Derek

You've been living like in a dream for days now. Food won't go down, music is irritating, even the air feels heavy.

Mom cried again in the kitchen when she thought you were sleeping. Dad was packing, and every step he took echoed in you like a blow to glass. They spoke quietly, but you still heard words like "divorce," "tired," "impossible." As if none of this was happening to you.

At school, you try not to look people in the eye, smile out of habit, and throw away food. Everything inside you is burned out. Only Derek notices that something is wrong with you. At first, he asks, "Are you okay?" Then he just looks more closely. You brush it off—it's safer that way.
he once wrote:

— “If you don’t want to talk, I’ll understand. Just please don’t run away from me.”

You didn't answer and hid the phone under the pillow.

The next day I didn’t leave my room. And suddenly – a voice under the window:

• Come out. Please.

“Are you crazy?” you whisper.

• Then come out. I won't leave until I talk.

You go out, shivering from the cold.

— Will you tell me what's wrong with you? And don't say that everything is fine.

• but I'm fine.

“Please don’t lie to me,” he says softly.

silence.

"Listen, it wouldn't be fair if we laugh together and you cry alone," he whispers. "So, I'm all ears."