STARCO DEAR MARCO |COMPLETED|

Dear Marco|Entry Three

Playlist| Me After You (Cover) by Produce X 101 trainees

It has been precisely three days since I last opened and read the journal.

I had to distract myself, overwork and exchaust myself when the pain was unbearable. I could still remember vividly the strokes she carried with her smooth, slender fingers on my back. Her obnoxious laughtered that filled the room and her bright, charming smile that no matter how dark the times are, she'll always be that reminder.

Her wreckless behaviour and I would always pick up her mess, she'd laugh it off and tag me along with her adventures.

That night when I last read her journal, I teared myself.

The tears that I had kept ever since she perished came flowing through as they trickle down my eyes. The lonely and sullen nights when I bargained for her to live rather than me.

When I blame myself endlessly, that it was all my fault.

This journal is like lethal poison. It made me snap that she really is gone, that I can no longer pretend in denial that she's somewhere away from me.

That she left me to go back home--when she isn't there.

However, the journal as well gave me life at the same time. It made me reminisce of our young memories that almost faded. How she felt, how she lived her life. And how she wrote all of our recklessness and messed up teenage years.

I know for a fact that no matter how I try to get rid of the things that remind me of her I can't do it. I can't  throw it, because it's the only thing that reminds me of her.

And this journal makes me feel that she is right here, her warmth radiating through my body.

That when I flicker my eyes open she'd be here on top of me, shouting on top of her lungs to wake me up.

"Marco?" I flinched, startled.

I quickly wiped my tears and faced my mother. She smile faintly and entered my room softly.

"Why are you crying?" she asked after a second.

"It's nothing really, just projects that didn't make the cut," I lied, hoping that I'd be able to convince her and would leave me alone for atleast a few hours to rethink everything.

"Is this about---"

I cut her off. "No. I told you I'd stop mourning."

I took a deep breath. I wanted to her ask her something and it had lingered around my mind as long as I can count that it's wrecking me. "Did you do this on purpose?"

"What do you mean?" my mother looked at me in confusion.

"Why did you tell me to go to the attic in the middle of November?" I asked her with suspicion.

"Is that a problem, Marco?" my mother asked kindly, too kindly for my own.

"Don't play dumb with me mom! Did you ask me to go to the attic on purpose so you can rip the scars I had to hid?!" I snap.

"Mom it hurts," I croak. "If you didn't ask me to clean the attic, then none of this would happen and I would live with this pain with ease."

"It's bad enough that I miss her, but  then you had to remind me because of her stupid journal!" I sneer, hiding my face with my bare arms.

"Marco. ." my mother trailed off, tears started pouring down her eyes.

I wanted to slap myself right now. I'm being an ass and I vented all my anger on my mother. The guilt started to kick in but I couldn't do anything, if so, I just wanted to hide myself.

I couldn't console her when I'm way past my breaking point as well.

"I'm sorry," it was all I could say. But it remained silent with only her sobs loud and clear.

"Mom it's just that I'm so tired," I added hoarsely, swallowing the tears that lumped on my throat.

"I regretted letting her go. I wished I was the one who died and I wouldn't have to live everyday, knowing it was me."

"B-but that journal had to come in and made me remind of the sins I've did," I held my tears.

"I knew, Marco. I knew showing that journal to you would ruin you again," mother stiffled, resting her hand on the edge of my bed.

"Then why did you let me go through all of that again?" I faced her.

"I didn't want you to! I didn't want to see you hurting again and seeing you in that state breaks me," my mother sobbed. "--but I had to. You look so well but deep inside you've torn apart, and that journal was the only thing that could make you wake up."

"I didn't want to," I whisper painfully.

"I was alright, just forcing myself to believe that she's alive somewhere," a tear slipped. "--it's better this way, this is the only thing I could think of and the only thing that could make me sleep at night."

She reached out her hand and grabbed mine, then held it firmly. "I had a reason too, believe me. About the journal."