The bus window was frigid against Hannah’s forehead, but she couldn’t feel the cold. All the sixteen year-old felt was the weariness of loss in her limbs and the sharp shards of a broken heart digging holes of confusion and self-loathing into her chest. The music that was being piped into her ears cycled back to the first song. It was at least the fourth time she’d heard it, on this bus ride. He’d given her this song, along with the four others. Weeks ago, Hannah had put that playlist on repeat.
It had been going so well. Things were right. He was right. They were right. It was supposed to be forever. That’s why she told him all those things. That’s why she shared her heart, her struggles, with him.
It had been going so well.
Until four months ago. They argued, again, like usual. Every night, they’d either argue or cry. But that’s how it was. She was broken and he was scarred. Those things happen.
But, that night… They argued and he finally told her. Told her that it was her fault. That she was tearing him apart. Never giving him peace. Never letting him rest. Hannah was making his love for her into a weapon, a disease. She was sapping him of his strength to support her own failing heart. He told her all this. Told her he couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t be hurt anymore. Be used anymore.
Hannah didn’t understand. She didn’t understand when he left her, nor did she understand four months later, with her head pressed against the icy window. How did she use him? Was she abusive? Did she hurt him over and over, intentionally? Certainly not… She only wanted to be understood, to be loved… Certainly it wasn’t her fault, that her life stories caused so much pain… Should she have hidden? How could she love and be loved, if she must hide all she was, in fear of hurting those closest to her?
The bus crunched to a halt before a long, pothole-ridden driveway. Hannah rose as a ghost and floated from the bus. Down the drive, into the house. Hannah hesitated at the door to her room. Clothes scattered the floor. A myriad of long-sleeved shirts, all once layered underneath The Black Sweatshirt. His Black Sweatshirt. He gave it to her nearly a year ago, but she had taken to wearing it every day, those past four months. To hell with her family, to hell with the other students, who all ridiculed her for the ever-present Sweatshirt.
Hannah stared into her room. She was sick of it. The messy floor. The cluttered desk, the bookcase full of children’s novels. The bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, and those same damnable four walls. Hannah needed to get out. To get away from those walls. That house. The pain. The playlist cycled again to the beginning. She dropped her backpack in the doorway. She spun on her heels. She walked away. Out of the room. Out of the house. Hannah walked to the abandoned rural street and turned to the right, aiming for the woods. She mouthed the words of the familiar songs. No sound passed her lips, nor came from her feet on the pavement. The heartsick shadow of a girl moved tracelessly along the road, lost in the melodies. Her pain and torment and self-hate, all releasing to absorb into the quiet hush of the snow covering the world around her. It merely shimmered back, glittering in reply. After some two cycles of the music, a trail opened to the right. Hannah had never left the street, before, as many times as she had been down this way. She turned and strode stolidly over a fallen tree blocking the path. Onward she walked, away from the road. A stream burbled some way down the trail. Ice coated and gleamed on its surface. Footprints of rabbits and deer led to the stream and wandered off again. Hannah crouched down at the water’s edge, admiring a leaf caught in the ice. Suddenly, the chorus seemed to scream in her ears. The once-comforting song was far too loud and jarring in this peaceful space. Her fingers found the pause button.
The forest filled in. Birds sang. The stream chattered. Trees creaked under the weight of snow and ice. Hannah pulled her headphones off. She laid back into the snow, ice crystals dusting her hair and freezing the tips of her ears. Hannah closed her eyes. Finally, all was still.
Some minutes later, the young woman opened her eyes to the sky and recognized the beauty surrounding her. It was frozen. Many plants had died back, animals had sought out shelter, but it was beautiful here and spring would come soon enough. A new beginning would come and life would go on. Hannah sat up and looked again to the spring at her feet. She stripped off her gloves and laid her fingers upon the ice, hesitated for a moment, then pushed through into the water. The cold sank into the bones of her fingers, taking Hannah’s breath away. After a moment, she cupped her hands and drew the water up to her mouth, drinking deeply. Cold, clear water flooded down through her chest and into her stomach, washing away the pain and loss, the self-hatred and disappointment that had fermented there. Taking a deep breath, Hannah rose to her feet and walked toward home. Her feet scuffed against the pavement, echoing among the trees as she walked.
Hannah showed up at the dinner table that night in a striped sweater, the tips of her ears still red and sore from the snow. Her parents said nothing, only passing the butter and exchanging meaningful glances during a conversation about the weather. Hannah merely shrugged and said, “Spring will come.”
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