Styles.

Hard to love.

I pat my pen against my leg as the professor drones on about something I'm not completely engaged in.

I'm exhausted. I just want to sleep.

This whole balancing work, an internship, and school along with studying is draining me. I'm in over my head at the moment--practically drowning, but I can't have it any other way.

The quicker I can get my bachelor's degree finished, the quicker I can start my Masters and then conquering the business world.

Thank God I only have four more months. May 26th marks the last day of exams and the end of the semester. Then, in June, I graduate with my bachelors and continue on to my Master degree.

I sigh, rolling my eyes at the professor. Perhaps if the political economy weren't so dull and he didn't have such an uninteresting, monotone voice, I wouldn't want to bang my head against the desk... repeatedly. I have a modest understanding of political and economic events and processes in a global context, therefore; the next few weeks of listening to this man are a waste of my time. I already read ahead in the textbook and have a head start on the essays... I am at the point where I am tempted to skip this class for some extra sleep.

The professor puts me out of my misery and dismisses us early; I can only assume he caught on that most of us were dozing, and for once, decided to cut us some slack, which is very rare.

I stroll out of the lecture, pondering whether I want to go to my apartment to nap and dismiss what I need to study or if I should go to the library and study— run into her. I tear myself away from the fantasy I have of the woman, (that I possess in an exclusively non-disturbing way). Suddenly, I recognize him— I notice the man who has managed to destroy me without recognising it— Logan.

He's the love child that was never acknowledged. I found out about him just over two years ago.

When I was eighteen his mother summoned me while Logan laid in the hospital, of all the things I expected, I didn't expect to be informed that he required a blood transfusion at the age of seventeen. I didn't expect I would be the one to help out.

I couldn't say no, even if he was the secret love child.

They attempted to locate a donated blood component that closely matched him, but apparently, I was the best source.

Nobody knows about Logan, not my mother or my sister. I don't have the heart to tell either of them of my findings.

I decided to keep it a secret for my mother's sake, I know it will break her further than she is already. There are some days I question whether me being five hours away is okay, but I have to keep reminding myself that I can't keep sojourning in the same place that essentially handles all my demons. I needed to get away and my university was my only opportunity.

I propose my best to check in on my mother every day, even if it is to listen to the silence on the other end of the phone. I'm not quite sure what went wrong, she isn't herself anymore; I don't really blame Mum. I think the resentment of me leaving is still to blame— but I had to leave— I had to spread my wings and free myself of the shackles and demons of Cheshire.

As for my sister, I had the chance to tell my sister a few weeks ago, but I decided not to.

As a meagre getaway, my sister overpowered me to go to New York with her. We went to the studio that we cherish, it is our little spot, despite the fact that sometimes I can't stand the place.

I didn't want to be there, in the studio I used to love while encompassed by walls that knew more about me than most people did.

I didn't aspire to be in a place that held some of the memories I carried with my father.