something like a { s u n s e t } // (zoe)

Small talk is both painstakingly difficult and incredibly easy. The easy part is the short answers, blurting out the definite answers hammered into your head through routine conversations with strangers like a robot. The difficult part comes in the awkward pauses when words run short, when questions are answered a little too quickly or our responses dwindle away into nothing and are carried away by the wind. I want so desperately to grab them in those situations, plucking them from the sky before they're out of reach and forcing them back into my mouth, choking under their pressure - but instead I just say nothing and watch the conversation tumble along with time instead.

Small talk about the ocean was like talking about the weather any place else, for what else was there to discuss in District Four than the sea itself? It's cliché, but so am I, so I make like the ocean and drift away. Sometimes I float along the currents like a piece of driftwood, letting a force greater than me steer me along its path. But sometimes I'm a bird in the sky, floating amongst the clouds into the sunset, guiding myself on my own destination. Then people pick me out of the water or pull me down into the ground and I'm forced to realise I'm neither a piece of wood or a bird of prey but human and nothing else. Blood flows through my veins, not the ocean. I breathe in air, not light. My home is a small house on a hill near a riverbank with a boat named after me and a tire swing long forgotten, not down below where sea-creatures play and the beds are made of sand yet nobody ever sleeps.

Somebody's pulling me back, again. I blink to find the sunset upon me once more, warming my body, thankful there's no wind. What had I just said it was? The calm before the storm. By tomorrow - if I make it, for who knows what ugly, invisible predators lurk underneath the ocean - the glassy surfaces will be shaken and stirred, howling for days when things were peaceful and no waves had to crash into each-other over and over again. (I know more than anybody what that feels like, rolling into your own chaos for days and days at a time and feeling as if you'll never see sunlight again.) But today it is sunny, today it is calm, so I'll count my blessing and dive in the deep end of conversations with strangers and see if I'll break the surface again.

"Interesting name," the anchor remarks. I say nothing and smile - it's not a lie, per say, because it's been my nickname for longer than I can remember, but I'm still wary around him. Anchors are supposed to be a symbol of hope, but I've always thought that was a silly thought because the one job an anchor has is to sink to the bottom of the ocean. Perhaps I am the anchor, being pulled up and down and up and down just so other people can feel at ease and not float away. Everybody else is minding their own business in their own little boats, and out of everyone I'm the one who has to sink. Lately that's been ok, because days go by where I'm not always stuck at the bottom, and if I am it's only for a little while. Somebody promises to haul me back onto deck, never letting go. Maybe this kid will keep me on board, or maybe he'll row out into the middle of the night and throw me away, rope and all, when nobody else can save me.

But I'm already in the deep end anyway, so I might as well try to tread water whilst I'm here.

"So, do you live around here?" Warning alarms begin to ring in my head - those were my secrets, my identity, not ready to be exploited and drawn in the sand for everyone to see. Toes curl against the gritty ground underneath my soles, wishing it could swallow me up.

"I kind of like it here, it's quiet, you know?" The bells laugh - quiet, yes, if you can't hear the catastrophe in my head or the seagulls screech in the early morning or thunder crack against the horizon when the storm has finally arrived. Endless amounts of words and sentences and opinions that I used to be so good at sharing catch between my teeth, a prison in my own mouth. And then it's oxygen that won't leave, caught by my lips as I clamp them shut, refusing to let anything leave my body. Come on now, the kind voice says, you can do it. Just breathe, that's all.

"You wanna walk?"

(Inhale.)

I follow close beside him - not too close, of course, cautionary intentions leading the way in which my feet find the sand. It's quiet, too quiet for my tastes. The sun is starting to fall asleep and the sky is painted gold and purple and the quiet little voice in the back of my head tells me to let go, just for a moment. Just be yourself. (But who is that exactly?) I think you already know.

"Walking's kinda boring" I state, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. to release my hidden words. They taste blunt, but that's ok, because the delighted ones are soon to follow. "You know what's fun, though? Watch this." And I'm racing forwards, half-skipping across the sand with quick little steps, laughing as my hands stretch out in the sky for a moment before launching myself sideways, springing into a cartwheel against the sunset. I'm living: I'm alive and I'm living and I'm actually enjoying myself, breathless when I stop after a twirl or two later.

"See? It's fun!" My hand stretches out for him to join me, and part of me begs for him to take it.

"Come on. I'll teach you, if you want."

(Exhale.)