𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 ༊*·˚ 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧

𝐭𝐰𝐨.

|ᴛᴡᴏ| ᴍɪssɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇs & ғʟʏɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴍɪssɪʟᴇs

Two weeks before the move...

I found myself back in Dr. Fillgoud's lair of forced introspection, the scent of stale coffee a hanging heavy in the air. Her voice, a monotone drone, cut through the silence. "So, Vesper, let's discuss these outbursts. Again."

I rolled my eyes, the motion a familiar rebellion against the inevitability of this conversation. My silver hair, my armor, slid down my back like a river of moonlight. "I don't do feelings," I spat, my voice laced with the sarcasm of a cynic twice my age. But Dr. Fillgoud, with her half-moon glasses and perpetual expression of mild disappointment, just nodded. Her pen scratched against her notepad, the only sound in a silence that felt like suffocation. Defensive, avoidant, lost cause – the labels swirled in my head, a toxic mix of self-doubt and defiance.

I wasn't built for touchy-feely, for the vulnerability that came with laying your soul bare on a cold, sterile table. I needed an outlet, a way to bleed out the chaos that threatened to consume me from the inside out. And so, with a crumpled dollar and a handful of change, I'd armed myself with a rainbow arsenal of gel pens and a battered composition book. My emotions, my turmoil, it all spilled onto those pages in a riot of color: the blues of melancholy, the reds of rage, the blacks of despair.

But as I sat there, trapped in Dr. Fillgoud's office with its cream-colored walls and the weight of unspoken expectations, I couldn't help but wonder – was this enough? Was this pathetic attempt at control, at finding order in the chaos, ever going to be enough to keep my head above water? Or was I just deluding myself, pretending that a little colored ink could keep the tidal wave of my emotions from crashing down around me?

I rolled my eyes, flicked my silver-colored hair at the time over my shoulder, and sighed. "I don't do feelings," I said, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to corrode metal. But she just nodded, scribbling something in her notepad that probably read: 'defensive, avoidant, possibly a lost cause.' I wasn't good with the whole touchy-feely crap. I preferred to channel my inner turmoil into something less... verbal. So, with a total of fifty-five cents less in my pocket, I became the proud owner of a classic composition book; armed with my rainbow gel pen arsenal, I created a color-coded system for my emotional chaos: blue for the days I felt like I was drowning, red for when I wanted to burn the world down, and so on.

  Then there was my brother Toby. My big brother was like a wizard, a music genius with an uncanny ability to turn my scribbles into symphonies. I remember he stumbled upon a hoard of hormonal musings in my journal-a literal treasure trove for him. I'd jot down my turbulent thoughts, and he'd spin them into something almost beautiful. He had this way of capturing the melody of my madness. Our dad was less than thrilled about Toby's 'artistic tendencies,' but mom? She figured it was high time to let the boy embrace his inner Beethoven.

  One lazy afternoon, in his makeshift home studio reeked of teen spirit and stale pizza, Toby played a piece on the keyboard that made my heart skip. "What's that?" I asked, pretending not to care but secretly awed.

  "It's your song," he said, with that stupid, adorable grin that made you want to punch and hug him simultaneously. "I call it '8,' after your colorful journal entries."

  I had to admit, the tune was a banger. It captured the essence of my soul in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. I couldn't help but belt out the lyrics, my voice raw and gritty, filling the room with the sound of my pent-up fury and secret dreams. "8" wasn't just a song; it was a lifeline. It helped me navigate the mess of my parents' split and the complexity of being the girl with the crazy hair who didn't quite fit anywhere.