“This action cannot be undone.” Below the text is two buttons: OK and Cancel. I click Cancel after a moment.
I get up from the chair of my computer and walk a restless circle around my bedroom before stopping in front of the window. There’s two little sticky prints on the windowsill where I propped my elbows the last few times I’ve done this circuit. I look out through the window and note that it’s almost evening; I can't see the sunset itself, but the time is clear from how the sky faded from brilliant blue to a muted pinkish. I prop my elbows on those two prints again. The clamminess of my skin tells me I probably need a shower, but I’m too tired to really care.
I look out at the sky instead of thinking about showering or drinking water or eating. I can't decide if I'm proud I got through another day or dully horrified that there's another set to dawn in a few hours. Meanwhile, the sky paints my room in blushing, off-white light, all edges and shadows softened in the washed-out pink.
My mind, no longer distracted by staring at a computer screen, immediately takes my brief peace as a cue to rummage through old files and images again. I cringe at myself in some of them and smile softly at her in others. I see her in a rose-coloured light, I know that, and I know I should stop, but what am I supposed to do? Change what colours I see? That’s ridiculous.
I keep looking at her through my mind’s eye in that same rosy light; and I dig through those files again. I love her. Or, I loved her? It confuses me what tenses I should be using for this situation. English was never my strong suit.
My mind gets paper cuts on the files, though, especially with how fast I leaf through them. I scowl hard at something foolish I said, in one of the last interactions we had. I physically recoil from the memory, launching myself away from the window and its lovely sky. I sit down at my computer again and reopen the files in her folder: pictures of her and screenshots of messages she’d sent me over the years. I use a lot of her messages I have saved to build a fantasy, one where she had the bravery to say she loved me: an imaginary relationship spoken in heart emoticons and all-caps laughter at stupid jokes.
I find a picture of her looking at the camera, clearly caught off-guard but still smiling. I stare at it for a long time before moving to the next. This one is her face in profile, focused intently on something off-screen. The context is foggy to me, but I remember it was something or someone coming towards her that caught her attention. I don’t remember what it was. I move to the next one and it’s her laying down on a bench during lunch at school, half asleep. The first several times I looked at this photo it was cute, but now she looks like a corpse in a casket.
That’s what she is now, after all.
Oh, God. Goddamnit. What the hell am I doing? I can’t do this anymore.
I hit Ctrl+A to select all the files in the folder and hit Delete. Again, the text box: “This will delete all files in the folder ‘_____’. This action cannot be undone.”
Below it, OK and Cancel.
Uncertainty doesn’t even have the courage to nip at my fingers again as I click OK. There’s a little progress bar that glows green for a hair of a second before all 76 files in my museum to that girl are deleted. The folder is blank now, the bone white of the screen a sharp contrast to my room's soft rosy ivory.
I lean back a little, my spine and computer chair creaking in harmony, and stare at the folder’s blankness. She’s gone. I chose to forget her and move on, just like she chose to... chose to... she...
I close out the window containing her folder and open the recycle bin. Those 76 files are there. I look through them again. I press Ctrl+Z and all those files reappear in her folder.
She won't ever undo what she did. But I can’t stop undoing my own actions, in my head and in reality.
Yay ambiguous events and artistic foufou writing
I get up from the chair of my computer and walk a restless circle around my bedroom before stopping in front of the window. There’s two little sticky prints on the windowsill where I propped my elbows the last few times I’ve done this circuit. I look out through the window and note that it’s almost evening; I can't see the sunset itself, but the time is clear from how the sky faded from brilliant blue to a muted pinkish. I prop my elbows on those two prints again. The clamminess of my skin tells me I probably need a shower, but I’m too tired to really care.
I look out at the sky instead of thinking about showering or drinking water or eating. I can't decide if I'm proud I got through another day or dully horrified that there's another set to dawn in a few hours. Meanwhile, the sky paints my room in blushing, off-white light, all edges and shadows softened in the washed-out pink.
My mind, no longer distracted by staring at a computer screen, immediately takes my brief peace as a cue to rummage through old files and images again. I cringe at myself in some of them and smile softly at her in others. I see her in a rose-coloured light, I know that, and I know I should stop, but what am I supposed to do? Change what colours I see? That’s ridiculous.
I keep looking at her through my mind’s eye in that same rosy light; and I dig through those files again. I love her. Or, I loved her? It confuses me what tenses I should be using for this situation. English was never my strong suit.
My mind gets paper cuts on the files, though, especially with how fast I leaf through them. I scowl hard at something foolish I said, in one of the last interactions we had. I physically recoil from the memory, launching myself away from the window and its lovely sky. I sit down at my computer again and reopen the files in her folder: pictures of her and screenshots of messages she’d sent me over the years. I use a lot of her messages I have saved to build a fantasy, one where she had the bravery to say she loved me: an imaginary relationship spoken in heart emoticons and all-caps laughter at stupid jokes.
I find a picture of her looking at the camera, clearly caught off-guard but still smiling. I stare at it for a long time before moving to the next. This one is her face in profile, focused intently on something off-screen. The context is foggy to me, but I remember it was something or someone coming towards her that caught her attention. I don’t remember what it was. I move to the next one and it’s her laying down on a bench during lunch at school, half asleep. The first several times I looked at this photo it was cute, but now she looks like a corpse in a casket.
That’s what she is now, after all.
Oh, God. Goddamnit. What the hell am I doing? I can’t do this anymore.
I hit Ctrl+A to select all the files in the folder and hit Delete. Again, the text box: “This will delete all files in the folder ‘_____’. This action cannot be undone.”
Below it, OK and Cancel.
Uncertainty doesn’t even have the courage to nip at my fingers again as I click OK. There’s a little progress bar that glows green for a hair of a second before all 76 files in my museum to that girl are deleted. The folder is blank now, the bone white of the screen a sharp contrast to my room's soft rosy ivory.
I lean back a little, my spine and computer chair creaking in harmony, and stare at the folder’s blankness. She’s gone. I chose to forget her and move on, just like she chose to... chose to... she...
I close out the window containing her folder and open the recycle bin. Those 76 files are there. I look through them again. I press Ctrl+Z and all those files reappear in her folder.
She won't ever undo what she did. But I can’t stop undoing my own actions, in my head and in reality.
Yay ambiguous events and artistic foufou writing
