Isn’t that all professional violinists do anyways? In my four-year-old not-trained ear, I thought it sounded the same. It did not. However, my sister encouraged me while I’m sure she wanted to plug her ears and laugh. That’s not to say lots of laughing didn’t occur. Lots of laughing still ensued though during those few hours. Although laughing seems to ensue anytime I see my sister. While she can obviously be very serious when rehearsing and playing on her own time, she can also be the biggest jokester. Being a thirteen and four-year-old, it didn’t take much for us to make each other laugh. 

“That’s the A string. A for Aaron.” My sister would say. That would always give me a happy laugh and also a sense of pride. I now know it was only an acronym, but my four-year-old brain genuinely thought the string was named after me. She would also say: “Then there’s the E string. E for Emily [her name].” They were right next to each other; it was as if we had created the violin and named the notes for us. 

However, my favorite joke I recall was me saying: 

“The D string sounds funny.”

She would respond: “Maybe because it’s D for Dad.” I know it was quite mean and silly, but that one would always crack me up. However, It wasn’t only fun and games. She did teach me the very basics. She taught me my “first steps” on the violin. Sadly, she couldn’t teach me full-time due to being an honor roll student, playing in multiple symphonies, and soloing anywhere she could. She’d even play in the Starbucks my dad worked at. But because of her, I walked into my first “real” lesson already knowing how to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. 

This is the single memory in which I attribute my love and determination for the violin. My longing to be just like my big sister; the laughs while playing and the encouragement. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be in a symphony, have soloing experience, nor would I have such a strong bond with my now twenty-five-year-old sister. She began my love and passion for music when she started violin at age three. She continued it when she, along with my parents, passed it onto me. 

[lostandfoundstories]

12.17.18

Sis,

I haven’t written to you in a long time, but mom suggested it, and I feel like it’d be good for me. Do you remember the time I took my first violin home? You were so happy. You were the happiest that you’ve been in years. I wish we could go back to that time. To the time where you weren’t bogged down by OCD, depression, bipolar, and God knows how many other mental illnesses they diagnosed you with. When you were a happy, loving, joking sister. Before the stress of violin and mental illness tore you down and threw you into the deep end of a pool.

I know you still see me, but it’s not the same. You’re not all there most of the time. However, the manic phases are amazing. You’re the happiest then. But I know that when you’re at your happiest, it’s just a longer way down when you finally sink back into depression. And I know you will. I’ve given up false hope that you’re better now. I’ve given up false hope that you’ll be the same siser you were more than 8 years ago. 

I know you know this, but I’m in a youth symphony now. Second chair actually. I don’t know what the director was thinking, haha. I know if you were in the youth symphony, you’d solo every single performance and be concertmaster. But the violin isn’t my whole life like it was for you. I don’t know whether to be proud or ashamed. The violin led you into a downward spiral, yet you did some beautiful amazing performances I could only dream of doing while on the way down. 

I wonder if you ever think about me; if you’ve ever thought of writing me a letter. I assume it hasn’t crossed your mind, but I could be wrong. God I hope I’m wrong. Sis, I don’t even want a letter necessarily. I just want you to think about me. I just want you to know that the world doesn’t revolve around you. But they tell me that you’re not capable of understanding that. Which is so ironically funny. You can read textbooks for fun and understand or memorize physics, quantum mechanics, string theory, world history, philosophy, biology, and imitate the great Nathan Milstein on violin, yet you can’t understand other people’s emotions, or even your own. It’s part of your brain they say. Part of being a child prodigy with mental illness. I’m still figuring out who to believe: them, you, or myself

I hope you figure yourself out one day. I can’t stand not seeing you for weeks at a time. Maybe another day soon, we can pick up our violins together and practice my symphony music. 

