ρoιnт вreaĸ : prologue

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I don't know how to feel. When you lose someone, you think that all that comes with it is sadness and tears - and then you get over it. You do like everyone says and you move on. But in the end, everything just seemed to go away. There was no sadness, no more tears, no more wincing just at the sound of her name. There was only nothing.

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            Just do it, I tell myself. But I can't, no matter how hard I will my legs to move, they refuse to do so. It's as if there's a line made of fire, keeping me from crossing from my side of the room to Kayleigh's. When does it stop being her room? She'll never come back and yet, I can't fathom the idea of calling every corner of space my own.

            When we were younger, Kayleigh called me a slob and I called her a ocd freak. In the end we sectioned the room in half using blue tape. Mom made us remove it but for weeks we acted as if it were still there. Eventually we got over it, but in the back of our minds we still had that idea of my side and your side. It wasn't that hard to depict which was which. Kayleigh's bed was still made, her blue sheets pulled tight and her daisy pillows fluffed perfectly. She had a few soccer medals and posters of dancers and actresses on her wall. She was more into the arts, soccer just a hobby. She had a plan, her future was bright and mine - well it was just as unsure as it is now.

All I need is a shirt. I lent it to Kayleigh a few weeks ago and she never gave it back. She always did that. I guess I can go without it, I've got plenty of shirts packed away in my suitcase. And yet, I know that's not the only thing stopping me, I'm afraid and this new feeling, it scares me. I've felt nothing these past few weeks since losing my sister and now, I'm afraid. I'm afraid to go to her side of the room.

            Inhaling deeply and bracing my body against I don't know what, I cross the line and head for Kayleigh's dresser. It's a light wooden color, with etchings of her past relationships. It reaches my chin and has at least four drawers. My hands feel sticky as they open each one, going through the clothes and searching. One drawer is just filled with old love letters, scripts, and pictures. I pick one out of the pile. It's a picture of Kayleigh and I maybe four summers ago, her thirteen and me twelve. You'd think we were twins. We both have short hair in the picture; Kayleigh's a light brown and crinkled, mine blonde and straight. I cut it after she cut hers and complained how she didn't like it. We both have the same gray eyes, our grandfather had them too. My arm is looped around her waist and hers around my shoulder. Together forever. The memory makes my heart clench. I don't want to leave.

            I can't leave.

            Kayleigh would be jumping at the chance to spend the summer with my aunt, despite the fact that we barely knew her. It'd be an opportunity to explore a new place, new people, new challenges. This isn't a vacation though, but my parents’ attempt to help me move on from her death. I don't think I can move on from something like this though, but just find some way to cope with it, to maneuver around the large gap where she fit perfectly. Even if I had one more conversation, one more gripping hug - one more naïve thought that we'd have each other forever, I still wouldn't be able to let her go.

            Closing the dresser, I swallow thickly and try to ignore the hot and scratchy feeling in my throat. I don't care about the shirt anymore. Scanning over the dresser, I try to find something to take with me - just a piece of her. Something silver catches my eye, a chain dangling from the corner of a box. It's one of Kayleigh's favorite necklaces: a diy piece of jewelry made from items taken from here and there. The chain's from an old necklace that'd lost its original pendant. Kayleigh had replaced it with a flower charm, stuck between two clear blue beads.

            My thumb runs over the flower. I close the necklace into my palm tightly, opening it to see a floral indention slowly disappearing.

            "You ready to go?" Mom's voice scares me out of my daze. Placing the necklace in my back pocket I start for my suitcase.

            "Yeah, I'm ready." Suitcase in tow, I head toward the door.

            Mom's hand is warm as it presses against my cheek. "I just want you to be happy," she tells me.

            "I know." She nods and drops her hand.

            I take one final look behind me before closing the door and following her out

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