ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ // 𝐦𝐠𝐜

31 - You'll Get Through This

"Hey." I say accepting his call, my voice hoarse from the lump in my throat.

"Hey." He says in the other side of the line. His voice quiet, sweet and soft. "Are you feeling better?"

"I think." I sniff.

"Have you been crying?" He asks. I could feel a sense of concern, but at this time I don't believe in anything.

"No." I try to disguise the fact I've been crying since seven in the afternoon, the time I arrived home.

The silence land between us. Nobody says anything for awhile.

I want him to talk. The need of hearing his voice is too big.

"You'll get through this." Michael says, killing of the silence.

"I still have four months of torture." My voice is emotionless this time.

"I know you'll make it, as the strong girl you are." He says and I laugh dryly.

"If I don't make it out alive, I want Heart-Shaped Box playing on my funeral."

"Don't say that." He is serious, much more serious.

Of course.

I don't say anything letting the silence sink in.

"You're gonna make it and then you'll be able to do all those things you're planning." He says, confident in his words.

"My mom will never let me do that." I sigh, thinking about my plans for the future.

"You'll be a grown up adult. Your mom can't stop you."

"You're right." I say. "I wish I was 11 or 12 again. Things weren't easier back then, but they were better."

"Why were they better?" He asks curious.

Curiosity killed the cat, they say.

"My dad was alive."

"You never told me about your dad." His voice was so sweet and soft. "You don't have to talk about it." He adds.

His voice is where all of my attention is.

"He died when I was 12" I start. "He was a brave man. He was a lovely man. He loved his family and he would do anything to see his family happy."

Michael remains silent and I continue.

"He taught me that the world is made of horrible things, but he also told me that in between the dreadful is the wonderful." I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat. "He taught me to give more attention to the beautiful and wonderful things than to the dreadful ones."

"Your father was right." Michael says quiet. "He seemed a wise man."

And he was a wise man. A man stepped on by life.

"He used to play for me when I felt sad." I say. "He knew music would always make me feel better."

"He played guitar?" He asks and I give him a 'humhum' in response. "Was he the one who taught you play?"

"No." I reply. "He died before he could and I learnt by myself."

Another pause, the silence making me feel vulnerable.

"He gave me a guitar on Christmas, but died 5 days after. He didn't had the opportunity to teach me, he was always busy. But I didn't mind, I understood." At this time, I could feel my eyes watering. "I remember the day before he died, he told me: today I can't teach you, but tomorrow I will. With this said, he kissed my head and went to his office. I was so excited for the day after. I barely could sleep just thinking about it. The day after came and I waited happily for him to come home." I stop and let out a sob. "But he never came." I crash in sobs forgetting that I was talking with Michael on the phone.