95: Melancholia is the Heart’s Ice (drabble)
Summertime and she lies in her bed past noon, her legs entangled in the sheets and her hair matted across her pillow, her arm underneath the pillow underneath her head. Her dark brown eyes glisten with the rays of the sun as they start to leave her windowsill.
To the light, she brings up a few strands of hair between her fingers. They appear to her a burnt brown, but she knows it’s just a trick of the light. She curls a lock around her fingers, and wraps it around and around continuously, mindlessly, endlessly.
Her sadness is still apparent, it seems. She loved hard, but it was the wrong person she gave her love to. He had never played with her hair like this. He had never confessed his love for her the way she had.
And then he left, as if she wasn’t someone worth his time.
These days, she spends time in her bed in a navy fur-lined jacket and maroon sweatpants underneath her covers. Despite the sweltering weather and her ridiculous choice of clothing, she is still cold. She doesn’t let the sciences bother her. From within her, melancholia is the heart’s ice keeping her cold and distant from reality.
She thinks about him a lot. She thinks about why he couldn’t love her the way she did him. Was she so undesirable to him? What was it about her that he did not love? Was it her face, her body, her personality, what was it? It was driving her insane.
She keeps a mirror by her bedside, and she uses it frequently to inspect her face – not for physical blemishes, but to see her own soul through the reflection. Today, her eyes are bloodshot red and her eyelashes are strangely curling upwards. However, that’s not what she really sees in the mirror. What she really sees is a depressed young girl who’s lost in the ways of the world and afraid to love again.
She sees that depressed young girl everyday in the mirror.