*Watty's 2021 Shortlist*
Samantha Roberts and Ben Evans have one thing in common - they both attend Sir Robertson's School for the Gifted, an elite boarding school for the children of the world's wealthiest. Both scholarship students, they gravitate...
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If I could just be sure that Rose was real, if I could just have that knowledge that I wasn't crazy, that something really was going on—Well, it would make everything a whole lot easier.
Sometimes I think I should just tell Ben. But then I go to reconstruct the conversation in my head—Ben. You have a sister. Well, had a sister. Actually—and it all falls to bits.
Some days I think I must be crazy, and then I wonder why no one around me has noticed it yet. Surely, if I was actually going insane, there would be more signs? More symptoms? Red flags that would set people's suspicions in motion?
Instead, it's the opposite—apparently, I've become more outgoing, more engaged in class and with my friends. My drama teacher—don't ask, it was an elective I couldn't get out of—praised me the other day for my "newfound vigour in life".
Yeah, Ms. Brighton is weird.
And I guess I shouldn't feel offended. It was meant as a compliment. It's just... If I've become more outgoing, more social, shouldn't it feel easier?
Because it doesn't.
It still feels like I have to drag myself out of bed each morning and convince myself to talk to people.
It's not something I enjoy at all. People are exhausting. And messy. And you always have to know what to say—I hate making small talk.
People just... scare me sometimes. Sure, they can be nice. But they also have a large capacity to hurt, sometimes even when they don't mean to.
It takes so much effort to let someone in, when all they might do is tear you apart. As cliche as it sounds, I've been burned before, and I'm not super keen on it happening again.
I let Ben in, but it took time, and besides, we were sort of forced on each other. I doubt it would have happened without Rose.
And now Ben doesn't even remember her.
I wonder how he thinks we met. I toy for a moment with the idea of asking him, before tossing it away as far too risky. How would I even ask that without it sounding weird?
Besides, I think it would be too painful—to hear about his version of reality where Rose doesn't exist.
Rose. Beautiful, precious, tiny Rose. She always was too smart for her own good—I remember this one time where she figured out how to pick the lock on the door of the library so that she could read all night. Our dorm supervisor, a matronly woman named Mrs. Bottle, nearly had steam coming out of her ears by the time they found Rose tucked away in a corner.
After that incident, which really was the straw that broke the camel's back, it was agreed that I could have a key to her room, and her mine, so that I could check on her and she could come to my room if she was bored or scared.
I would check in on her in the mornings, sometimes, even if I wasn't the one waking her up. Just to make sure she was there, asleep and happy, in her bed with all of her stuffies.
