Ariella never saw Mike like a brother; she only loved his goofball personality and flair for creativity. Mike never dreamed that bubbly and fierce Ariella would be interested in him. Once she confesses she's crushed on him for years, Mike staunchly...
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A door thudding closed jars me from my dream the next morning. What the heck time is it?
I rub my fist against my eye and peel myself off the bed, peering at the clock. I've been dead to the world for a few hours, and my dry mouth is a great reminder.
"Oh!" My mom flies a hand to cover her heart as I stumble from my bedroom into the hallway.
Perched at the head of the stairs, clutching a travel coffee mug, her full mouth turns downward in a frown. The coils of inky black hair framing her face dance as she shakes her head.
My half Puerto-Rican mother was born in the United States, and met my dad on a flight back home in her early twenties from one of her frequent trips to visit family.
My Scottish-American dad lost contact with his parents years ago. Somewhere after graduating college and starting to make bank, but the details are muddy. Mom has no family here, but I know my dad has a handful somewhere in the country.
They didn't expect me to show up in their busy lives—something I've been reminded of too many times in my short existence.
"Honey, what are you doing home? Did you get suspended again?"
"No," I say hoarsely, rubbing a hand over my face. "I just feel horrible today."
She eyes me, peers down the stairwell to the main floor, then back at me, her dark eyes unreadable. "What's wrong?"
I wish I could explain to somebody what it feels like, but it usually ends in disaster. People rarely know how to respond when you're vulnerable about mental health struggles.
Some nights, electricity hums through my body—it's like every fiber inside me has a feeling of its own. On and on like Russian nesting dolls. Other times, dread settles into my chest to pay a mortgage.
Last night, I crawled out of my soft bed and curled up in the bay window. Intrusive thoughts invaded my space while the rest of the world slept. Snow streaked across the dark sky in thick sheets, and I made myself focus on the pile mounting on the mailbox across the street.
The longer I stared, the less I felt like a person, and the more I could relate to that mailbox. Buried alive and utterly forgettable.
"Do you have the flu?" my mom asks.
"No," I say softly, rubbing a spot on my chest. I didn't think anybody was home, or I'd have worn a shirt. "Just feeling..."
"Oh, are you sad today?" She tousles my hair, and I paste on a smile as she pulls her hand back.
Sure. Sad. Sad will do.
"Something like that."
"Sorry you don't feel good. Did you already call in your absence?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, good. I need to go into the office. You'll be okay on your own?"
