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On one unremarkable, lazy summer night on the precipice of August, Golf Ball is lying on her bed in hopes that Hypnos will come for her soon (or really, any god that’d help her sleep—Golf Ball isn’t religious at all, since she firmly believes the only thing holding up religion is blind faith and loyalty. But, there’s no harm in reaching out to every straw she can grasp in times of need). Her eyes are closed, sure, though her mind hasn’t warmed up to the idea of drifting off into REM sleep just yet.
Sighing quietly to herself, GB reluctantly pushes her blanket to the side. No use in pretending now: she’s definitely staying awake for a minimum of a few hours more.
Golf Ball rummages around her messy nightstand for her circle glasses, almost knocking down a stray part of the latest invention she’s been working on. Then, as if by some unknown force (perhaps one of the myriad of gods GB’s prayed to in her bouts of uncharacteristic doubt), she gravitates towards the open window. Actually, though, Golf Ball thinks she’s walking to the window because it’s her spot. A place where she can sit on the window sill and work out theories in her head—all alone, in her room with the locked door, where no one’s able to bother her. It’s fine, really; Golf Ball enjoys the serenity.
A breeze floats across the bedroom, one of the only gusts of wind of the entire day. She places her elbows on the window sill and gazes at the sky.
It’s a near-cloudless night, with one lone cloud drifting past the edge of Golf Ball’s peripheral vision. On nights like these, it’s clearly apparent how the sky is so empty—thus, when GB’s in a rare introspective mood not unlike the one she’s in right now, she wishes she could see the stars. Alas, light pollution is one of the drawbacks of the innovative streetlamp. With how barren the skies are tonight, Golf Ball’s eyes wander downwards to the apartment complex sitting right in front of GB’s own building. They linger on the illuminated windows scattered across the exterior of the apartment; while most are pitch-black, Golf Ball notes the windows of white, yellow, and multicolored LED light. And, for a reason unknown to her, she wonders about the stories behind every window. As in, what are their names? What do they study? What are their families like—do they even have families? Have they ever loved?
At that last question, Golf Ball pauses. Love. What an odd thing to think about.
For the record, it should be stated that Golf Ball is not one of those girls who thinks about fickle things like crushes and soulmates. No, she’s more interested in the technical side of things, rather than focusing on the irrational—like the concept of emotions and morals and relationships. Over the years, some have suggested that the reason she’s not in touch with her feelings is mainly because she never had them in the first place. Golf Ball thought the idea to be stupid. No one is born without emotions—that is improbable and most likely impossible, despite GB’s distaste for the word impossible . Nothing is ever impossible… but, when it comes to something similar to the erratic concept of feelings … Well, Golf Ball hates to admit she’s a bit unsure.
She’s never unpacked the true meaning of those statements. After all, they’re outrageous claims fueled by misinformation and pure ignorance. Yet, she’s curious. Maybe tonight Golf Ball will finally look inward and prod at the part of herself that she’s been too fearful to touch before.
In retrospect, Golf Ball doesn’t really feel as if she’s ever experienced love before. To be fair, no one’s been able to extract a clear definition of what it means to love; perhaps it is just that her idea of romance is different from the Hollywood adventure-and-adoration combo films. However, there’s something nagging at her brain: telling her that what she feels can’t possibly be that simple. So, instead, Golf Ball—against better judgment—leans closer to the window and breathes in the dry air, clearing her mind for utmost efficiency. It’d be too unfamiliar if she didn’t do something easy, such as deep breathing.
Golf Ball has only had one crush ever in her life. Though, crush feels like a generous word. It was more of a quiet thing: if she had to describe her feelings toward Tennis Ball on a scale of one to ten (one being classmates, three being friends, five crossing the border into a crush, and ten being pure love), she’d think she’d rate it a four and a half. She didn’t giggle and kick her feet at the thought of TB, or blush uncontrollably whenever they were in the room together. In actuality, the only sense that her feelings for him might’ve fallen into crush territory was that she’d think to herself every once in a while, Tennis Ball doesn’t look that bad. In fact, I rather enjoy being in his presence. But, surely, that’s much too mild to be a crush—GB’s stomach churned at the idea of being in a relationship with him. Why would she tie herself down to a man, when she has discoveries to be found?
However, Golf Ball isn’t a stranger to the feeling of lust, even if it disgusts her afterwards. Of course, anyone with eyes can spot the most attractive man in the room. Plus, anyone with a brain can imagine that said person in a few not-so-appropriate ways. That part confuses Golf Ball. Why is she victim to the more dangerous part of romance—the sex appeal? Why couldn’t she have gotten the purer form: the feeling of loving someone no matter what? Secretly, Golf Ball wishes she could fall in love with Tennis Ball and live out a happy, romantic life with him. But, she wasn’t made for that—and she envies people who were.
Golf Ball sits and thinks for a moment longer before tugging the blinds shut and crawling back into her own bed. That’s enough reflection for one night, she muses. Any more and I’ll end up finding something out that I wanted to keep hidden.
Tomorrow, Golf Ball will be the intelligent scientist and inventor she usually is. Tonight, she’ll ponder about her feelings until she finally goes to sleep.