ᴏᴀᴋʟᴇʏ ᴄᴀʀʀɪʟʟᴏ was discovered at fourteen years old, being praised as a musical prodigy by the media ever since. His fame had only increased until now. At nineteen old, he's the most remarkable musician of his age, and he's only getting started. At...
{CW: depression, suicidal ideation, disordered eating, mentions of drug use}
| CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN | a propósito
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ᴏᴀᴋʟᴇʏ ᴄᴀʀɪʟʟᴏ
After Nolan left that morning, I forced the remnants of my food down the sink and was ready to leave. What I hadn't noticed was my dad waiting in the doorpost as I went through my text messages. I only noticed him standing there when my phone bumped into his crossed arms.
"Are you okay, Mijo?" His eyebrows were knitted together. He had just watched me force a perfectly fine bowl of food down the drain.
I put my phone in my pocket, pulling my sleeves over my hands as I mimicked his stance.
"Yeah, I'm just going to band practice."
He continued looking at me longer, waiting for me to crack under his gaze. I knew he wanted nothing more than for me to be honest, to tell him I was struggling, so he too could help. But ever since I woke up that morning, I felt oddly at peace with my situation.
I realized that in the grand scheme of things, nothing would matter. I'd die someday, time would pass, and all that would be left of me would be my music.
"Me recuerdas a tu tío." He smiled when he said it, but I could tell he wasn't too happy about it. My uncle was an amazing man. He'd taught me nearly everything I knew about the stars, and he had gifted me my first guitar. But no one would wish to be like him. He had his issues.
I remembered days when he came here screaming at my dad, accusing him of things he didn't do. Sometimes he'd crash here for multiple weeks at a time, not leaving the guest room for anything other than eating, peeing, and smoking weed. And then he'd disappear again, and we wouldn't see him for months if not years.
"You always say that," I mumbled.
My dad let out a deep breath, using his hand to gesture at one of the chairs.
I sat down, my face down as my dad sat down next to me.
"When we were eighteen, he left for the first time. For college. He was smart like you, wanted to be an astronomer or a rocket scientist."
"He told me," I said. Uncle Mateo had told me that when he gifted me his old telescope when I turned eight. "And then he blew through all his college fund to help Abuelo with the mortgage or something."
"Not exactly," my dad said, his fingers weaved together. "We didn't have a college fund, Mijo. He was on a scholarship, but got kicked out because they caught him dealing on campus."
"Oh," I said, looking back down. "I guess that's not the story you'd tell an eight-year-old."
My dad chuckled, shaking his head. "No, it's not."