Aaron

[lostandfoundstories]

Why I Say Soda Instead of Pop

It was a day that should’ve been like any other. I woke up, and I went to school. Being 8th grade, the only thing at the front of my mind was plotting the ways I could sneak note-passing or doing homework during SSR, or self-selected-reading time (book love), which we did for the first fifteen minutes of each school day no matter what class you were in. Lucky for me, or unlucky depending on how many rules you’re willing to break, I had algebra 1 first period in 8th grade. I always had homework assigned daily that I would wait till SSR to do. Classmates next to me would be reading Harry Potter: The Half-Blood Prince, and I would be unassumingly trying to find out what X equals in y=2x+3 behind an open The 5th Wave standing up to block my work. I was caught a few times, but no real punishment came from it. My teacher wanted to begin class just as much as any other teacher whose class-time is being eaten up by SSR.

I went through a day of linear equations, Civil War battles, rock cycles, spanish conjugations, and learning an arranged Lady Gaga medley for the end-of-the-year orchestra Pops concert. I’m waiting to be picked up by my dad; I’m ready to go home and play Destiny on my PS4 or jam to pop-punk and screamo music, like All Time Low, We Came As Romans, or Falling In Reverse like any 8th grader. But, I get home and everyone’s there already. My mom’s not cleaning like she should be on a weekday; my sister’s not at a friend’s house or working; and my dad doesn’t go to his office to work on whatever else he has to work on, on top of his day-job. They’re all at the dining room table like it’s the Last Meal. They’re gathered around. Sooner or later I hear the words that come with anything like this: “Aaron, come sit down.” Of course, I tentatively sit down. I don’t do drugs or drink or anything like that. I was still a virgin (and still am for that matter). But in that moment, I feel like I’m waiting for them to say something like, “Aaron, we found this in your bedroom” [pointing to used condoms or a big bottle of vodka]. However, nothing like that was said even though sometimes I wish it had. 

    “Aaron, you know Olivia [my sister] recently came back from Oregon.”

    “Yeah…?”

    “She was in a town she thinks we’d really like. As you know, she really wants to move there. She says there’s nature everywhere, people are friendly, it’s smaller than Grand Rapids, but not terribly small. They have a bus system-”

    “Cool.”

    “Well…-”

    I knew what was going to happen. This was going to be a giant-ass “Well.” 

    “Well, you know Olivia is only 19. She feels passionately about this city, Eugene, and Oregon in general. She strongly believes we’d love it, and we’ve been wanting to get out of Michigan forever. You always hear us complaining about the snow and jobs. So… we’re going to be moving with her as an entire family.”

    “Okay.”

    “We don’t know when yet. We’re going to start getting the ball moving by hiring realtors and what not. Don’t post about it on Facebook yet till it’s official and confirmed that we’re moving on a specific date. Okay? Did you get all of that?”

    “Okay.”

    I went up to my room, and messaged some of my immediate friends. The first being my crush I’ve had for the last two years and have gotten rejected by at least three times. After that, I wrote a post on Facebook, hid my family through the handy “custom audience” button, and saw the comments, messages, and “sad reacts” flood my notification feed.

    Nothing was the same after that. I could no longer talk to my best friends as if we would walk across the graduation stage together; I could no longer talk to my best friends as if we would even walk the halls of the giant high school that we had planned 8 years for together. I was sort of numb. I didn’t cry. I didn’t punch a hole in the wall. I didn’t necessarily blame anyone or completely reject the idea and outright refuse orally, Instead, I was over the moon. A week after my secret announcement and messages, I had my first girlfriend last more than 48 hours, and it was no girlfriend off of Tinder or from recess. It was the girl I had my sights on since the beginning of 7th grade when she transferred from another school district. Real feelings or not, she eventually sent a bunch of message about her feelings for me too over the school year. I had a puppy-love and nothing connected. I had the false idea that it’d be a happily-ever-after. I completely forgot that I’m moving within the year. Instead of those thoughts and ideas, I just started fantasizing about my first kiss with her and first time holding hands with someone romantically. 

