She found it on a post-it note
Cleaning out her room, she came across a Post-It. The handwriting was rough, as it always was when she used to hear a passerby say something that struck her, something that stuck to her. With the adrenaline in high gear, she would write them down, every word she heard, at an illegible pace. She never kept up with the Post-Its. She really never kept up with anything anymore.
The note must have been at least eight-years old. She wondered if she would even find something like that as noteworthy now. It made her jealous of the girl who thought enough to capture those pieces of conversation. That girl who yearned to hear broken pieces of conversation and misconstrue them as something meaningful to her life. And at the same time, she rebuked that girl who copycatted and mimicked her way through life, mistaking the verses of others for her own.
Strangely, as she read it, the years were not the past; there was no gap; she was right where it was happening, even though it already happened. And then she felt it:
Happiness always has a risk. You never get it without trying or
sacrificing something else in order to attain it. I have never seen
happiness just handed out to anyone.ˆ
Maybe she might be grateful that the girl thoughtfully, methodically– almost strategically–wrote those words down. That perhaps she was old enough now to understand them. And instead, it was that girl who was jealous, anxious to be eight years from then.