I toss and turn through the night, plagued by fractured memories of Chance. Haunted by the woes of her life that now reside, in note form, on my wall. The memories come in strains of music, bursts of laughter and flashes of colour.
I think that's what grief does to you. I'm not grieving.
It reaches a point where I can no longer distinguish between truths and falsehoods. But that's inconsequential. Why? — because I dream of Chance.
"C'mon Rory." She reached out for my hand and I clasped onto hers strongly — never wanting to let go — as she dragged me through the woods.
"Where are we going?" My eyes were blindfolded; I tripped over roots and rocks that protruded out of the forest floor. Trusting Chance entirely.
In my blindness, the sounds of the forest in summertime truly came alive. The slight, warm breeze gently rustled the trees' lush green leaves, the trickling stream, and the chirping birds.
I feel so alive when I'm with her.
"My top-secret hideout, of course." She laughed, intertwining her fingers with mine.
I knew where she was taking me: her treehouse. High up in the trees and deep in the woods, I've only ever seen it from the foot of the rope ladder and inside it. Whenever we came here, she'd always blindfold me.
It was always our escape; our sanctuary whenever things got tough. Well, it was mostly just Chance for whom things got tough. But I kept her company all the same, revelling in the rustic of battered old wood, a couple of empty wine bottles, piles of pillows, and woodlice.
We must've arrived because Chance finally reached up and pulled off my blindfold.
"Thank fuck." I grinned, blinking into the bright sunlight.
"What? You're not into the blindfolding kink?" Chance's mouth quirked up at me in a smirk, folding it into the pocket of her mustard yellow shorts, ready to reappear when we left.
Calling it a blindfold might be a bit of an exaggeration. It was literally a paisley-print red and white bandana. With Chance, though, the best things were constantly over the top.
We climbed up the rickety rope ladder, thankful it was semi-tied to the tree. My knuckles whitened as I clutched the slats firmly. Chance always followed me up for two reasons: one — so I could make sure there weren't any woodlouse in the treehouse (she'd detested them since forever). Two — to make sure I didn't look at her ass.
Not like I'd actually have to be focused on clambering up the tree or anything. Not like she would be able to look at my ass or anything.
I stamped on a few already-dead woodlice and collapsed down onto one of the piles of pillows we kept in there.
"Right." Chance flopped down next to me and pulled a bottle of cheap, shitty-tasting rosé out of her brown faux-leather bag.
I promptly provided her with two plastic cups and she poured us some each. Watching her intently as the sun filtered through the window, catching and highlighting her blonde hair.
I hate the taste of alcohol. I drank it anyway, to keep Chance company. I drink it slower than she ever did; it burns too much. It blurs too much as well.
That's what Chance liked about drinking. She claimed that any and every type of alcohol was designed to kill you, after luring you into a sweet state of disillusion, of course. She said she liked that.
"Have you spoken to Max Bellamy recently?" She asked out of nowhere, watching me intently over the rim of her cup as she took another swig, green eyes narrowing in on me. Darker specks of emerald burn through, as they always did— do when she's curious, or worried.
"Not much." The truth: I hardly spoke to Max when Chance was around. In all honesty, I had no need to.
"Does it annoy you?" She paused, clarified; "The way he looks at you, I mean. Doesn't that piss you off?"
"I don't know what you mean..." I frowned, choosing the moment to sip my own cup of wine. Holding back a wince.
"Well, I spoke to him." Chance shrugged, a straggly curl of hair draping over her face. She brushed it back indignantly. "He won't be bothering you again." Her voice lowered, almost indecipherable, "Not while I'm around, at least."
I sat there like a moron trying to converse with a genius. A goddess. She spoke in stanzas of poetry while I was still stumbling over forming simple words.
There were so many hints of her leaving me. Why the fuck didn't I figure that out sooner?
Then again, Chance always was on a higher level than me.
I wake up a sobbing mess in the middle of a meltdown. Twisting amongst my sheets. I don't know if it's possible to have a breakdown mid-dream, but I'm pretty sure I just achieved it.
Rolling over, I grab my pillow and scream into it. Tears flood down my face in an endless torrent of pitiful regret. Self-loathing infiltrates too: sparks of anger flicker through the tears.
I cry for her; I cry for all the broken people.
Chance wasn't broken to start with, but those tragedies sure as hell crushed her. No one, not even Chance, could survive all of those things and be expected to be a-okay at the end of it all.
Chance ran off in the night. She's gone. But I refuse to believe that she's... passed away whilst out in the woods. Because if Chance dies, a large chunk of me dies with her.
Why?
Because everything in my life comes down to her. To Chance. Everything important and consequential revolves around her.
At school, after an extremely quick walk here, I pace down the yellowy corridor clenching my fists tightly. Condemned by their perceptions of me. Trapped by my actions — both those I do and don't pursue.
For years I found myself wishing people would notice me for more than just my friendship with Chance. Without her by my side, I could spend entire afternoons sitting in crowded rooms and barely saying a word — which, in a way, is kinda beautiful.
