Find You There (Fanfic Version)

Fifty-Two

I fold the paper back the way it was then put it inside the book. False hopes and shattered hearts, as usual. I keep myself in control as I shut the book and put it back where I got it. I'd never waste time rereading it, not even try to take it.

Why should I?

It's already been a month and I highly doubt he hasn't heard of it if he still cares. My mind can make up conclusions and it's easy to map out what went on while I was gone. I shouldn't count on him to wait that long. But that's the worse thing about it.

I shut my eyes, still standing in front of my bookshelf. Even with my eyes shut, I could see the image in front of me. I can hear my heartbeat against my ears. . . the words before it all happened, when I talked to him last. I don't even know if he was still alive, or maybe I just didn't want to find out.

So stupid.

When I woke up, and he wasn't around, and my parents never spoke of him. . . and there was no sign of him, I knew right then something was wrong. It's so foolish to actually believe that people could stay like that. I don't know what happened. . . and I don't think I want to find out.

Stupid.

The next moments get rather vague from my perspective though I remember every bit of it. I also imagined whoever it was downstairs, my family friends, doing whatever they're doing as casually as ever when the loud crashing noises were heard. I can make up a load of stories to answer their unspoken question as to why, when they came to my door, my bookshelf was tipped over to the floor, my books scattered all about the place, my lamp broken along with pieces of glass on the floor. Dad asks me what was going on. . .

I could have made up a few reasonable stories, and I've made them in my head right before I decided to catch their attention. . . but I never said any of them. Instead, I answer his question, "My room needs to change."

I walk pass him, and the other family friends who came at my aid. I've probably made their jobs worse for the day but truth be told that I don't care. If things are that easy to change, just like that, with a blink of an eye. . . I might as well just try to get there too. I don't know however I will do that.

But it's what hurts the most. I have no idea how to change. My room, I can refurnish, the house, I can ask to look a little different. . . but myself, I can't. There's no trying to be better when you're left with no explanation.

I consider going to their place but it doesn't feel right at all. It feels like I'm intrusive even when technically, we're not done yet.

I take a walk out to the nearby places, settling on one of the parks and staying seated in one of the benches. I just watch the unfamiliar people walk by, distracting myself because I know if I don't I'll end up remembering.

Only my doctors know how much the new things affected me. My parents never did, or maybe they do but they don't make it obvious. I wouldn't know since they're quite good at acting like everything's normal. I don't blame them. But. . . they should have at least thought that I deserved to know the truth.

Once, I asked where my tattoo came from and there was a slight hesitation whether it was from town or some other place in America. . . both wrong, though I didn't push it any further. I know where I got the rose on my wrist, in Verona, Italy.

When the hours had called it a day and the sun has set, I walk back to the house, coming home to my mom worried sick and my dad trying his best to remain calm. I could sense how he wants to be angry for my rash decisions, the worst moves to make in my condition. But then, he couldn't be angry at me, not when guilt slivers in every word that comes out of his mouth. . . every lie. They both know it, all of them do. . . they lie and lie and lie everyday, pretending it's for the best and that what I never know won't hurt me. Wrong. . . I know and it hurts.