Bathed In Bubbles

We stood there sharing a bubble.

I was leaning against the wall, half awake, half asleep, and half immersed in you, but too out of it to notice that my three halves didn’t add up.

The gum in my mouth had long since lost its taste, but I kept it around anyway. It annoyed the teachers when I snapped it in class.

You were as always, lugging that heavy backpack around and smiling—as if you were happy to see me, I’d like to say, but I wouldn’t want to assume.

No one was talking. Our bubble was silent, though there was noise around us. None of it penetrated to where we stood, locked.

You murmured softly, words tumbling out like some Ferris wheel on its course, cars straightening slowly into place, inspiring terror and elation in the same breath. It was the feeling I always got when I spoke with you.

“I think silences are beautiful and calm.”

I shrugged and said, “They’re awkward.”

Your bubble burst. My bubble popped. Pink was strewn around my mouth, but seeing the light in your eyes diminished was more of a problem.

All you said was “Oh.” And the light diminished more, a light bulb slowly burning out. It was replaced by disappointment, reflected from my eyes to yours.

All I could think was “Oh.” How could I have been so stupid?