HAPPY PILLS
‘Some people come and they’re gone… They just fly away…’ – Henry, Come On, Lana Del Rey
It all seemed like it should’ve meant nothing. Yet here I am, eight years later, writing it out. Eight years. I think I’ll be the only one to remember it when I’m old and decaying, ready for death’s skeletal claws. I’ll look back across time’s seas with a rusted telescope and think, that was when I believed life had meaning. Not this aimlessness. Back then, I took too many Happy Pills just to stay sane, to feel normal as I walked through the bright white atrium of my new college. A new chapter of my life had dawned, and for a brief, shining moment, I felt excitement. Acceptance. Everything made sense. Finally, I told myself, I’m going somewhere.
After getting my timetable, I wandered the campus alone. The crowded halls buzzed with students coming and going, laughing, calling out to friends. I must have looked strange, drifting like a ghost. No one noticed me, a shadow at the edge of their world.
I popped another Happy Pill — two this time — and found the courage to approach a stranger sitting by a large glass window. They didn’t look up as I neared, but I forced myself to say, “Hi,” my voice small and brittle.
“Hello,” they replied flatly, their tone as hollow as a deflating balloon. Then they stood and walked past me, joining a group of friends nearby. Their laughter spilled out, filling the atrium with echoes. My chest tightened as I turned away, heat crawling up my neck.
I fought the urge to take more pills. I only had one pack with me that day, and I knew better. I’d taken too many before. I knew the consequences.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I sought refuge in the library. It was quiet and airy — home, in a way. Wandering the aisles, I found new friends over the next two years: Dickens, Tennessee Williams, Capote, Shakespeare, Charlotte Brontë. They didn’t judge me. They never walked away.
I signed up for English and religion. Psychology wasn’t available, but that didn’t bother me. English was my first love. Religion was just something I happened to be good at.
For my first English lesson, I arrived early. Mrs. Kurt, the lecturer, was already there, sorting through her files. She had blonde hair, smooth white skin, and large hazel eyes like a cat’s — searching, penetrating. Her presence demanded respect, but when she glanced at me and smiled, I relaxed. Maybe she appreciated my punctuality.
As the classroom filled, I avoided looking at the other students. I dreaded the inevitable moment someone would sit beside me, breaking the bubble of solitude. Polite hellos would be exchanged, then silence — a weighty silence full of unrealized possibilities.
And then he walked in.
There were no seats left except the one next to me. He hesitated, then sank into the chair, his movements fluid, deliberate. You might wonder why his presence struck me so, but I can only say this: he was real-life Aladdin. His raven-black hair, tanned skin, and dark brown eyes captivated me. He wore a dark blue monkey jacket, black trousers, and a green rubber armband. These details seem trivial, but I need to preserve this moment before it fades and dissolves in time’s endless oceans.
He pulled out a single broken pen and a sheet of paper. I, better prepared, offered him my yellow highlighter.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice soft and genuine.
When he smiled at me, something shifted. His warmth passed through me, softening and brightening places that had been dark for so long. There was no judgment in his eyes, no distance. Just a quiet understanding.
Words failed me. My emotions outpaced them, racing ahead into a place language couldn’t reach. We sat in silence, a tether forming between us — a thread of familiarity. He felt like someone I had been seeking for a long time.
Mrs. Kurt began her lecture on punctuality and attendance, her voice a distant hum. She told us to go to the library to use the computers. As the class rose, he floated up beside me, the invisible thread tightening.
“Have you been here before?” he asked, his voice gentle.
My stomach tightened. The Happy Pills were wreaking havoc, amplifying my nerves. “No,” I said, trying not to stare into his eyes.
But I did.
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For the first time in years, I felt raw, exposed. Vulnerable. It seemed as though the slightest judgment from him could destroy me, like a tower crumbling under a single blow. But there was no judgment, only kindness.
He smiled again, and we walked to the library together. With him beside me, the outside world blurred and faded. All that mattered was this moment, the sound of his voice, the passing clouds we watched through the tall windows.
“What do you like to do? Any hobbies?” he asked, his eyes searching mine.
“I want to be a writer,” I said. “I just need a muse.”
His face lit up. “I like reading too. Last year, we read Jane Eyre. It’s a…”
“Big book,” I interrupted, smiling. “I loved it.”
He laughed softly, a sound that soothed something deep inside me.
“I could use a coffee right now,” I joked.
“Same,” he said, grinning, his teeth bright against his tan skin.
I muffled a laugh, the happiness inside me spilling over. For the first time, I felt joy without the Happy Pills. It seemed impossible — to be seen and not hated by a stranger. But here he was, my Aladdin, looking at me with kindness. For a fleeting moment, the universe felt meaningful and kind.
“What are your hobbies?” I asked.
“I make music — remixes and stuff,” he said.
I wanted to ask more, but Mrs. Kurt’s voice called us back. As we walked up the stairs, the tether between us seemed to dance with unspoken words. I wanted to ask him everything, but the questions stayed locked inside me.
“I’ll see you all next week,” Mrs. Kurt said.
We packed our bags. He stopped to speak with her briefly, then turned back to me. For a moment, we were walking side by side again, the world outside retreating.
“I’ll see you next week,” I said.
He smiled. “See you.”
I watched him join his friends as I made my way back to the library, already looking forward to our next meeting. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t alone.
I never saw him again.
He disappeared after that day, leaving nothing behind but the memory of his smile. I’ve thought about him ever since. I wonder if he remembers me — if our brief connection lingers in his mind the way it does in mine. Did he feel it too, that flicker of something real in a world so often filled with emptiness?
It’s funny how someone can change you, even for just an hour. I may never know why he left or what he truly felt, but I do know this: for one hour, life made sense. For one hour, I mattered to someone.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
