Your depressive state had never allowed you to think straight. The trauma you endured as a child had cumulated so many issues for your mental health. There was never a silver lining in life. No light at the end of the tunnel. No glass half-full.
N...
Your eyes opened to the sound of pebbles crackling against your window.
"Wake up!" You heard a voice shout, "We're gonna be late!"
But the voice was one you already knew. One that made you smile every time you heard its soft, gentle tone. One that made you feel safe when you knew it was around. The voice belonged to your best friend in the whole, wide world:
Park Jimin.
You looked over at your alarm clock to realize you had overslept. Quickly, you sprung up and slid up your now pebble-scraped bedroom window.
"I just got up!" You yelled down to him, "Give me five minutes!"
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You saw his face. He had began to roll his eyes and slightly smirk as if this was typical behavior. Which, sometimes it was. Recently, you had become more careless than usual. All your life, you had struggled with mental health problems. It ranged anywhere from depression to episodes of PTSD from your past:
You had not experienced a nice childhood. Your father had left your mother for another woman when you were only five. And in doing that, he took your little brother with him. You witnessed your mother struggle to keep herself together. To pay the bills and make sure the house was in order. To make sure you were in order. She had replaced every responsibility with a late-night sob session. You watched her cry herself to sleep most days. And in turn, it made you cry too.
It presented you with trust issues and fear of abandonment. It gave you sadness and paranoia. It made you second guess anyone and everyone. But that wasn't the worst thing that had happened to you. It wasn't when you heard the quiet phone calls of your father talking to his mistress while you pretended to watch TV on the sofa. It wasn't your mom and him having scream matches when she became suspicious of his sinful behavior.
It was the fact that when you were five years old, the day your father left, you screamed for him to stay. Your mom held you back as you reached your hands out and begged for him to tell you where he was going. But he ignored you. He held your baby brother in his arms, and walked out to your family car.
The car you had once all rode in. It had precious memories of taking daytrips to the beach and going out for breakfast. And now, those memories were being stolen from you.
You yelled to him one last time as he crossed the street towards the irreplaceable minivan. And finally, he turned to you. Relief fell upon you. You had finally caught his attention. The attention you had been longing for since the day you were born. The attention you craved. He looked at you with sorrow in his eyes. With guilt and sadness. You knew he felt sorry for you.
He didn't have time to look at you more, but you did. Everything had gone in slow motion when you witnessed your drunk neighbor skid around the street corner. When you watched him slam onto his brakes. As you screamed, but for a different reason, now:
