broken//matthew espinosa

Chapter 3: arent we friends?

matthew
I hear a knock on my door and walk over to the little side windows on the door. Why is Stephanie here?
"Hey!" She beams. Why is she always so happy?
"Hey." I say. I walk away, hoping that she'll leave, but she follows me.
"What do you want?" I groan.
"I thought we were friends." She says, placing her hands on her hips.
"We are, I guess." I grab a water out of the fridge and hand one to her.
"We'll why aren't you happy to see me?" She asks. Her eyes turn that dark blue again.
"Why do your eyes do that?" I ask her.
"Do what?" She asks. I walk up closer to her.
"Your eyes always turn a darker blue when your angry or mad or sad or something."
"Do they get like this all of the time?" She asks, sitting down at the breakfast bar. I shake my head.
"I just told you when they get that color. So why are they like that now?" She shrugs.
"I don't know." I start walking upstairs and she follows me.
"Why are you here." I ask her, opening the door to my room.
"You always seem so lonely." She says. I shrug.
"I mean, ya. But I'm used to it. Ya know? Like when I was little I was always getting these things were my skin would get bumpy and red so they would have to give me a shot like everyday. I'm used to shots now." I tell her. She nods and looks around my room.
"Why is your room so dark?" She asks, staring at the picture frames on my dresser.
"Blue is a dark color?" She smiles and then picks up a picture.
"Don't touch that!" I yell, grabbing it out of her hands. Her eyes look like they're going to burst out into tears.
"I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to snap at you." I say, placing the picture back on the dresser.
"It's fine. I'm really sensitive." She says.
"I can tell. Your super fragile." She nods.
"So why can't I touch that picture frame?" I stare at her, her eyes getting dark again.
"It's special." I tell her.
"Special? He's just a boy." I stare at her again. A long, hard stare.
"He's my bestfriend, who is also dead." I tell her.
"Matt, I'm so sorry." I nod and grip onto the comforter.
"What was his name?"
"Carter. He was so genuine and nice. You probably would of loved him." I smile. She smiles too.
"How did he die?" She asks. I look at the wall for a minute and then back at the blanket on my bed.
"He committed suicide."