There's this girl, about my age, that lives just past the east side wall of my bedroom wall. She doesn't do much whenever I try to look at what she's up to, she just looks back at me and makes curious faces. She's probably too shy to let me see her work. I sneak glances at her sometimes, and most times, she's writing very intently. Usually, she writes in a hardcover notebook, seams crackling each time the page turns. One time, I catch her writing in a moleskine, cover worn and gray. She must write many fantastic things in there, because that's what she's always doing. I think she is much more interesting than me, even though she never talks to me. All I ever do is homework. Or sleep.
Out of nowhere one day, she beckons for me to come closer, and I do. She smiles at me, a shy kind of smile, and begins to read one of her stories. That is the first time I ever see her smile, but it is a beautiful smile that reads a beautiful story. She is a great storyteller, and I tell her so. She has a beautiful laugh, too.
After that, we start to talk more. I tell her I like wall clocks because they are always ticking. I tell her that I believe in silence. In some ways, she's like me. She's reserved. Thoughtful. But she has way more confidence than I could ever hope to have, and of course, I'm not creative like her. She's got lots of friends, and tells me one day that I am definitely one of them. I want to give her a hug, but neither of us can reach through the wall, so we settle for matching grins.
ii
One day a boy comes to my house. He is going to walk our dog, because Grandma can't anymore. Grandma tells me to be nice to him, so I make him orange juice. Once, I try tagging along with him, but he runs too fast and I almost get lost. It's okay, though, because I eventually walk back home. He apologizes to me a lot after that, but it's not his fault. I couldn't keep up. So I tell him: you should always walk, not run across the street, and: but it's okay if you run when you're in the Olympics. He laughs at that. I tell the girl that lives in the east side wall of my bedroom that he has a beautiful laugh, and she agrees with me.
I tell him I like clocks because they are always ticking, and silences because they don't. He just laughs and asks for more orange juice. I tell him that there's a girl that lives past my wall. He gives me a look, which might be amusement or pity. He's just confused, because he's probably never heard of girls that live past the east side walls of people's bedrooms before. I reassure him that yes, she's real, and would really like to meet you. He looks sadder now, and says that he has to go. I jump up and show him to the door. It's okay he can't stay today, he's busy of course. I wave him off and tell him he can meet her next week.
iii
He never gets to meet her next week. He dies that Tuesday, hit by a car. He was walking across the street. His parents arrange a funeral, which I don't attend because, of course, I am not one of his close friends. It's okay, because they mourn for him just as well.
I don't look at the girl who lives beyond the east side wall of my bedroom anymore, because her expression is always hurting. She never smiles anymore. I think she loved him, even though they never met, but I told her so much about him. She never writes anymore, either. When I sneak glances at her now, she is always staring at the ceiling. She sometimes looks at me, but that makes her sadder, so she stops not long after.
The next Tuesday, I catch her looking at me again, and something in her expression is changed.
She breaks.
She starts crying and yelling and pointing, and all the time, she never moves her accusing eyes away from me. Her eyes say: how could you do that to me, and to both of us, how could you get so close, how could you be so fragile, how could you be so stupid, I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. I watch until I can't see anymore, and I close my ears to her screams and cry until I have no more tears.
On Wednesday morning, the girl who lives in the mirror that hangs on the east wall of my bedroom is gone.
