Sydney

Chapter One

Therapy wasn’t really helping anymore. Celeste had done all she could, but she couldn’t take away my grief and regret. I left her office feeling worse than I entered. My mind flashed back to the first time I went for therapy and how lighter I had felt. That feeling was temporary. That feeling was a lie. Now whenever I entered that room, I remembered my words, I saw her face, I heard her laugh, I felt the pain I originally didn’t understand, and
I hated it.

I hated knowing what I felt was nothing close to how she felt. I hated that I couldn’t forget her. I hated that I couldn’t save her from herself.

Someone tapped me. It raised my head from my hands and looked it. It was Devenity, my girlfriend. The only person I let get close to me.

She sat down beside me and I hugged her. After a while, she stood up and in front of me lay her outstretched hand waiting to lift me up.

“Let’s go home.”

I stood up and kissed her forehead and with her hand in mine, we walked to the car. Deven took the wheel.

“If it’s getting worse, maybe we should stop seeing Mrs. Acasio.” She said temporarily glancing at me.

I waited until my brain concluded that Mrs. Acasio and Celeste were the same person, then I ignored her.

Therapy was something I started so I could be a better boyfriend to Deven. She stuck by me when everyone left me to wallow in my own depression. I pushed her away until I had no more fight in me, and she refused to budge.

I loved her and I genuinely wanted to get better, but Celeste wasn’t my escape anymore and we both knew it.

Deven shrugged off my silence and continued.

“I read somewhere that writing is a great escape. It lets you put all you feel down. Maybe that will rest your mind.”
I was skeptical.

“Besides, you haven’t written in forever.”

“Even if I wanted to write, what would I write about? How I have been having nightmares of her death or how I’ve been having brief flashes of her falling off the cliff in the middle of my day?”

“I thought the flashes were gone.”

“So did I.”

“That’s why you haven’t been driving.”, she stated as a fact then continued, “Well, to answer your question, you can write about her story.”

“What. Hell no.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?”, I repeated laughing sadly, “You want me deep dive into memories I’ve kept locked up for three years. Fucked up memories that sometimes escape and causes me to have to see Celeste.”

She parked the car in front of our apartment building and turned to me.

“First of all, calm down, you’re getting agitated. Take a deep breath.”

I did as she said and instantly, I felt calmer.

“Now, why can’t you write about her.”

I looked into her blue eyes that were looking at me in earnest.

“Writing about her means breaking open a jar of memories. I have no idea what it would do to me, and I don’t want to know what it would do to me.”

“You won’t know until you try.”

“I know it will tear me apart and most likely won’t fix me.”
I turned and got out of the car, walking to the other side to help her out.

“I have always been here for you, and whatever happens when you write won’t push me away.”

I looked at her, then to our conjoined hands. I lifted our hands to my lips and pecked her hands.

“I love you.”

“I know. Now for my winning shot, I really want to know about how you met her, that is, if you’ll let me read it.”

I smiled at her, my only source of happiness in my life. How could I deny her what she wanted?

“What is a writer without a reader?”, I joked as we entered our apartment.