Chapter 35
We eventually reach the end of the corridor, hitting a wall of metal and a new path that leads around the edge of the space to another set of doors.
They swing open to a small passageway lined with fire exits, and yet more double doors.
This time the piece of paper taped to the door reads: Ransom II.
‘Okay, here we go,’ Josh whispers.
We’re greeted by a wall of dark-brown fabric. Josh roughly pushes it aside to reveal: more of the same. More office space. I just about hear Owen’s disappointed sigh.
If anything, this space looks even larger.
But compared to the previous room, this one is well-lit.
Warm orange and yellow lights illuminate the space and highlight every nook and cranny.
And I realise the music is more pleasant; an easy, ambient track courses smoothly around us as we make our way in.
Another contrast to the previous room are the separating walls that line every corridor – this time covered from top to bottom in pink and yellow post-its. Not a single inch has been left uncovered.
Josh leads the way through the central passageway.
‘If the final clue is hidden on one of these post-it notes and we’re expected to check all of them, that band is dead to me,’ Elliot says to me flatly.
‘Ditto,’ Hennie agrees, gazing wide-eyed at the abundance of them.
‘That would be impossible,’ I reply. ‘No one has the time to do that.’
‘Or the eyesight,’ Owen chimes in, squinting at the post-its at the very top.
‘What even are they?’ Hennie asks, stopping to inspect a bunch.
I pause next to her, my eyes dancing across the post-its in front of me.
Every note is scribbled in different handwriting, and some look like they’ve been added recently.
Others are turning up at the edges with the ink fading, possibly years old.
I walk tentatively down the corridor, feeling a tug at my heart as I read over them:
I want to go home
I want to forget about her
I want to sleep
I want to understand what’s wrong with me and how to fucking fix it
I want to create something that matters
I want to be pretty
I want to work somewhere that doesn’t make me
want to die
I want my mum
Others are less serious:
I want ollie to bum me
I want MONEYYYYYYYYYY
I want to be rimmed
I want to move to a cabin in the woods where the internet doesn’t exist and no one knows I even exist and I eat leaves to survive
Hennie clears her throat. ‘Quite a lot to take in.’
The post-it confessions have left me speechless. My eyes stick to one post-it just above my head. It looks like it’s been there for some time, the words faded and almost illegible now:
I want to believe that love is real
I hover next to it, wondering if the person who wrote this message however many years ago has found someone to love by now. If they might have discovered that love is real. I wish there was a number on the back that I could check in with and ask.
The smell of clean, warm woodiness reaches me before I see him. I’m beginning to take serious issue with how glorious he smells and how much it messes with my cognitive functioning.
I peek at him over my shoulder and his face is as plain as always, his gaze moving across the wall decorated with the desires and dreams of so many.
‘Seems only right that we do one,’ Hennie says brightly.
‘Yeah, why not?’ Owen replies from behind us.
‘I’ll find where the post-its are,’ Hennie says.
Owen and Josh take turns pointing out the most bizarre and hilarious post-its to each other, giggling at each one. Elliot is quiet next to me, the odd angles of his hair lit up with the glow of the overhead lights.
‘What you thinking, champ?’
His blue gaze is on me in a flash. ‘Not much,’ he says, his expression a mask.
‘Ready to add your own?’ I nod at the wall.
He looks like he’s trying to hold in a laugh. ‘My own deepest want and desire, you mean? On a post-it note? For hundreds of people to read?’
‘Sure,’ I reply, shrugging a shoulder.
‘We already did a ribbon wish, isn’t this basically the same thing?’
‘I don’t think so,’ I retort. ‘There’s a difference between a wish and a want.’
‘Alright.’ He crosses his arms and regards me with a faint smile. ‘What exactly is the difference?’
‘Well,’ I start, wondering why I suddenly have an opinion on this.
‘From my perspective anyway, a wish is just something you throw out into the ether, something you know is unlikely to happen for you but you can’t help but hope for anyway.
A want is something that feels possible.
Like a goal that drives you and that you work for. Does that make sense?’
He nods. ‘So a wish is more of a distant dream, but a want is something you’d actually try to pursue. So someone might wish they had a Lamborghini but want a car that doesn’t break down once a week.’
I purse my lips in thought. ‘Yeah, exactly. That makes sense to me.’
He considers this briefly. ‘Respectfully, I think I have to disagree,’ he says. ‘There are plenty of wants in front of us that sound like your so-called “wishes”. I mean, this one for example: “I want to be the greatest shagger in human history.” That’s not realistic.’
‘What? Why are you shitting on this guy’s dreams?’ I reply, outraged. ‘Unrealistic in your eyes, but they might be taking all the right steps to execute this. They might have done the greatest shag by now, you don’t know.’
His lips twitch. ‘What I’m saying is that wishes and wants are interchangeable in my view.
If you think about the thing that you desperately want the most right now that seems completely impossible – something that you didn’t think could ever happen to you: who’s to say that’s some fantastical wish and not just something you want?
’ His voice is smooth and utterly hypnotising.
I gulp. ‘I see your point, I suppose.’
