𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝑭𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝑫𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈

21| ʙᴀᴅ ᴍᴏᴏᴅ

ᴢᴀʏɴᴇ ᴍᴀᴛᴇᴏ ᴅᴀꜱɪʟᴠᴀ

"Who the fuck authorised these emotions?!"

Shit!

Shit!

Shit shit!

October 21st.

The worst day of my entire life.

I woke up fuming and angry. I had to drag myself to shower and freshen up and go downstairs for breakfast.

I could feel my mum's gaze on me. She knew what today was as she was not her chirpy and fun self this morning. As I ate my food indifferent, she hovered around me, obviously trying to decipher my expression and mood.

"Mamá" I called her in Spanish with a dry tone. Even though she was Nigerian, she understood the basic, complex and could even manage to speak a few words. Perks of having a Spanish husband.

"Good morning Zayne. How was your night?" She asked, a worry lime creased on her forehead. I raised my eyes to stare at her and noticed she was nervous.

"I'm fine. Good morning mum" I muttered. I continued eating my food but still could feel her gaze on me. When it got to a point I couldn't bear it, I dropped my spoon and turned to stare at her.

"Mum"

"Yes my son?"

"Please stop staring at me like that. I'm not disappearing" I said softly. I understood why she was nervous. Ever since I lost my brother to the raging waves of the sea last year's October 21st, she has been worried about me ever since.

"I can't stop worrying about you Zayne" she said softly. "Not after we lost him. I just can't"

I stood up from my chair and placed an arm around her shoulder.

"You won't lose me. You won't lose Coral. You won't lose anybody. Stop worrying yourself to death mum and relax. I don't want you having high blood pressure now you know"

She smiled a little and patted my head.

"My small Zayne is a big boy now. I remember when you used to wear pampass then. Now I can't even see your small bumbum" she teased. I stared at her with horror and shook my head.

"Never happening again mum."

She smiled as bit more and I felt relieved. Even though my bad mood was still very there, I was happy she wasn't so sad anymore.

"Beun dia!"

Dad.

He marched down the stairs with a big smile on his face. I raised an eyebrow at his cheekiness but said nothing.

"Good morning dad"

"Good morning Jiho"(son) "And how was your night? Did you sleep well?" He asked, beaming with smiles.

There was one thing I knew about Mr Luca DaSilva, it was that he could hide his emotions pretty well. And this happy man standing before me with a grin on his first son's death anniversary was definny not him.

"Papá" I called dryly.

He turned his eyes to me.

"Sí?" (Yes?)

"Parár" (stop)

His grin failed. Like seriously, his smile disappeared like cold in warm sunshine. A pained look replaced it as he stared at the family picture. He sighed deeply, and that sigh conveyed a lot of words.