Lauren Sanders is struggling to rebuild her life with her aunt and cousin after her family's tragic death. But what no one knows is the truth about two things: how her parents really died and her battle with schizophrenia.
One day, Lauren stumbles...
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He had his head down the moment he entered the classroom. As he made his way to his seat, his fingers gripped the loose strap on his backpack, his eyes glued to the floor. I watch as he swings his backpack in front of him, unzips it, and pulls something from inside—a notebook and a pen—before dropping his bag on the floor.
With barely three minutes until the teacher arrived in the classroom, I rose up from my seat. I stepped up towards him, my gaze fixed on his. I slid the chair in front of him and sat down; almost instantly, he lifted his chin to look at me, his eyes widening in surprise.
"H-Hey," he says with an obvious sign of bewilderment with a hint of embarrassment written all over his face as his voice trembles to greet me good morning right after.
I shake my head to help shake the teasing voices away. He managed to smile at me. I almost thought, in the back of my mind, that he was faking it or maybe, all of his smiles were fake all along.
I opened my mouth but found myself unable to utter a proper word out. I thought twice about whether what I may say might come across as rude or a chance to belittle his emotions.
"I messaged and called you," I told him, "I was worried. You didn't return any of them, is everything not okay?" I asked soon after.
He blinked, no response.
"Or you can just tell me that you're not in the mood to talk right now," I said, earning a response from him with a shaking head.
Aaren opened his mouth, ready to speak, but was instantly cut off when the teacher entered the classroom and everyone went back to their proper seats. I got up and was about to return to my seat when he caught my wrist and said, "Later at lunch."
I nodded my head and he smiles again. I returned his smile back.
❀
Since class ended a few minutes earlier, Aaren had been silent ever since that. As we walked into the cafeteria for lunch, he didn't say anything. I continued stealing glances at him, but he was back to staring at the floor. It felt inappropriate to speak at first, knowing that it was now my time to listen to him, as he always listened to me.
"People kept pressuring me to forgive my dad for what he did," he says, out of the blue. I looked at him as we both waited in line.
"By people, whom do you mean?"
"My mom, brother, and aunt."
I nodded my head as a sign of acknowledging what he was telling me, "Well, what about you? Have you ever found yourself forgiving him one day for what he did?" I asked but he didn't answer. Instead of answering that, he asked me:
"What about you? Have you forgotten the ones that have blamed you for not doing anything when your sister killed herself?"
His sudden question caught me off guard. The conversation suddenly shifted to me. Now I'm the subject and a part of me felt disrespected. A few of the kids in front of us who were first in line turned their heads to look at us for a second or two.
