Begin Again

[ 2. much ]

An hour became a day and days turned to weeks. It was not long until six uncertain months had passed after Damon's downfall.

Oceane stared at her cracked ceiling and counted every broken groove. Tears fell endlessly and despite her eyes jerking gallons of liquid crystalline evidences of pain, it never got tired.

Despite suppressing the flashbacks of that horrible event, it still played like a song on loop inside her head. During the exhibit; several minutes after Damon's collapse, his mother accidentally went inside the room where his own breathless son was sprawled on the cold floor. Mrs. Vilvone then called 911 and everything was taken care of after.

And upon Oceane's actuation on the said crisis, Mrs. Vilvone threw tantrums, gave her a crisp slap whilst clouding the young lass with words that stung like a dagger.

Oceane went straight home after the incident with tears on her eyes, and a swollen cheek. After checking for a pulse on Damon's wrist, she screamed and screamed, evading the thought of asking someone for help. Her plan to give up her feelings for Damon and telling him about it went in complete vain and turned out to be disastrous.

Oceane went on with her life with huge emotional baggages slowing her down.

Damon moved to London to treat his growing brain tumor and was nowhere near the hopeless lass' proximity.

It was something she was happy about, given that she would have the space and luxury to move on and forget about her feelings for him. Yet she dreaded each passing day, knowing that all she ever thought was missing him, worrying about his health condition and thinking all of what is there to think about him.

She knew he could've been better if she only called in for help earlier. But she was blinded by worry that it went against the person she cared most about.

She sent him letters everyday but she didn't receive any response. Not a written word nor a sound, could be seen, could be found.

She knew all along that she had been the reason why Damon's condition degraded and it was better for him to be away from her. It would consume her if she'd get to see his pained eyes every day of her life.

"I have done nothing but screw up and fail."

* * *

He went on with his life in London and stopped painting and photography for he couldn't draw even a single fine line, let alone take still and pristine pictures.

His head throbbed often that it was all he felt ever since that fateful day where he fell to the ground clutching his disintegrating brain.

He was genuinely doing fine and he received treatment daily. He also sees his mother tear envelopes everyday and after which, throwing them away. He wanted to ask whom those letters were from and wondered why her mother keeps devouring them but it hurt for him to think too much.