Screaming silently, I jolt awake. Exaustion flows over me as I pull myself out of bed. I hate this. I feel nothing but a dull pain. Maybe someday, someone can erase this, I quickly deminished the thought as it arrives. Frowning at the mirror as I remember the false hopes that brought me here. My muscles protest as I go through the motions of my early morning rutiene of dressing, brughhing my hair and teeth, and eating a dull and tasteless breakfast I would otherwise enjoy. Considering I have already passed my summer class, I have two thirds left of the summer before I start my sophomore year of highschool. Though I get myself moving each day, only to fake my way through this horrid feeling in my gut.
My family would just worry unecicarrily, which I dislike, so I force myself to stay away from what I want to do most. Cry. Curl in a ball on the floor in a corner with my cat nearby. Scream. Or even worse. Though I haven't attempted to harm myself since I was nine, I refuse to think that would matter in anyone else's eyes if I starve myself. So I pretend I'm okay. I pretend that my heart is healed and that there is nothing to say about what happened just two months ago. That there is nothing to be sad over.
But the truth is, I hate this. The pain in my stomach that forces me to choke on my unshod tears throughout the days. That forces me to keep moving when all I want to do is fall to the floor and stay there. But I know what that would bring. And I want anything but for people to sepprate me from what is causing this pain. Because deep in my stupid wall that keeps my heart from anything else, is the hidden love for the man I fell for. The whole reason I'm here. The whole reason I'm in horrid doubt of my feelings when I know he loves me.
People are watching me as I stare into space at lunch. I smile and push the thoughts away as I finish eating and exuse myself outside to play my flute. My birthday draws near. I keep hoping that he will send me a gift. Perhaps a symbol of my favorite flower that I can wear everyday. Or maybe even the next book in a trilogy I got caught up in. But deep down I know, he won't do either. He will sit back, fighting the urge to even utter a word let alone type one to me. Though as hard as it is, he never lets me know just how much he cares. Which makes my job of holding on and being strong that much harder.