    These ideas went on for the rest of the school year or few months. It wasn’t until the end-of-the-year field trip we take annually that’s complete fun. We went to Cedar Point, or the biggest amusement park in the U.S.. It was, and still is, the best day of my life. I met Josh Dun, drummer of Twenty One Pilots coincidentally, I hugged my now-ex girlfriend for what seemed like hours, and I held her hand for the first time while on a roller coaster. I thought we might kiss, but me being the introvert I was and still am, every time the thought came to initiate it, it was replaced with a loud “NO WAY JOSE.” I would wait for her. 

    It never came.

    Instead, the trip ended. We were on the bus heading home (it was a 4-hour ride). It was then that I got the infamous text. Yes, text. We were on the bus. She was like 10 rows ahead of me. It was then that she said something vague like, “We’re done.” I replied with, “What? What’s done?” I don’t know if I knew and was unconsciously oblivious and purposefully ignorant, or if I was just plain dumb. After my reply, she made it plain and clear: “We’re breaking up.” I would later learn that she had planned it all along. And we had even sort of talked about it previously, but I was just so oblivious and in a fairy-tale. She/We planned this to be a 3-month fling right before I moved. We weren’t going to do long-distance, which I wouldn’t have done anyways. I had just completely forgotten subconsciously that I’m moving 2400 miles away. It was then that everything hit like a brick. For the rest of the ride home, I cried under my best friend’s blanket that he let me borrow. Also, the things I said about it being a fling, I know that now in 2019. I didn’t know that right then. I had the usual thoughts of, “what did I do wrong?!”. 

I go through the first month of the summer doing packing and last-minute arrangements for moving. My family has sold the house and signed off on it. We have a date. We have to be out by June 30th. I see my closest friends for the last time. I cry (not in front of them). I have no idea what to expect. I know nothing about Oregon besides rain and trees. You’d think I would’ve researched it a bit more, but I was in a fairy-tale and then shock/denial immediately after. I had no time. 

    One thing, however, that’s stuck with me is how much pop I drank. We didn’t buy groceries because we’d be moving and we didn’t want anything to go to waste. So, we constantly ate out buying sandwiches and pop. Now, I say pop because that’s what it always had been to me growing up in Michigan/the Midwest. The first seven years on the east-side near Detroit or near the “thumb”. The second seven years on the west-side near Lake Michigan. The pop vs. soda debate hadn’t happened, or at least I hadn’t heard of it. I didn’t even know the word soda existed. So on I went, drinking a lot of pop and eating a surprising amount of BLT’s. 

    Finally, on June 30th, we pack the car with the bare essentials, like toiletries and snacks that didn’t go on the moving truck (we hired a driver for). We make the three-day road trip with hotel stops along the way to sleep. Finally, we arrive in Eugene, Oregon on July 3rd, 2016. 

I don’t know what to make of it. I just know that I miss my ex-girlfriend (we were on speaking terms again and I sort of began realizing that it was a kind-of fling). So what do I do? I begin catching up on America's Got Talent episodes that I missed while moving and packing. We order pizza since our stuff hasn’t arrived, and we’re too tired to go grocery shopping. We order 2 medium-sized Domino’s pizzas and a pop. 

Life goes on. I get through the following months with my family since we know absolutely no one in Oregon. We go on hikes, we decorate and unpack, and we discover the staple grocery stores like Fred Meyer, Grocery Outlet, and Winco (none of which exist in Michigan). We discovered coffee places like Dutch Bros., which didn’t impress us. We were happy to find that Eugene had many Starbucks places, which we still stick to. 

It comes to September. I’m at Freshman orientation in the noisy gymnasium. My knees are shaking and I’m on the verge of tears. However, an ecstatic teacher with in-between wavy/curly hair like mine comes out and introduces himself as Mr. Kostechka. He announces his poetry club and everything else blocks out. Poetry. Poetry was my escape during 8th grade both before and during the moving process. I was like every other emo middle schooler, but I still wanted to take it places and everyone who would read it complimented me whether genuinely or not. So, I find out when and where, and I cling onto it. I don’t have many friends, and the friends I do have I end up losing around January. I’m a wandering ghost lost in the socialness of high school. I don’t have my friends who I sat with for 3 years straight. The only thing keeping me going is poetry club once a week. 

