It’s been a whole month.
A month of convincing myself to get out of bed every day. I push myself, speak to my reflection in the mirror and try so hard not to wallow in the darkest parts of me.
I’d try so hard not to think about what I left on Brighton Island and how desperately I’ve been yearning to go back.
Even if it’s impossible. Even if I’ll get hurt.
Creighton and I are meant to be dots that never overlapped. We wouldn’t have if it weren’t for my loathsome character.
If it weren’t for my persistence, chattering, and attempting to be liked by everyone.
If it weren’t for my toxic curiosity and stupid determination.
It’s all on me, myself, and I.
Which is why I have to be the one who fixes it and moves on.
I wouldn’t say I’ve succeeded, but being here with my parents, Yan, and the others certainly helps. I picked up ballet again and religiously go to practice, then I volunteered at the shelter Mom supervises.
That way I’ll be too beat when I come home and I’ll have no choice but to sleep, right?
Wrong.
Nighttime is the worst. That’s when my demons come out and I turn into a ball of jagged edges and suppressed emotions.
When the longing and impossible feelings I successfully manage to keep under wraps all day long transform into bats and explode in the cave of my chest.
Like right now.
Usually, I’d take a pill and force myself to sleep. Not tonight.
Tonight I want to let the pain seep inside me so that I can feel every lash, every whip, and every strike.
It’s only fair after what I’ve done.
I roll onto my back and stare at the glittery ceiling, and it takes everything in me to keep the tears at bay.
Sleeping alone never gets easier or feels normal, no matter how much time passes. I don’t recall how I used to sleep before Creighton came along, but now?
All I can picture is his muscular arms cocooning me in his tight embrace and shielding me from the world. He’d bury his nose in my hair and inhale deeply, and his strong hands would be on my hip, my waist, my breasts, my ass, my neck.
Everywhere.
Now they’re nowhere. Only a cold chill rips through my body, hooking against what remains of my soul to freeze it to death.
Instead of focusing on that and driving myself crazy, I grab my phone and open Instagram. During the first week home, I actually deleted all my social media apps.
The pain was too raw, so much so that not even my obsession with biographing my life could’ve lessened the blow.
But then I became greedy for any sliver of an update about him.
Remi texted me back and forth, though secretly, as he told me. He’s the only one I offered excuses to. The only one who knows I couldn’t just let my brother die and that pulling that trigger killed me inside.
He still hated me at the beginning for hurting his cousin, but I think he soon forgot about it.
Though we don’t really talk about Creighton anymore. It feels weird to ask about him, knowing full well he and his entire entourage hate me.
I expected him to come after me for shooting him. Hell, reporting me to the police would be his perfect revenge against my family. Sure, Papa wouldn’t allow anyone to arrest me, but that was a valid option he could’ve gone for.
So imagine my surprise when Remi said that Creighton told the police it was an anonymous man who robbed and shot him.
I couldn’t stop crying that night. Half because he actually protected me after I nearly killed him. Half because of the reality that he wants nothing to do with me anymore.
That we’re really over.
Sometimes, I think it’s for the best. Oftentimes, I get stuck in a loop of my own making and can’t find a way out.
The first picture that appears on my feed is of Remi shoulder-hugging a blank-faced Creighton.
Cousin, best friend, spawn, you name it. This cheeky bastard is stuck with me for life.
My fingers tremble as I zoom in on Creighton. He looks good—his face is eternally beautiful, silently dashing. His eyes remain unfazed though a little lifeless, and strands of his now longer hair kiss his forehead.
Sometimes, I can’t believe he’s recuperated and is doing well. I can’t believe that life has found its way back to his face, wiping away the paleness.
Sometimes, I recall that version of him I saw in the hospital or all the red that he drowned in and I choke on my own breaths.
But he’s safe now.
All safe.
That’s the only thing I wished for from the beginning, so why can’t I simply let go?
Why am I thirsting after the tiniest update or the smallest glimpse of him?