‘Well, that gives you much to think about, then,’ he murmurs before stepping around me to leave.
I’m not letting him go that easily. I whirl round, grabbing his arm with a grin. ‘Come on, don’t be scared of your wants and dreams! Wish for that chicken coop. Wish to do the Grand Prix! You can dig a desire out of that brain of yours.’
He leans closer to me with his own wicked smile. ‘You already got your number one want fired up and ready to go onto a post-it note, princess?’
That makes me pause, and my smile falters.
‘Thought so, you can try me again when you think of one,’ he says, tapping me gently on the temple before walking away, leaving me to furiously direct my thoughts away from how much I’d enjoyed the sensation.
Hennie emerges with a small post-it stack and three pens. I take one of the pens and a post-it from the pile and flick it between my fingers, deliberating on what to write.
In the grand scheme of things, I do realise it won’t fundamentally change anything… but the endless dreams scribbled on the wall cry out to me, mesmerising and unnerving.
There is a collective release in these walls, with these people not being afraid to admit what they had wanted. Perhaps even admitting they wanted it enough to commit to the idea. But maybe not enough to say it out loud, I’d venture.
Something screams loudly from my gut. A crystal clear, true answer that has been buried underneath a well-crafted shield. One that I don’t want to admit to myself, even now.
I let my eyes drift across the notes on the wall, letting them fuel me and encourage me to join them in their candour:
I want to care less about what people think about me
I want my dog back
I want to be able to go at least 24 hours without wanting to text my fucking ex
I want to meet someone who understands me
I want to figure out what the fuck to do with my life
I want to know that everything will be okay
My body moving of its own accord, I turn to look for Elliot.
He’s standing only metres away, his own attention captured by the wall.
My chest swells and softens as I take him in, at the way his long lashes flutter as his gaze travels across the post-its, at the angle of his strong jaw and the single curl near his temple that I have grown maddeningly obsessed with.
His arms are still crossed, his frame closed off, his face as undecipherable as always.
A truth settles in my bones: I don’t want to just be his friend. Not at all.
The time that Elliot and I have spent together ricochets through my mind: the moments we’ve laughed almost doubled over, his sweetness and patience when I shared my past, every snarky comment and comeback, the way his body automatically shields my own in crowds.
Every moment of dejection, every tiny shred of magic.
Everything I’ve felt for Elliot since we met has all been entirely worth it.
Why would I ever want to erase my feelings from this weekend?
Wanting someone so badly – whilst in some ways is, yes, awful – has been electrifying.
The fluttering in my chest. The burning, the longing, the yearning.
Obsessively watching out for his habits.
Desperately holding out for those moments of tenderness.
Counting down the seconds until our eyes can meet again so my body can come alive and I can feel seen in ways I didn’t think possible.
I don’t want to behave as if these feelings aren’t meant for me anymore.
Now I’ve tasted it. It doesn’t feel fair that such an experience should be denied to me.
When I did nothing to earn such a punishment?
Coldly cutting myself off from the opportunity to fall in love feels like an overcorrection now – a misplaced desire to keep the bruised parts of me locked up tight.
But surely, it’s a miraculous thing? To feel this way.
Even though it feels terrifying… in a strange way, I’ve never felt better. Like this yearning is some kind of sickness I never want to recover from. Even though rejection is likely the only outcome in this situation. Briefly, I wonder if I’ve gone insane.
Despite my efforts, there is an all-consuming want to be near Elliot, talk to Elliot, stare like an idiot at Elliot. It is exhilarating and tireless and unable to be sated.
I take another peek at him. My heart stutters.
I realise someone like Elliot won’t have a romantic interest in me; perhaps there had been a fleeting curiosity last night that happens to all human beings with sexual organs, but certainly not a let’s-choose-each-other-and-fall-in-love kind of interest. But that might come along with someone, eventually?
At some point in my life, if my guard softened and gave way to something that felt real?
I let myself absorb the idea, feeling it harden and glimmer within me all at once. My lips curl into a smile and my gaze drifts again to a certain post-it:
I want to believe that love is real
Fuck it. I press my post-it against my palm and start to write in a frenzy.
I’m writing the last word when a familiar, dry voice speaks next to my ear.
‘Finished with–?’
‘Dah!’ I jump out my skin, immediately recoiling and snatching my post-it out of sight. ‘Fucking hell. Could you not do that?’
He looks quite amused. ‘Sorry, I was wondering if you’d finished with your pen.’
‘Well, evidently not, as I was still writing with it.’
‘Alright, take your time,’ he says mildly, nodding at my note.
‘Just give me two seconds.’ I finish writing the last word with a harsh exhale and tuck it into my palm to hide it from him.
Offering him the pen with a haughty look, I wait for him to take it. He hesitates and gestures towards the wall with a teasing smirk. ‘Isn’t it time to stick it down?’
‘Yes it is, when you vamoose,’ I say, ushering him away. His lips twitch as he grabs the pen and strolls down the hall.
Keeping my eyes firmly planted on his head, I slap my post-it as high as I can onto the wall. I double check its position, eyeing my words that have been inked onto paper with a strange sensation that feels a little like hope.