Keep me in your ocean

Chapter 7

Author's note: I like adding normal pop-cultural things because it is accurate, I'll just try my best for it to be things that won't age this book. Also, they are college students so they will curse a lot. Hope this helps!

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The next day, I woke up early. My room's blinds gave away peaks of light through the seams, my air conditioner gave a soft slight hum, and the warmth surrounding me told me that during the night, I wrapped myself tightly with blankets. There was enough comfort to forget yesterday's night. Easily too clouded with sleepiness to avoid the memory completely of everything that was wrong.

So I just went on thinking.

There's always something nostalgic about mornings. I tried not to think about it much, nostalgia always opened the door to melancholia, and nothing really good came with that emotion. But I couldn't help but appreciate the blue skies peaking through my blinds and the subtle sounds of the rooms next to mine.

When I was younger, mornings were always a small heaven. Diego would be out and about, already talking about his day's plans. He gave a bit of his character away, in those mornings. He stood and talked so energetically, almost too much. His hair was styled neatly and his outfit was immaculate. Diego sure was something, he controlled himself on the crust of his planet. Sometimes suffocating, obnoxious, demanding. But deeply, it was a neurotic tendency that came with trying to manage his emotions. If he couldn't control his anxiety, why not control everything else?

My mother would be drinking her coffee, fully indulged in reading a fresh copy of The New York Times. Sometimes, she'd forget about her coffee, sip it, and make a disgusted face after realizing it had gone cold. Then, with some reluctance, finishing it anyway.

Katerina would never be there. She'd always be too hungover and would be going through a 'comedown' from whatever drug she had ingested the previous night. Too numb to care, by her own force, or ingested in some form. Those days, I only held onto the memories of who she used to be, then what she was. It's easier to love a ghost, sometimes. Ghosts aren't cruel.

Dad was so often absent from those mornings that it was more of a surprise than a relief when he managed to stick around for one. He didn't know about my mom's cold coffee, or not to get in Diego's way while he explained his schedule. He didn't realize much. He was just... never around.

I was never a morning person. I craved the night too much for me to be fully comfortable so early. There was almost no day in which I didn't stay up late. The stillness of the night, the soft crickets, and the shushing sounds of the waves against the shore called to me. No one demanded anything from me at those hours. No one talked to me and there was no pressure. I could do whatever I pleased... I enjoyed my own company.

There was always our cook, Arista, who was chattering non-stop with Diego. Always asking him about his day and what he plans to do at night. She also liked to put on a radio in the corner of the kitchen with rancheras. Part of our family. Some type of glue that was never running out, only ever helping our cracked family together.

I stared at the ceiling while trying very hard not to get a little sad while thinking of those mornings.

I got up, sometimes the hardest part of my day.

After following my usual morning routine (showering, makeup, brushing my teeth, and dressing up) I realized two important things. One, I was very hungry and two, today we were supposed to play games all day.

My therapist once explained to me that anxiety sometimes is like a fast car on a roundabout doing aimless circles without a purpose. She told me that thinking about all the possible outcomes of my situation and imagining scenarios would only put me through an emotional downfall of a situation that hasn't occurred, and probably won't. And of course, she was right. My brain was already going through the five stages of grief of having to sit by myself and being stared at.