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Dad isn't due home for a few days now.

Apparently he’s working too much but I think he’s a liar. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. Before that event, the house was never quiet. It was filled with loud voices, screams, and slamming doors. Filled with tears and sobs, with excuses that never came after fights.

After that, nothing was left. And I was slowly falling apart.

I know I’m supposed to miss her, and I do. But I also miss the person I could’ve been before I lost her. I’m still trying to understand how to grieve both of us. I wonder if something is wrong with me. Everyone else is grieving my mother, and all I’m trying to do is find a way to stop feeling anything at all.

I sit on the rooftop, letting the cold soak into me. Here, no one asks if I’m okay, no one says that I’m brave and strong. No one reminds me of what it feels like to miss someone so much you don’t feel like yourself anymore. Here I don’t think about what pushed her to end it. Because nothing makes sense of that.

Ethan’s bag is now in my hand and I can hear him say the same thing over and over again. You look dead Mireya, take this and try it, it’ll help.

He said it helped him when his mom died. That he knew what it felt like to keep living when a part of yourself is still stuck at the funerals.

And it was exactly what I needed, to stop thinking. To not re-live things I can’t change, and stop asking myself why it happened that way. Sometimes pain and grief have no reason to coexist. Overthinking it doesn’t change the outcome of it.

I’m exhausted, and I think when someone is really tired, there’s no searching for a solution that is good for them. As long as it hurts less, it’s enough.

A small stupid laugh escapes my lips. This is not me. I’m a big sister, I can’t be doing this.

Ethan did it so many times in front of me, it almost became normal. We’re fourteen, we shouldn't be doing that…

Next thing I know, a white line is sitting on my thigh. My fingers were shaking a bit, so the line is all weird but it’s here. I stop thinking, closing my eyes for a second, pushing all the memories away to breathe one last time. The disgust, the fear, the rage, everything disappears the moment my head leans closer to it.

A sniff. A strange warmth flowing in my veins. My shoulders relax as I rub my hands on my face. Everything feels faster and meaner around me.

In a second I’m standing up, walking on the rooftop, dancing almost. The city’s lights look brighter, the waves crashing against stone sound louder, everything feels more alive. My thoughts raced, they came all at once, mixing up together, then they all slipped away. Even though my fear felt different, it was distant from me now.

I moved closer and closer to the edge without realizing it. Then a tear slid down my cheek. I don’t know if it’s because I’m sad, or if I’m happy or if a part of me still knows something is wrong with me. But I wipe it away with my fingertips, angry at it. Even in a moment when everything is a blur, something inside me still cries.

That’s when a tiny light landed on my hand. A firefly again. I stand there, motionless, watching that tiny spark against my scars.

“You’re so small, how are you so bright?” I whisper softly, another tear falling down my cheek.

79

Damien

Play - Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey

The missing piece

It’s been two weeks since Mireya let me take her to that amusement park. Two weeks since her lips tattooed themselves on mine and I can’t seem to stop thinking about how it made me feel to feel her melt in my eyes and look up at me with a bright smile.

To feel the warmth of her body being pressed against mine.

Then, a few days ago she talked about her own memories.

Things she never said out loud, things that should’ve never happened.

And what’s not helping is seeing her every day, talking to her everyday without being able to do more than just existing next to her. Because it physically hurts.

I feel it in my bones. It breaks and reshapes to make sure I can continue to pretend. But I want more. I need more.

In the egoistic way a soul yearns for another soul. And having her in my office isn’t helping at all. Buying Chinese food so we can work together on her assignments and stuff for her exams isn’t helping either. And looking at her like she’s the only thing interesting in the world is probably the worst thing to do.

I know her better now. That detached gaze she always has on, the way she always seems to survive and never happy enough. I know her. And I want to understand why she wants to leave and why she didn’t before.

She smiles, turning toward me. “What are you thinking about, Damien?”