Short Story || Romance || Completed
Naya is acting crazy that one afternoon and she flirted with that one smart introvert boy in her class, Marco. Slowly falling but disguising everything as a joke, and yet confessing half-heartedly, how will she ev...
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They say regret is is worse than anger, or hatred. Regret is far worse than loathe.
It will haunt you, day and night. There is no resting from it.
And Naya felt that. And the worse part is, she can't cry. For some unknown reason, tears don't fall off her eyes. It's just there. Stuck. Like her.
Five days of the funeral and her social media was bombarded with notifications of condolences and advices. Even her classmates did. But none of them made her cry. It took her four days before she finally had the courage to look at her mom in the casket. She was so pretty. She just looks like sleeping. But it didn't make Naya weep. Not even a single drop of tear.
A message beeped her phone. A chat.
How are you?
It was just three words. From Marco. And it made her feel quite a lot. Loneliness. Lost. Alone.
I'm not fine.
I know.
I know.
I'm just here.
Thank you.
It was enough for her to feel like someone's there for her. The funeral went by, even the burial. She shed tears but it was because people are crying too.
It took a while. Their house became messy. Her father was out of sight. He was drinking, gambling, smoking. He was rarely home. She took care of things. She wasn't feeling anything to feel tired. Naya felt like she was floating. And she's still a student when the academic years starts once again.
It took a month, maybe a two, before her father rebooted. Naya introduced him to facebook. And he bought a lot of speakers and amplifiers. He got his time around karaokes. Maybe that's his way of grieving.
Meanwhile, Naya was eaten unknowingly. Her way of grieving too late send her to the dark hole.
Her grieving cut her off people from her life. She distanced herself. Isolated.
But every three in the morning, when everything are asleep, something inside her hurts,— something unexplainable. She cried herself to sleep for months.
She read her messages over and over again. She painted her. She wrote poems about her. Her—her mother.
Naya was lost. She knows. And numb. She knows too. She was happy, others can see that. But she dwells with what ifs, could've and should've at night.
