I long for a time when I didn't exist..
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"When I was a little child, you'd always find me outside, maybe running through the forest, my face glowing with a bright smile in the spring. I might build snowmen in the winter or chase insects in the summer. Like a puppy, I'd dance with the falling leaves in autumn.
Back then, I never minded playing alone. I only knew I enjoyed my own company, as if solitude was born with me. I understand that now... I believe I was nourished by it.
And I know that even then, I never felt the need to escape that solitude. Every time I left it, I'd feel homesick—for something, for a home, or perhaps a person... I don't know.
But I've never known what I was searching for or what it was I missed.
I long for a homeland I never had...
Hiraeth."
I leaned against the wall, listening to the quiver in his voice, trying to steady my breath and suppress any sound that might betray my presence.
I closed my eyes as his words flowed, beautifully composed. It seemed like he was reading from somewhere.
But he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. His phone lay discarded nearby, blasting loud rock music. With closed eyes, he wove the words fluently, letting them drift into the air.
"I know you're there."
I froze against the wall.
How? I hadn't made a sound.
His voice was hoarse and rough.
I smiled apologetically and approached him, standing before him.
"Sorry... I was just looking for a quiet place."
He pressed his temples as if struggling with a sharp headache.
"No.. Stop lying. I know you've been following me."
Pale skin, as though drained of blood. Arachne...
I averted my gaze, embarrassed. Yet his tone wasn't hostile, and his eyes weren't angry like in class. He just seemed... sick or deeply exhausted.
"Isn't the loud music making your headache worse?" I asked softly.
He smiled faintly.
"No... It drowns out the voices in my head."
Bright white teeth, a radiant smile.
Arachne...
I invited myself to sit across from him, hugging my knees, studying his face with unrestrained curiosity.
Sharp hazel eyes, short lashes like a wolf.
"Stop that..."
He lit a cigarette. I obeyed, shifting my focus from his eyes to his long fingers as they moved, holding the cigarette between his trembling lips. Just before inhaling, he whispered,
"Stop..."
Med black hair.
I smiled.
Arachne...
He turned up the volume and, without looking at me, murmured,
"Does your back hurt?"
I nodded with a smile, and he sighed, throwing me an apologetic glance before quickly closing his eyes again.
Thin, very thin, of medium height.
He inhaled the poison deeply and exhaled it with visible relief. I couldn't help but watch him. His dark eyes opened once more, filled with weariness.
"Do you want one?"
His lips were the color of blood.
I shook my head.
"I want to draw you, Dante Marinos."
--
"Come in."
I entered quietly, closing the door behind me. Mr. Miller had asked me to visit his office two hours earlier, and here I was.
"The new student? Welcome."
His office was anything but ordinary. I'd heard rumors that he wasn't just a teacher. The room was far larger than it seemed from outside, dominated by shades of white and brown. White walls, a wooden floor, a high ceiling, and a gentle breeze stirring dark green curtains.
His large wooden desk was cluttered with papers. He was busy reading or writing, absorbed in thought. Two small brown couches sat facing each other, separated by a light-wood coffee table covered with a white crochet cloth, with a vase of freshly watered flowers in the center.
In one corner, near a bookshelf that reached the ceiling, stood a round table filled with teapots, matching cups, and various types of tea. Flowers were scattered throughout the room—on the desk, the windowsills, even the corners. Carnations, anemones, and countless other blooms, their heavy fragrance mingling with the soft scent of old wood, green tea, and amber perfume.
I inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill my lungs. Everywhere I looked, beauty and antiquity surrounded me—Arabian rugs, delicate ceramics, small paintings on the walls, scattered books and papers, handwritten letters, scented candles. The harmonious blend of colors and the antique atmosphere made my heart race, as if I had stepped into one of those old homes described in classic literature.
"Please, have a seat. Tea or coffee?" he asked, gesturing toward the couches.
"Tea, no sugar, please."
He smiled and poured the tea into a cup, placing it on the table in front of me.
"Most graduating students are addicted to coffee and sugar. Tea is a good choice."
He picked up some papers and his own cup of tea, sitting casually across from me. As steam rose between us, he teased,
"Did someone tell you any secrets to impress me?"
I smiled, cradling the warm cup in my hands.
"I don't need that."
He raised an eyebrow, understanding my meaning without explanation.
It wasn't that I didn't want to impress him—I just didn't need any tricks to do so.
"I look forward to the moment you impress me," he said, taking a sip and watching me as I studied the books on his shelves. They were varied—philosophy, history, science, and literature. Homer, Euripides, Shakespeare, Orwell, Dostoevsky, Nabokov, even Stephen King and Colleen Hoover!
"Do you recognize any?" he asked.
"I've read most of them," I replied.
He smiled approvingly.
