Opening that Door (Part 1)

It happened to me when all the doors were closed, even the door in my own heart. I was in a room of my own, with nothing else but a bed to sleep in, a book, and G.

The book was called Between You and Me. It was here when I came to this room, and it has been the only refuge I took from boredom ever since. It had one main character, whom I named G.

            G was happy. He was happy because he knew what he had to do and was good at it. He was perfect; I just couldn’t find any flaw in his character. He had things I did not have; when I was especially moody, I made a list of those things. I wrote them on the wall; the words stayed there for a long time and bothered me.

            First, he had a bookshelf full of books. He read them whenever he needed to. He learned from them, laughed with them, and cried with them. I only had this one book, Between You and Me.

            Second, he had basketball. He was good at playing it, as much as he loved it. I neither loved nor was good at any sports.

            Last, he had a dream. He wanted to become a sports manager when he grew up.

            Every night, I would lie in my bed, my one book open in my hands, lining the words with my index finger to see them better in the dark. I loved the rough, but soft texture of paper when it brushed under my finger. I loved the sharp sound the pages made when I flipped through them.

            When I slept, I dreamed of the scenes from the book that I read. The only difference was that I was there, breathing and talking with the characters. When I read about a scene in which Ann, a character in the book, runs a relay race on field day, I dreamed of cheering for her. After she finished her race, I went with G to encourage her.

            I usually woke to the dark, feeling the cool sheets under my hand. I would reach out my hands for the book shelf right next to the bed. There it was, the familiar texture of rich leather cover and sudden weight that came from hundreds of pages of Between You and Me.

            “He sat right next to Ann,” I would read right away, my stomach flat on the bed and swinging my legs. “The sun was sinking to the horizon and orange light was shining on both of them. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked. ‘Not really,’ she answered. But she was panting.

            “‘Give me your hand,’ he said. She did, wondering if he would take it. He didn’t; he just left a small bottle of water on her hand and left. Ann followed him with her eyes, and saw him do the same to other members of his team.

“Of course, Ann thought. But there was still a small hint of bitterness in her heart.”

            I think it was a rainy day when I read the part where a girl named Stella does a group project with G. Of course, there was no window in my room, so there was no way for me to see outside. Still, I could hear the rain pelting down like a fire cracking softly. It gave that special cozy feeling. Rainy days were the best days for reading, and with a nostalgic feeling, I started reading.

            “‘I think we could take this approach,’ said Stella while they brainstormed. ‘We don’t really have to follow the prompt, you know. Let’s use a cardboard to make a presentation, instead of paper.’

            “His face was stern. ‘Sure,’ he said merely. ‘We could try that.’

            “But Stella was not certain he would consider her idea seriously.”

            That day, I dreamed of them working on the paper poster together. The outcome looked just like how the book described it, but not as impactful as I expected, though. Just as Stella said, a cardboard presentation would have been better.

            After they finished making their presentation, G’s dad and sister came to pick him up. G’s sister was prettier than I imagined from what I read, and was more talkative. She asked G, in a sincere tone, about how the day went. I watched from the back.

When I woke up, it was no longer raining outside. I started reading. A few more days had passed, and G’s group was done with the project. After presentation finished, Stella blamed G for having the only dull presentation, and when he laughed it off, she called him names.

            “Stella decided to write him a letter,” I read off from where I left off last time. “They needed to talk about their ruined relationship. Or was it even a relationship in the first place? After their last conversation, she was sure that he lost all positive feelings he had for her.”

            “‘You’re too rash,’ she told herself.’” Honestly, I thought Stella was right about herself.

            Stella wrote a letter that was delivered to G soon after. Stella waited for his response, but it never came. On the other side, I read about how G spent his time on reading and practicing for his upcoming basketball game. A week had passed before she got impatient.

            When she asked him directly after hours of considering the right words to say, his response was this:

            “‘Oh, sorry; I didn’t open that one yet,’ he said. He didn’t see her face fall, and only smiled, confused. ‘What, why? Was it important?’”

Only then did I guess that G was not perfect like I dreamed.