At home, we’ve finally bought groceries like any other family. We’ve finally established ourselves and we have roots. My dad has his day-job, and my mom is finding new clients to clean for like in Michigan when she cleaned other’s houses by herself for under-the-table money. They’re waiting for me to bring home friends, but I haven’t yet. It’s still just, “how’s school going?” and the usual reply of “fine.” They’re not worried because I do have all A’s, and I still snuggle with my mom every night, falling asleep to BBC Earth, Masterchef, and America’s Got Talent, all shows we watch together before I go in my own bed (Right now we’re watching Stranger Things together). 

However, the shift happens in Geometry at my table group. Somehow, the pop vs soda debate comes up, and it’s at the peak of popularity. Everyone in my group says it’s soda, and I still call it pop. Still, even then it feels weird. I refuse to stand-down. We agree to disagree. But throughout the following weeks, I slowly start saying soda, and it feels much more natural. I learn that it’s a midwest and east-coast thing to call it pop and a west-coast thing to call it soda. That’s all it is. It’s just one more thing that I’ve given up since moving to Oregon. It’s not a bad thing though. As I’ve said, saying soda felt much more natural.

Just like switching to soda felt more natural, over the three years that I’ve lived here now, many things have felt more natural. I’m comfortable here. I still miss my friends in Michigan of course, but I don’t miss them with every waking moment. I’ve made a strong group of friends here: Maggie, Jozie, Andrea, Alison, Petra, Ada, and Melody. I have teachers, like Mr and Ms. K, Ms. Taylor, Ms. Downey, Ms. Chylek, Ms. Lawless, and Mr. Sheaffer, I consider friends and even best friends. I’ve developed my emo middle-school poetry and writing a lot. I went through what I consider a real relationship with kissing and more, many more conversations, dates, and a real break-up. I’ve grown more in these three years of Oregon than I did in the fourteen years in Michigan. That might just have to do with my age, but the truth still stands. I’ve also learned that I like Oregon and west-coast culture a lot more. Let me explain.

Just like they say soda here and pop in Michigan, other things are different culturally. In Oregon, strangers will say hi to you at a supermarket or on a bus even if you’ll never see them again; teachers will be your friend and sort of tear down barriers that always existed for almost every teacher in Michigan. Of course I’m not going to hang out with my teachers outside of class and play the newest Call of Duty together or watch the newest season of Stranger Things while I’m a student, but I can talk to them after-class and even in-class and say personal things. I can make jokes that might get me detention in Michigan. My teachers can make jokes that might get them fired in Michigan. I can send my teachers this paper. I can show them my emo poetry. I can write out all of my thoughts and feelings and not hold back. I can talk about my genuine excitement for the symphony in a week, rather than hold back and say “I’m happy it’s Friday” out of embarrassment. I can easily develop a friendly yet professional relationship with my teachers. I don’t know if it’s just a North thing, a high school thing, or a West-coast thing, but I like it.

Not only could I let go of pop, but I could also let go of embarrassment and social awkwardness that held me back a lot in middle school. Now, I’m still an introvert, don’t get me wrong. But, I’m an introvert in a healthy way. I can go to get-togethers/parties, have random outings, see a symphony on my own, play in a symphony on my own, solo, join a poetry club, join the Youth STEM Equity Club, join Mock Trial, etc. But I still sometimes need a night-in where I don’t want to talk to or see anybody, and I just want to read and/or write. 

That is why I say soda instead of pop

[lostandfoundstories]

A Silenced Voice

I can already hear the footsteps coming up the stairs; the dim light hazily seeping through the curtains catches my eye and wakes me up. I check the clock and sure enough it’s 6:30 AM.

A moment later, I hear the squeak of my door that we’ve all been procrastinating to fix.

“Good morning, honey! Rise and shine!” Says my mom too loudly.

