For Him - Shawn Mendes

a cloud OF what ifs

SHAWN

31st of December, 2013.

I haven't left my house in 21 days.

My phone sits in my hand, the apple logo glowing amongst a black phone that I haven't used in 21 days. It charges, it illuminates, the notifications come through.

And, shit, there are a lot of them.

The texts come first, frantic questions from the Magcon boys and repeated calls from Bart. They're continuous for four days, and then, suddenly they stop.

There are texts from Brian, asking if I'll be coming to the parade tonight. He says he's disappointed in me, but I'm still his friend.

And then I'm mad.

I delete it, along with the texts from friends of friends asking if they'd like to hang out with me over the Christmas break.

Then there are the emails. There are hundreds of them, from Andrew and businesses and stupid subscriptions that I've yet to unsubscribe from, and I wonder if perhaps I'd be better off without a phone. I look beside me, to where my bedroom window lays open, and I kid you not, I'm extremely close to throwing it.

But then I remember the recordings I have on here and the phone call this morning from Andrew telling me specifically not to forget it, amongst other things like my passport and myself.

He jokes about the last one, but I don't laugh - these days it seems more likely than ever. Instead, I tell him to come an hour earlier.

And I'm waiting now, my suitcase packed, my passport in my hand, tucked under my phone - which is turned off. It's 5 pm.

I wait and write in my diary until Andrew's silver Volvo pulls into the driveway. He pops the trunk open and gestures for me to join him in the passenger's seat, a face of confusion as he wonders why I want to be so early. I put down my diary.

I haven't left my house in 21 days.

"Want to see the planes?" Gerty asks, "We might catch some Airbus A380's,"

I shake my head, sliding my suitcase in the back beside his. He continues to look at me through the rear view mirror. "Then why am I here an hour early? We gonna grab dinner?"

I shake my head again, holding my silence as I point to my bike leant against the side of our garage. It's flouresant green, a putrid colour that Grade 6 me thought would make the perfect Birthday present. I almost sold it last summer, but my God, I'm thankful I didn't. Somehow, I think, this bike is my only way of getting to New York.

"I'm riding my bike to the airport," I smile at Andrew, closing the trunk before removing the helmet that hangs from the handlebars, placing it on my head. "It's good for the old triceps."

"You're mental." Andrew scoffs, "Shawn, I love both you and your crazy fitness motives, but the roads are covered in ice."

I crane my neck to the side of the road, where driveways and footpaths have been cleared and snow sits in neat piles beside. The paths look wet but they're safe, safer than the road and safer from Andrew's car.

You're mental, I want to say, for even thinking I'd take the roads.

HANNAH

We'd made a deal. Chloe got the bigger room, I got the balcony.

She thought she'd won, the extra space giving her just enough room to twirl until she either passed out in a fit of giggles or passed out altogether. She hadn't won, though, because when I stood on the tips of my toes in the right-hand corner of my balcony, I could see over the neighboring roofs, past the elementary school and catch clear glimpses of the sea.