may shatter on impact (tronnor)

88. Missing & Sticky Notes

I wake up late the next day, having fallen asleep only after Connor had, around six in the morning. It seems like everyone has managed to sleep this late, though I know that I was the last person to fall asleep. I plug in my phone, having forgotten to do so when I hung up,and wrap a blanket around myself as I creep downstairs.

I turn the lights on as I go, and make hot chocolate for myself in a few minutes. I stare out the window as I drink, calmly letting the morning arrive. Frost grows around the window frame, slowly inching their way to the center of the glass panel, slowly inching it's way to the heart of winter, into all of the places that have resisted the cold for this long. I wipe away the bits of frost coming too close to my reflection with the sleeve of my shirt.

Dad comes downstairs then. "Morning," he mutters, starting a pot of coffee. "Where's Tyde?"

I shrug. "I thought he was still sleeping."

Dad frowns, leaning against the door frame as the coffee drains behind him. "He's not in his room."

I stare at him. "Ask Mum."

He rushes upstairs and a pang of worry shoots through me. I set down my mug on the windowsill, dropping my blanket and heading to Tyde's room.

The lamp is still on, glowing, lighting up the room in a familiar, cozy sort of way. The bed is there, sheets tossed carefully around, and the books are all on already dusty bookshelves, and his clothes are tossed around the floor near his closet. But the floor.

It's covered in sticky notes. Little yellow squares of paper balled up and discarded, tossed around the room carelessly, as if he didn't care who read them.

I seem to move in slow motion as I pick one up, quickly registering the line through the words.

Dear Troye,

How am I supposed to say this?

I drop that one, picking up the next one. I go through at least ten, leaving a little trail of balled up paper behind me.

Dear Mum,

I love

Dear Dad,

I don't know how I'm supposed to say this.

Dear Troye,

You probably should have seen this coming

I make my way to his desk, where a pile of envelopes sit, folding carefully, seeming to glow in the light of the morning. Each one has a carefully penned name on it: Troye, Mum, Dad, Steele, Sage, his close friends' all have one.

"MUM!"