Never Summer Again

Chapter Five - The Brunch

Score: Levitating - Dua Lipa

Lydia

I let out a deep, relieved breath. I am so happy this conversation is over. Even though it didn't turn out the way I'd hoped it would, at least it's done with now.
I throw myself on the bed and start scrolling through the missed call notifications and the unread messages I have received while my phone was out.

7 missed calls from Patrick. Jeez...
5 missed calls from Alex. OK, I see why she was so pissed by the lake. I would have been, too, if I was supposed to drive my best friend back from a party and wake up in the morning only to discover that said best friend has disappeared during the night and is nowhere to be found, and unreachable.
5 missed calls from Gloria.

This is getting absurd. I am not a child, for fuck's sake.
No missed calls from Colin, Celia, or my brother, though.

Phew, at least no surprises there.

I also have dozens of messages through a couple of messaging apps, varying from:

Patrick: 08:43 am: I am looking forward to seeing you at the game!

To:

Alex: 11:54 am: If I find you, and you are alive, I am going to rip that pretty hair of yours off your head and make a rug out of it!

I sigh and throw the phone beside me on the bed.

Why can't everyone just leave me alone? All I want is just to be left alone and not have to constantly account for my whereabouts and for my every. Single. Fucking. Breath.

It started when my mom left. My friends started acting weird around me. Like I was some delicate flower or a precious crystal statuette that would break if anyone as much as looked at me the wrong way. I just can't breathe without someone asking me if I am OK anymore.

They wouldn't say it openly to me, but I can see how Gloria and Alex are exchanging glances any time my mother is mentioned, or anyone mentions mental health or depression, or pills, even. Like I am going to break down right there. Like I am a bomb, just ticking, waiting to go off.

My class chose me to be their Mental Health Ambassador after The Incident, even though I dreaded it so much. Every time I have to speak in front of the whole school, make a presentation, or speak at events, they would ask me to speak out about my personal experience.

It inspires others, is what my teachers and the school counselor had said.

But I hate it so much! It's like reliving the whole thing over and over again.

Of course, I agreed to it, in order not to disappoint them. In the beginning, I even felt flattered, but when I started receiving speaker invites for school events and had to actually start working with other kids, who had similar experiences, or who were having suicidal thoughts themselves, I realized how damn hard that was.

The only way for me to do it was to hide behind a smile and detach from any emotion that threatened to creep up, whatsoever. I was doing it regularly, anyway.

But the way everyone looked at me...

Except for my father. He'd never bring my mother up again after she left. He'd never talk about her or what happened that day. He has never asked me how I felt about it, he has never tried to talk to my brother and me about it.

He'd sent us to therapy and got me a car and that was it.

Convenient, I guess.

My phone buzzes and I reach out to see who that is.