I don’t know why we have to say good morning every day. I know it’s morning by the numerous clocks in my room. (The margin of error for a clock is ±0.05 seconds, and I need to be sure of the exact time). I also know it’s morning because of my giant window that perfectly displays the sunrise, or in today’s case, the dark and dim gray clouds.

“Good morning, mom,” I reply.

“Remember to keep the shower to 15 minutes or less so you have time to get dressed and brush your teeth. Also remember to grab your headphones. We don’t want a repeat of last time.” 

“Yes, I know.” Does she have to remind me that I can’t handle the basic world around me? 

“I’m just making sure, sweetie.” 

I used to be able to talk to anyone, but then public school happened. I love(d) learning. I would learn anything I can. I tried my hardest to get into the AP classes as a 7th grader. My scores passed the marks, but they tried to make up any excuse they could. The one they landed on was “my handwriting was too sloppy.” However, I know that they couldn’t have someone with special needs in the class; they couldn’t have someone who interrupted the teacher to prove them wrong; they couldn’t have someone who was in class with people four grades ahead of them. My mom tried to appeal the decision. She even hired my uncle who’s a lawyer because he didn’t charge us, but it was no use. The board of education suggested private school, but we couldn’t afford it. 

Now, I simply put on my headphones and ignore the day. The teachers “understand.” Really though, they just don’t want me causing a problem. I don’t need to hear the lectures. Everything’s review.

…

My mom dropped me off 5.4 minutes late. Someone I’ve seen around holds their hand up as I’m walking into school. Through experience, I’ve come to learn this means a high-five. 

“Hey,” they say. “How’s your paper coming?”

This isn’t for any classes. I write my own papers so I have something to do when I’m not hanging out with Trevor or doing chores. They don’t know that.

“Pretty good,” I reply. “I’m currently writing about the different types of waves emitted from our own sun that aren’t visible with the naked eye. Did you know that in the center of the sun, the first type of waves and energy emitted is x-rays? Eventually it turns into photons through a really long process. This built-up energy also takes thousands, sometimes millions of years to break out of the sun’s immense gravity field and actually ‘leave’. Meaning, the light or photon that’s hitting you and me and everything within the solar system currently is actually thousands to millions of years old. Neat, huh?” 

No reply. 

Their class is still learning that our sun IS a star. 

I put on my headphones and head to my first period, algebra 1. 

…

I manage to make it to class 3.45 seconds before the bell rings. However, I still catch a glare from Ms. Reynolds. She was the biggest voice and petitioner for not letting me be in AP classes as a 7th grader. She constantly tears my headphones off while she’s lecturing, hoping for a response. She never gets one. I learned long ago not to respond to her or any teacher. I still don’t know if it’s personal or not. And besides, I’ve moved onto theoretical physics in my Youtube education.

“Almost late again, Oliver?” She sneers.

No response.

Here comes the headphone rip, as I’ve come to call it.

“Answer your teacher, please!”

No response.

She has a meter stick in her hand, and she’s clearly considering whether her job is worth keeping right now. No students will tell on her for taking my headphones by force, but to tell on a teacher for hitting a student and getting her fired might be something worth putting on their resumé or their college app.

“Can I speak to you out in the hall?”

I get out of my seat without a word. The class is dead silent.

When we’re out in the hall, she speaks in a hushed whisper.

“What is your deal? Why don’t you talk? I heard you out in the hall earlier today telling Patricia about a paper on the structure of a star. What is that all about?

No response.

“I’ve learned writing you up or tearing your headphones off doesn’t do anything, and you’re my highest grade in the class. I don’t know what else to do with you.”

“Can you teach me theoretical physics? Or at least some calculus?” I finally reply.

No response.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she finally manages to say after 45.76 seconds. 

…

I hear the roaring thirty-year-old engine pull up to the curb an hour late.

“How did your day go, honey?”

No answer.

“Same old, huh?”

“How about I make your favorite: Dino nuggets?”

“I’d like that,” I reply.

I still need to finish that paper on the structure of a main-sequence star.