guilty of devotion - [dnp au]

6.:. i'm sorry i'm trying // nothing, nowhere.

october 9th

On one of the final predicted hot days of 2017, I realized what exactly is the unclear void in my heart, what I'd been missing this whole month spent in Ireland.

Acting. Being on stage, where I don't care at all about how or who I am. Interacting with an audience through a character's personality, instead of speaking to them directly, in that way destroying the link between my role and I.

For an introvert like me, theater is without a doubt a strange hobby yet one that feeds my soul almost as much as photography.

Clear as day, I still remember my very first psychiatrist's suggestion to pick it up. 9 years old, when my mother figured that her son being away three evenings a week would be a good distraction from his parents' divorce.

But it meant more than that to me.

In Berkshire's amateur children theater I found a home, as well as 12 unutterably kind humans who guided me through my early teenage years as I grew as a person. People from the drama club – my tutor and the fellow young actors – couldn't even recognize me outside the classes; the actor side of me and the outcast one were two completely different boys, especially emotionally. For that reason they avoided becoming friends with me.

Another thing I never expected to happen is my mother, on no occasion, calling or even sending a message to check in on me. At least, not since day one, after arriving here. She hasn't even opened the three week old messages I sent her informing that she could call me for free on WhatsApp, when necessary.

Must be too engaged in admiring her life without the burden of a son in it.

I sigh as the sound of my alarm goes off, continuing to move a pair of entangled legs around the bed in annoyance.

Here comes the complicated part - opening my eyes to start a new day. Something that people with depression, people like me, struggle with immensely. An important deal which can affect the upcoming hours spent awake if you don't do it soon enough and an assumption of being a failure of a human visits your mind.

Yet today I'm up earlier, as our room's window is on the East side and I'm occasionally woken up from the sunshine hitting the walls, even before any of our alarms go off. But because the days are getting shorter and shorter with autumn taking over the land, soon we'll be waking up in the dark, with no sun being a guest.

Just when I'm about to place my feet on the floor, rubbing my eyes, Phil's voice, full of enthusiasm, hits my eardrums.

- Don't bother, she came in last night, after you passed out wrapping up that project. Your Photoshop tutor has the flu so you only have Chemistry today. - the boy informs, tapping his fingers against the surface of our desk impatiently.

No Photoshop classes. On the day I hate the thought of going to school.

Truly convenient of Ms. Linds, that prick of a teacher, to get ill.

- This might be the best thing to wake up to. Thank you and goodnight. - I return to my sleeping position happily, shutting my eyes with a grin so wide decorating my cheeks.

In a moment, however, my peace is disturbed by a soft, unfamiliar object landing on my face with a poof. Instantly, my eyes crack wide open, Phil's green polyester pillow shielding my sight.

- I am not allowing you fall asleep again, you made me promise to punch you violently if your project isn't finished by noon. - Phil squeals in a complaining manner and I throw his cushion back across the room, hopefully hitting the boy.