1642734778_punk-57-pdf

He doesn’t say anything more, but I watch as his shadow falls farther
into the room, my pulse pounding in my ears.
He enters my sight as he sits at the end of the bed, wearing his usual
shirt, tie, and sweater vest. He used to dress me like that when I was a kid.
Until I turned nine and started having an opinion. That was the beginning of
our fighting.
“You were always so different,” he says, staring off.
I can barely breathe.
“T-shirts and jeans to family functions, guitar lessons instead of the
violin or piano, always so difficult to get motivated for anything other than
what you wanted to do…always so difficult. Period.”
My eyes water, but I don’t budge. He’s right. In his head, I fought about
everything. I made arguments where there weren’t any.
In my head I just wanted him to accept me. That’s why I held onto Ryen
so hard for so long.
“I stopped being able to talk to you,” he nearly whispers. And then he
drops his eyes, correcting, “I stopped finding a way to talk to you.”
He picks up my sister’s blanket at the end of the bed and slowly brings
it to his nose, and then his body immediately shakes as he lets out a sob.
I pull my lip ring in between my teeth and tug until I feel a sting.
Everything hurts, and I hate this. I hate that Annie’s room is empty. I hate
that our house is dark. I hate that I don’t know where I’m supposed to be—I
don’t belong anywhere. And I hate that I hate he’s alone. He didn’t comfort
me after Annie’s death. Why should I want to be here for him?
And why do I feel a sudden need to tell Ryen everything? For her to
know what I haven’t said and to tell me just the right thing, just like she
does in her letters. To forget Falcon’s Well and what I’m doing there.
To go back, simply because that’s where she is.