The Days Of Kelsea's

(33) Kelsea - Sunday 17th September, 01.15 am; Kale's House

(33) Kelsea - Sunday 17th September, 01.15 am; Kale's House

Sometimes I don't want to write in here anymore. I've been holding it off for a couple of days because, does it really help? Is it really helping me?

But it feels like I'm letting something down if I don't write. So here I am, talking about my life for no reason, no reason at all. I don't know what I'm hoping to achieve anymore by doing this - it doesn't help the situation that I'm in or try to make me feel better or anything like that.

I realise it's late and I should be asleep, but I haven't been able to sleep well very lately. When I look back and read this I probably won't be able to decipher the letters on the page either because I'm writing in the dark - I don't want to wake Kale up.

He's lying on his back, his arm hanging down over the edge of the bed and his hand is almost touching the floor, sort of curled. The orange glow from the street lamp outside cutting through the curtain has made a warm line of light over his face and shirt, and his head is turned away from me, towards the window.

The fact that I could hear his breathing, see his chest moving up and down gently, and the fact that he fell asleep so quickly, made me want to just sit here on the floor and try and write something, because I can't stand to be there beside him and feel so lonely but I don't want to wake him up and let him know all that.

On Friday it didn't feel right, going to school while I knew Gram was in hospital and all of that. Not knowing why she was there, either, and when she would get better. That kills me (I got that saying from Holden in The Catcher In The Rye - I love that book so much). I don't know what to do. Don't know how I should feel; is she in a critical state or not? That's what I wanted to know.

When we went to visit her, she only seemed a bit tired and worn, but I know a lot of the time you can only see damage on the inside, which none of us really can see, only guess at.

Demi was quiet again. I don't know what is wrong with her; maybe it's the fact that we had that argument and she feels awkward. At first I didn't feel like that at all, but now after thinking that maybe she feels like that, I can't help but feel like that too.

We went to the art room together like we always used to do, ever since we were in Year Seven. It started because Demi would always want to do some art at lunchtime and I always liked to watch her and she didn't mind being watched, and we could talk with no one there. Sometimes I'd do homework, and bring a packed lunch. After some time I realised I could talk to Demi the best when she was painting or sketching. She was more relaxed and open to the world and new thoughts then.

We've always preferred the art room to the sixth form common room, too.

So as she worked on her art project, I sat down with my English Lit homework and watched her swirl the paintbrush brush over the canvas, her dark hair hanging down her back like a curtain, and I admired her so much; the way she held herself, with discipline and grace, and for a second I wanted to be Demi Costello, someone so beautiful who made so many beautiful things.

"Demi?"

"Yeah?"

"Yesterday Gram went into hospital. Her and my mum won't tell me what's wrong," I started out worriedly.

Demi turned right around with an alarmed expression on her face, a dimple between her eyebrows. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, Kels. I hope she gets better soon."

I waited for anything else that she had to say. But she just stood there with her paintbrush, which was dripping onto the floor.

For some reason, disappointment rose inside of me and then sunk, like a wave rocking a helpless boat. I don't know what I wanted her to say; it just wasn't that.