By Audrey Lambert, TIWP Student

The old man across from me examined the hole in his sock. The slight rocking of the train kept lulling me to sleep. But then another waft of the barf-inducing stench of his feet would hit me. Knowing that sleep would be useless, I stared out the window. The thing that always comes into my head popped up. The girl in the yellow house. The girl that had a smile that radiated happiness. The girl with a laugh that made you laugh. The girl that made me smile when everyone else made me cry.  The girl who told me I was amazing when everyone else made it clear that I was a worthless piece of shit. The beautiful, wonderful, yellow girl.

She disappeared two years ago, leaving me to be the grey boy I was, and am. But I was done being grey. I was going to find the yellow girl, the girl who was my only friend, my nightlight in a world of terrifying darkness. The only problem was, when I say she disappeared, I mean she disappeared. As in, if you Google the name Faith Wilson, no matter how far you scroll, her smile won’t show up. But with all the time I have to think, (and believe me I have a lot, for at almost all times of the day I’m being told to keep my mouth shut), I remembered that when we were young and we played those silly imaginary games that kids play, she always chose one name, Lorelei Pottersfield. A yellow name for a yellow girl. As you can guess, there aren’t a lot of those. When you Google that name, my yellow girl is the second smile to show up. After living in my dark world as a grey boy for so long, it was time to find my light, to fly to her like a moth to a lamp. And that’s why I’m here, sitting on a train across from a man who thinks it’s socially acceptable to take off his shoes in public. Waiting for the operator to call my stop.

I looked at the piece of paper I took from my pocket. 347 Winddrop Street.  There was a chance this wasn’t it, a chance I was wrong. But I had a feeling this would be where I found her. A yellow house for a yellow girl.