Through my closed eyelids, I spot the familiar flashing red light of my alarm clock. I don’t move, as

if feigning sleep will let me escape from the long work ahead of me. Still, I must wake. My eyelids are tugged open as the soft ringing continues. 

​

I make my way to school, my sleep-filled eyes blending the hordes of red checkered skirts

into a portrait of one color. The students drag their feet, drained from long days spent studying for finals, minds made lethargic from the constant downpour of work. Occasionally, when we are given a break, we reminisce on how school used to be nothing but a flow of easy grades. Especially recently, the maws of school seem to be closing in faster than ever before, the sharp teeth of reality enclosing everyone. 

​

I watch as the sky finally shifts from a clear blue into the reds and oranges of the sunset,

signifying my leave. After making my way down countless flights of stairs and out the sliding doors, I see my friend waiting, no school uniform in sight. I hold an umbrella but she insists on walking without one, the heavy rains crashing down on her. “Rains been getting worse, huh?” She says with a broad smile. I smile and laugh. Something about her drenched hair and clothes is hilarious to me at the moment. 

​

My friend, although we walk home together, does not go to school. She’s been out on “sick leave”

for months now. There have been times where I’ve tried to convince her to come back, but those conversations always end with frustration and hurt looks–my sharp words always ending up spilled out of my mouth before I consider them. In those conversations, however, I never truly found out the reasons why she skips school. 

​

Weeks come to pass and she still remains the only name our teachers haven’t been able to

connect a face to. My curiosity finally catches up to me and I ask to skip class for a day with her. She responds in a confident tone: “Sure, I’ll take you to my favorite spot.” The following day I pack my bag with nothing but a sandwich and follow the familiar sight of my friend to a beach. We sit on the concrete railing for hours until the sun is high in the sky and our warmth has etched itself into our seats. 

​

“Sometimes I worry that my disobedience will catch up to me.” She says slowly. “But it doesn’t

feel right with me to go back. I feel blind the moment I try to see myself sitting in a classroom again.” I nod but say nothing more. 

​

The next morning I find myself walking away from the path I’m used to and onto a sand-sprinkle

road. I find my friend sitting on the same concrete railing, the breeze fidgeting with her hair. We walk up a secluded path to one of the large jagged cliffs just in time to watch the sunset. The harsh rock reaches out to the ocean, grabbing onto the waves and tearing them apart and sending large droplets of sea water catapulting through the air. Just as the golden light of the sunset reflects off the heavy drops, I spot a faint sparkle held in the air. It’s as if thin silvery threads reach out from my friends' limbs. It’s as if they are attached to the sky, hooked onto the orange-tinted clouds that lie afloat in a pool of pinks and yellows. It’s as if she is lifted off the floor, tips of her shoes pointed downwards towards the ground that they hover over. I watch, eyes wide open, as she continues to ascend, her voice bordering a helpless cry and a laugh of recognition. The threads continue to pull, but she doesn’t look down at the turbulent sea underneath her. Instead, with head upturned, she embraces the movement with her body, outstretching her arms. I blink, and through the darkness a sharp snap pierces through the sounds of my heartbeat, again awakening me to the brutal shimmer of the golden hour. I see her body shiver as the threads snap, each broken one jerking her body downwards. She hangs limp, only the final thread, one attached to the back of her neck, remains. The waves sway in the wind–so does she. Light reflects a nauseating gold off the thread before being split abruptly. It’s strange how neither of us were able to make a sound as she tumbles towards the vicious waves. The broken threads, still attached to her, wrap and knot themselves around her body, trapping her within a straightjacket of shimmering threads. I didn't dare watch the moment she hit the waves, but when I turned back around, she was gone except for the scarlet water that pooled around her grave. 

​

After that moment, I return to school, both out of the fear of a similar fate and to find comfort

in my past routine. I do return to that same cliff many years later and watch the sight of a familiar, bright sunset. I feel my own shimmering threads fade, soft light refracting and splitting, and reminisce of my friend and the rainy afternoons spent together.