the desire for flight
by soomin lee
It is exactly 8:09 PM. Lying on my bed, I listen to the raindrops tapping on my windowpane, their touches meek and gentle. I imagine them dripping down, reaching the windowsill, and finally submitting to the force of gravity as they dive into the glimmering void of streetlights and bright yellow taxis that churn within the unnatural cadence of the city.
My fingers drumming on the edge of my nightstand, I close my eyes, hoping that the action will silence the drowning roar of thoughts that threaten to drag me down into a sweet, a beckoning spiral of insanity. I think about those raindrops again, their elegance dissolving into unruly streaks, and the thoughts whirl just a bit slower.
Sitting up, I rub the space between my brows, as if that will calm the rushing tides that threaten to flood my shores. Listening to the drizzle on my window, I open my eyes, looking at myself in the mirror on the other side of my small studio apartment. I do not recognize myself.
I shakily stand up, the thin cover that I had wrapped around myself gently sliding into a puddle on the wooden floor. I barely notice. I stare hard at my face, the very face I swore I would erase. It all looks the same, yet so different.
My eyes are as dull and dark as the waning moon. They look sulkily back at me, the glimmer of youth so easily stripped away that it seems almost laughable. My cheeks look ghastly, pale, sallow and sunken in. My hair has shriveled into long, dry stalks, tangled in a dysfunctional nest that even birds would not dare to live in. I shiver in both disgust and admiration.
A shell, I think. I am a shell.
I remember those weekend mornings that Momma designated as her “baking days.” The rustic scent of sourdough bread would fill the air, lifting my spirits until I was able to climb out of even my worst slumps. Looking at myself now, I wonder if Momma’s baking days could have still helped me.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer. I catch a final glimpse of those raindrops, their momentum slowly fizzling away until I can only see myself in the dark glass of the window.
Something about my reflection draws me closer and closer, and I walk forward until my nose is nearly brushing the cold window. My breath fogs the smooth surface as I exhale, staining it with silky imperfection. I stare into my blank eyes, the dim shadows dragging me deeper into the depths of my roaring thoughts.
A ding rips through my haven of solitude, and I cannot help but flinch as my studio is bathed with artificial light. I look back, and I can see that my cracked phone screen has lit up with a notification. I look at myself in the window again, but the moment of introspection is gone.
I tear myself away from the window and slowly pad to my nightstand where my phone sits. Tapping on the screen, I see that Adam has texted me. It is 8:25PM.
Hey. U up??
I almost laugh at my friend's innocent nonchalance. With it comes the stinging bitterness of his ignorance. I should not blame him, but inside, I resent the cheerful disposition Adam always seems to carry with him.
I lift a finger to reply, but then stop at the sight of my chewed nail. I slowly drop the phone onto my nightstand and examine my raw skin. I must have bitten my nails again without knowing. For some reason, I want to laugh.
The rain has started again. The tap, tap, tapping of the raindrops accentuates the ringing silence in my room. Everything seems so small, so tight, almost choking. I make my way to the window again, inhaling and exhaling and inhaling and exhaling. My breath fogs up the cold glass, and I lift my chewed fingers to rub at it.
Manhattan is beautiful, cast in the rich, dark tones of night. The skyscrapers have been lit up with what seems like millions of windows, their glow as bright and warm as the fireflies I sometimes see in Central Park. The steady, unrelenting stream of cars and yellow taxis rumbles below, and I can make out the frenzy of pedestrians pushing and pulling as they envelop the sidewalks, the constant movements reminding me of my whirling thoughts.
Looking down at the crowds, I contemplate the thought that has been broiling in my mind ever since this evening. I lean in further, standing on my toes, my nose flattening against the pane, the thin barrier that separates my body from the freedom that is flight. I wonder what it must feel to be a bird—flying higher and higher and higher and higher until it can no longer see the glowing lights or the unnatural rush of tourists. Flying until it reaches the cool, calm peace that it is so desperate to claim. For a moment, I feel my lips twitch up in a smile, rusty and painful from years of disuse.
I lean forwards, pushing more and more weight onto the glass, hoping that it will yield to my touch and give me the sweet taste of freedom I so desperately desire. I can almost feel the wind rushing through my hair, brushing against my cheeks, giving them rosiness and life again. I can imagine the gentle tendrils embracing me, sliding through my fingers, as I follow the path that the raindrops have outlined for me. Down, down, down…
Another ding from my phone, and my room is bathed in light again. I open my eyes and see myself in the glass. Instead of the level, calm waters I expected, I instead notice fear has taken over my features. My eyes are bright, alert, and ready. They are ready.
I stare at my eyes for a moment, not realizing that I have settled back onto the balls of my feet. I marvel at them—how long has it been since they were this brilliant and full of life? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?
The thought of time scares me. How much of it has really passed? I feel an involuntary twitch of my lips and immediately purse them together, looking away from the glass. I spot my phone laying on my bed sheets, and I pad over to it, picking it up and tapping.
It is another message from Adam.
Hey, if ur up, want to go grab some gelato? I know a great place just a few blocks away.
I see him typing for a few moments, and then I receive another message.
Ik we havent talked in a hot sec, catching up would be nice!
I feel something warm in my chest. It reminds me of the times when I would sit next to Momma on one of her baking days, watching her make my favorite sourdough bread. The warm, rustic scent always enveloped me in a comforting embrace, tickling my nose with a teasing wisp. The memory is familiar but faint, enough to quiet the thoughts.
My hand shakes. I look at it curiously before I feel a warm drop on my palm.
The tear slides down my skin, defying gravity for just a moment before it submits. It falls down, down, down onto the cold wooden floor. It is followed by another one, and another one, and another one, until I realize that I am on the floor, too.
Through the haze of my new tears, I raise a finger to type a response.
Gelato sounds nice. Thank you.
As I slowly pick myself off the floor and make my way to the bathroom, I stop and take one last look at my window. The rain has stopped again, and droplets litter the smooth, cold surface, sliding down the pane, reaching the edge, and finally falling. Falling to freedom.
One last ding sounds from my phone. Unlocking it, I stare down at Adam’s message, the warm tingling feeling in my chest growing and growing and growing until I feel like the envied bird again, flying high above the skyscrapers, feathers ruffled and heart light as it soars through the night.
I miss u.
It is exactly 8:47 PM.