Some call me a psychopath. Others taunt me with names like “Emo Eza” or “Ross the Robot.” It’s fine, though, really. It doesn’t bother me. At least, not that they can tell. My face has been frozen in the same deadpan expression ever since I was a little kid. Ever since the accident.

It happened when I was just shy of six. My babysitter at the time thought it was a great idea for me to go play in the community pool so he could hang out with his girlfriend. I was on swim team, so he thought I would be fine without supervision. I was indeed a fantastic swimmer, but I wouldn’t be able to out-swim what happened next…

The sky had already darkened, shades of gray cotton puffs merging into a suffocating blanket overhead. The atmosphere was brewing and burbling like an unhappy stomach, and I suddenly felt unease. Goosebumps dotted their way down my neck and little hairs stood like soldiers on my arms. I could feel the electrical excitement in the air. First, a rumble, and then a brilliant flash of forked light beamed down from the heavens. Lightning struck the pool as I dove underwater, being that I was young and foolish enough to think water would save me from the fire raining down.

I woke up in a hospital, but something was very different about me. I felt bigger, taller than I did just yesterday! The last thing I remembered was gasping a quick breath before plunging down to the bottom of the pool. I tried to talk; tried to say something was wrong. I could barely move my mouth. My eyes darted around the room frantically, settling on my mama, bathed in cold white hospital lighting.

“Oh Sweetie…” she had said. “You’re alive… oh I missed you so much!” She was reduced to blubbering happy, relieved tears. I felt like I was going to cry too, but something was wrong, again. I couldn’t. I simply wasn’t able to.

The doctor said, “She’s lucky to have woken up… it’s been so long.” So long? What did that mean?? My mama saw me staring at the doctor.

“Eza, you’ve been in a coma for two years.” She rushed over and hugged me, her face soaked with saltwater. I was so shocked. But my mouth couldn’t form an “O.”

It took years of speech therapy to be able to get out a discernible mumble. So, I’m used to the bullies by now. It didn’t bother me much until today. Why today?

Well, this is the first time I met them. Kind, gray eyes, the color of a storm cloud… tousled ginger hair; a dreamy sense of style. And confidence. A non-showy, nonchalant type of confidence. I can’t help but admire them.

Our eyes lock for just a moment in time, in passing. Something made them approach me, thought I can’t fathom why.

“Hey.” It’s a smooth voice, with an undertone of an accent, like what you would hear narrating an audiobook. I want so badly to be able to smile, but it ends up as a very slight grimace. Why was this so hard? I collected myself.

“Hi,” I mutter as clearly as I can.

“I love your shoes! Did you embroider them yourself?” They ask me. “I’m Hezel, by the way.” I wonder what it’s like to blush? This felt like an appropriate time for it to happen.

“Thanks! I did! I’m Eza.” This is more talking to someone my age than I’ve done in a long, long time. I feel bubbly, like a good kind of electric.

Is this love?