In other dimensions Savannah would not be dealing with depression. Savannah wouldn't be planning to kill herself at the end of next month. In other dimensions Savannah wouldn't have met Charlie.
In other dimensions Charlie would be trying to talk t...
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SAVANNAH
WHEN I WAS YOUNGER I didn't think I'd be a writer. Young Hannah always threw her tongue out and scrunched up her nose at any mention of writing, reading or spelling. But now, while I'm watching a rerun of Friends, the episode where that professor ate Ross's sandwich, I'm dotting down things I would like to do before my death, my wishes, my regrets and some notes include saying sorry's to unimportant people who, I would guess, think of me as the same.
Forgotten, but not truly.
Unimportant as long as they don't see me, or I don't see them.
As people say, out of sight out of mind.
Of course midst the unimportant people, who most likely don't even remember me, or would raise their eyebrow when someone said "Hannah Paisley", there are some important people.
Like my high school boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend, Cain Stewart, who wanted to meet up twenty minutes ago. An hour ago I texted him I had too much assignments and he'd understood, messaged maybe some other day to which I replied with a thumbs up.
We didn't end on bad terms.
Before both of us went to college, we had decided that it wasn't worth waiting for each other. It wasn't worth losing the full college experience just because we were tied down.
Also, he mentioned that he was leaning more towards his own gender in the romance and sexual scale. I accepted it.
Then there's the family apologies I started pointing out to myself.
A letter for each of my parents. To my younger brother. Maybe one to the snake in Enzo's room. I'd always hated it, especially when Enzo let it slither around his neck in the mornings at the table.
Dad didn't care that it hissed only at me, but Mom always warned Enzo to put it back in its vivarium. I caught on that it was more for her sake than mine.
At the thought of writing a good bye to Enzo I cringed. It hurt me to do this to him again but I couldn't deal with it anymore.
On instinct I also wrote down Eret's name, but after a reality check I scratched it out and pondered over the letters he wrote to everyone else.
When I was younger I imagined that life at college would be easier — it wasn't.
On top of not being able to get out of bed, I had to deal with loud noises, loud people, screaming, moaning on the other side of the wall, teachers, who thought hey! let's give you more to think about!
Most of the time I left my earphones on to just drown everything out, including my own voice. But it wasn't working as efficiently as it was when I was a Sophomore in high school.
I had begged, prayed to God Lorenzo wasn't like me. I hoped he didn't have the fear, the anxiety, the panic in his chest as I did. So when he started high-school I cried. He was good, he was normal, without the panic, without numbness in his heart. It was beating, fiery, hot and raging.
