Chapter One: A Little Dramatic

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He loved playing sport.

The number eighteen was sewn to his jersey. He was eighteen, eighteen years old and was eighteen when he died. The train passes the stop every day. I come down after school and wait... patiently waiting on the bench for the train; number eighteen.

I end up asking myself the same questions over again, "am I crazy? Am I insane? "Then they repeat. So, I come from school everyday and spend two hours, waiting on the god forsaken bench, patiently waiting for the merciless train. Sometimes I want to scream, punch something just to feel a little bit better. Other times times I want to cry and run home to burry myself under my covers, but I don't. I have no right to. I can't because I have no one to blame but myself. It was my fault. I pushed him. So maybe I am crazy.

When he was in my life it always felt like I was being watched. It was like I was being stalked by a shadow. He would follow me everywhere like a lost puppy. In the first week he stalked me with those ravenous eyes that belonged to , but never once talked to me. I never really knew he was there and I never admitted to it. Today feels the same as it did before we met — Lonely — Cold — like something is missing.

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⏰ Last updated: Sep 16, 2023 ⏰

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