"You read everything, just like me? That's wonderful."
I returned his smile, bringing the cup to my lips. He stopped me gently.
"It's still hot."
I lowered the cup, and he looked me in the eyes.
"So, what your file mentioned is true? CIPA—Congenital Insensitivity to Pain."
I blinked, surprised. He wasn't looking at me with pity.
"Yes... I don't feel pain, Mr. Miller. I inherited it from my father."
I'm Lying
He hummed thoughtfully.
"Do you have any other conditions, physical or mental?"
I glanced away, focusing on the flowers in the vase.
"Just asthma."
I avoided his gaze, fidgeting with the edge of my skirt. I lied.. I have more and more and more
"Alright. These are the lessons you missed. But based on your previous teachers' reports, I don't think you'll need them."
I stood as he did.
"One of your teachers mentioned you're a good writer. Could I read some of your work?"
I hesitated. I wasn't a good writer—no matter how much I tried. But Arachne was. She was brilliant. I love her.
"I only have a few stories and poems on my phone. I got rid of most of my writings."
He gave a thoughtful hum, jotting something down on a piece of paper.
"This is my email. Send me anything you feel proud of—stories, essays, or poems."
I took the paper, bid him farewell, and left, silently praying to marry someone with such exquisite taste in furniture someday.
--
"Did you have your lunch?"
I nodded, kissed her cheek, and said in a weary tone, "I'll be in my room studying; I'm way behind for someone in their final year of high school!"
She kissed my forehead and asked,
"Good luck, my little one. Want some coffee?"
I whispered in frustration,
"Arachne is the one who loves coffee, Mom..."
I left before hearing her reply—this is exhausting.
-
Is it strange for a girl to enjoy dancing naked?
I love doing it, it makes me feel free. But sometimes, with how much I pay attention to details, I forget to close my door or draw the curtains. Oh, speaking of which—the balcony door is open!
I close it successfully, pick up my phone, and play a random song by my favorite singer.
"Kiss me hard before you go."
Oh, what a good start!
I head to my desk and take out coffee-stained papers, blue wax, black pens, a lighter, and dark lipstick.
I throw them on the floor randomly, sit cross-legged, and hope the floor is warm I don't want to get sick.
I grab the pen and start staining the paper:
"My sweet spider!
It's been an ordinary day, boring, like all my days, but I felt sad...
I thought about getting revenge by not writing down the details of my day, but I don't like to see you lost when you come.
I'm naked, only panties on, sitting on the floor, swaying my hips to the changing tune, chewing strawberry gum loudly.
I ate bread with strawberry jam and chocolate milk.
I went to school by car and walked home—half an hour's walk, just enough time to finish my favorite Lana playlist and the short list of black metal songs you love!
I wished my father would come inside with me instead of leaving me lost in that place—I wanted to hug him again..
12th grade, philosophy major,
First semester, classroom 07.
I found the male version of you! Dante Marinos...
Even his name suits you! I won't describe him because you'll recognize him the moment you see him. Seriously, he looks eerily like you, not just in appearance but in his gaze, his gestures, his energy, his aura. Everything about him screams that he's your twin!
You might have been twins in a past life—or maybe even one soul split into two, soulmates, twin flames, or whatever! Either way, I'm sure there's a thread between you two. But I won't call it the red string of love because I hate it when you frown!
And there's another boy I sit with. I'd bet all my fancy pillows and half my books that you'll argue with him within five minutes of sitting down, not because he's bad, but because he's the kind of person you can't stand.
He's on the school's basketball team. I heard he's the vice-captain.
Blonde, handsome, but you definitely hate blondes—not that it matters, since I'm the most beautiful blonde you'll ever see, according to every fictional man I've fallen in love with. Anyway, lots of girls shot me hateful looks when he sat next to me. He doesn't seem arrogant or smug about his admirers, though I noticed he's happy with the attention. He's not shallow not like John from our old school, the one you used to decorate with your gentle touches. So if you ignore him, he'll be fine. Oh, by the way, his name is Fernando Perry.
And then there's... Damian Miller.
Our philosophy teacher, the most important subject. Nothing stood out about him, except that he's young. A young, handsome teacher who looks both strict and indifferent at the same time. The kind of person you wouldn't want to cross, but you wouldn't hesitate to ask for help either. Ordinary traits, really. But I swear, Arachne, that the feeling I had when I entered his office was something my soul had only ever tasted in poetry, art, or music.
You'll enter his world and understand what I mean—a world unlike anything else, like a heavenly garden on Earth.
I really love writing to you, despite being terrible at it! But my eyes are closing against my will, and I rushed through this letter because I have a strange feeling that I won't wake up tomorrow—not because I got tired so quickly, but because I can feel it...
Your strong desire to live!"
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