To Whom It May Concern (Fransykes)

Chapter 5; The Consequences Of Talking Too Much

I wasn't too sure of what I was supposed to expect. At this point I had no expectations, actually, but still.

Mom made me go to school. I went, of course I did, she was scary as fuck. But. I had no idea what would happen there.

I think I expected to see some obvious sadness. To see some mourning. For what, you ask? For my demise. I'm alive, I'm very much fucking alive, but I don't know.

Having a deadline and thinking over how no one knows about it is a different feeling from when that same deadline has passed. I think that after fixating the date onto my mind, thinking and living it in my head over and over and over again got me feeling like a ghost.

I wasn't supposed to be here. In the middle of these teenagers mindlessly walking around, unaware, just going on with their lives. I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be breathing, walking, moving.

But I was.

And it didn't make a difference.

I wondered for a while how would people react. Who would care, who wouldn't? I pondered over this often. It all seemed so useless now. Wasted time, maybe. Couldn't even kill myself right.

Guess I expected to be cared for after I was gone. And since I was already gone in my mind, I was bitter. I wasn't here, I was gone, my suicide had gone unheard, my life had been shrugged off by all, my ghost had been forgotten in a matter of seconds. I was dead and they didn't care. Guess I didn't care either.

But I did, I cared, it mattered to me. I wanted them to remember me, I wanted them to feel hollow for me, I wanted them to cry for me, to sob, to wail, to lose themselves for me. I wanted them to regret me. I wanted them all to hurt for me. Because hell knows I hurt for myself. So why can't they too? Why do they all have to be so indifferent about me even though I'm indifferent to most of them?

This is complicated. Very much so.

But I understand, I guess. I'm selfish, egotistical, brainless. Fucking stupid.

I just want someone to care.

This is what kills me. The realisation. I can't believe I let myself get expectations.

Though it's not just the realisation of now that hurts. It's not the I'm dead and they don't care that hurts. It's the I'm alive and they don't care. It's every realisation piled up getting more and more confirmations over the time.

It's the every time I speak and get ignored. It's the I hear you talking about your affections and when it's my turn to talk you just looks impatient, you just want me to shut up. It's the remaining silent around your friends and realising that I don't belong there. It's the knowledge that I don't make a difference.

This is what hurts the most.

And it's okay, I guess. It's better this way. It's better for them and for me, right? It's... It's better. It.

It hurts.

And it was happening again. I was trailing behind my friends as they talked and laughed and did what they had to do while I followed them pathetically.

If I were to leave right now no one would notice.

Why did I stay?

I stopped. They kept walking. I was left behind. I took a step back. Tightened my grip on my bag. Another step back. I turned around.

I had no significance. My presence had no significance.

I got away from my friends, walked into the empty class with my head down and my earphones a little too loud. I sat on the back, always did; It's easier to be invisible, more than I already am.