The Struggle For Love ✔

Chapter 20 - Spill it out

So, once we're home, it's weird. Because the house is exactly the same, but the inside looks different from what I remember.

At least, the living room does. The kitchen is remodelled, the hallway painted in a different colour, and it all is a bit overwhelming.

"Just... do what you want to do." Mom cups my face, pressing a kiss on top of my head. "And if there's anything you need, or need us to change, just tell us, okay?"

I nod, biting my lip because I want to tell them I need answers, but again pushing those thoughts aside as I slump down on the unfamiliar couch, pulling a blanket around me and curling into the corner of the couch, staring at a painting I once made in high school that is now in a list on the wall. I still remember making the painting, and how my teacher, my classmates, but mostly Finnley thought it was gorgeous.

I remember how Finnley sent me an impressed look when he first saw it and told me he didn't know I had any talents, joking around as always, since I had lots of talents to show off.

I smile at the memory, suddenly tired and sad because all I can remember is being best friends with him, not knowing about his feelings for me. Not remembering what happened ever since I found out about said feelings, and not knowing what to do to feel less confused.

It's all I do for a while; sit, stare and allow memories I do have to fill my mind. Memories about hanging out with Finnley, with other friends, with Emma. How I dated Stan, how I hung out with Felix a lot in the last weeks I remember.

And than I head up to my room, now rested enough to climb the stairs, knowing I will need to lay down first to recover from doing so, but at least feeling safe in my room.

It's familiar, it's exactly the same as I remember, and I wonder if mom and dad used pictures to make it look like it again. But than again, I know my room stayed the same for years, the only change I made had been a new bed.

I lay down on the bed, and stare towards the ceiling tiredly, wanting to text any of my friends to ask them to come over, but not having the possibility to do so.

At least, I do have a computer, though it isn't the same I had two years ago. I wonder if I have any contact information on there that could help me out right now.

I grab the laptop, putting it on the bed beside me, opening it, typing in the password I always used.

And than realising I must have changed it somewhere in the last two years, and I have no idea what it is right now.

I should hack it, and somewhere deep inside me I know I could, with the right programs and a second – accessible – computer.

But I have neither.

And I never hacked any computers, so how would I know how to?

Did I do it in the last two years and is my feelings, my gut instinct that tells me I need a second computer and certain programs a faint memory?

It's not so much a memory as it is a feeling, but it's there.

And isn't that something?

So, I write it down, agreeing with myself to discus the difference between this feeling, and a real memory with Gerald tomorrow.

* * * * *

I watch as Stan carefully steps into my bedroom, taking in the room before he puts down his backpack, waving his hands back and forth right afterwards.

"Hi." I pull up my head as I am laying on my stomach with my head on my arms. I push myself up in my elbows. "Where have you been?"

"Busy a bit..." He shrugs, slowly walking towards me, sitting on the foot end of the bed as if he feels out of place.