Now, people watch me when I walk down the corridor. Because they think I was involved in something suspicious. And there's nothing teenagers love more than gossip. Except maybe sex. Sex and gossip — what more could one possibly need or want in life?
It all links to Chance, though. They're not interested in me. After all, it has always been about Chance.
Max walks up to me, placing a forthright hand on my shoulder. "Hey, how're you doing?"
"Fine..." I zone out, glancing over his shoulder and frowning slightly.
"What was that thing you wanted to tell me about?" He continues talking, "You sounded pretty intense on the phone last night. I'm guessing it's something to do with Chance..."
"There are reasons, Max." I force myself to focus on him, ignoring the girl with long blonde hair that I thought I saw. "I've got them listed on Post-its on my wall; that's what Lilia was helping me out with last night..."
"And what are you planning to do about this list of reasons?"
"Find her... Somehow, I'm not quite sure." I shrug and my attention wanders from him once again.
I think I see her. Now, here. At school. I see her weaving in between kids, walking away from me down the corridor.
"Sorry, mate. I'll catch you later," I interrupt Max, barely looking at him as I brush past him. Chasing Chance down the corridor.
Her dirty blonde hair trails down her back, mostly straight apart from the few tendrils that sometimes curl. Her head shakes from side to side, as I try to keep up with her — turning corners faster than I can keep up with.
"Chance, wait!" I hiss after her, glancing behind me to see the corridor has emptied.
I turn back around and there's no one in the corridor apart from me. Chance was never here. I was chasing down a mere apparition created by my mind.
"Rory..." It's Max; he followed me.
His hand lands on my shoulder once again, though this time I notice it's with an awkward hesitancy. But it's not like he's unwilling to touch me; more like just a friendly hand on my shoulder isn't enough somehow.
"What's going on with you?" He asks incredulously.
"I thought— I... Never mind." Turning around to face him, I shake my head. He wouldn't understand anyway.
"You sure?" His head tilts down towards me his eyebrows dart up.
"Mhm." I hum noncommittedly, looking down to squint at the tips of my battered Vans. I realise absentmindedly that I forgot to put on my smart shoes for school due to the rush of the morning...
If a teacher notices, I'll get a ticking off. Something I'm really not in the mood for today.
"Rory," Max says my name again, and steps closer to me — his proximity remains. The urging tone of his voice forces me to look up. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" His tone isn't condescending — not like Greene's is sometimes, not like Heather's would be if I ever let her speak to me for that long.
And it's his genuine concern that makes me shrug him off; both literally and figuratively. "I'm fine, Max," I huff.
"I guess we should get to class then," his voice hardens, goes cold and bitter somehow — like he crossed some sort of line between us, and my nonchalance forced him away again.
Or maybe I'm reading too much into it.
I won't be able to shake him, or my lingering doubts, for the rest of the day, it seems. We have maths and then physics together, followed by an afternoon of extra-curricular activities. We both ended up choosing the same option: 'volunteering'. Though, like the ungrateful and selfish bastards we are, we go skateboarding the streets of New Ridge.
Max has other friends in maths, so he sits next to them for the hour. Keeping a watchful eye on me all the while.
Me? — I keep reliving last night's dream, my mind supplementing reality with an amalgamation of memories and imaginings. Chance in every single fucking one.
In physics, I, and my social anxiety, take a turn for the worse. It wasn't so bad when I was with Chance — the anxiety, I mean. She helped me with it, gave me the courage and confidence that I clearly don't have without her... Now she's not here and it's worse than ever before.
The teacher makes us watch a documentary about black holes and space; the lights are off and the blinds are down. On any other day, it's a lesson I would love. But after last night, the dark is tainted by her.
The screen glows brightly in the darkness; everyone's silent apart from—
"You alright?" Whispering quietly next to me: Max.
Not trusting myself to speak, I nod. My neck prickles: I can feel him watching me.
The documentary starts showing colourful nebulae — multi-coloured and gorgeous entrapments of gases in the bleak and inescapable abyss of outer space. Cut to the Milky Way spiralling slowly, and I soon stop listening to the monotonous voiceover.
The Milky Way is like this beacon in the darkness; every star is a beacon when consumed by space. The stupid black void of space.
Chance was like my beacon of hope in the darkness.
But no one was a beacon for her; she offered a shoulder to cry upon even when she must've needed a shoulder more than anyone. The tragedies she went through... it's a fucking miracle she lasted so long without crumbling.
I wasn't there for her. Not like she was for me and so many others.
Because, despite her occasional nonchalance, she cares about people so much. It's that very same selfless side to her that could've ended up being her downfall.
At some point, amidst my desolate revelations, my breathing had become raspy and shallow. I clench my hand into a fist under the table, digging my nails into my palm and searching for something — anything to bring me back from the edge. My eyes flutter, suddenly on an unplanned precipice of tears.
Max slides his steady hand over my shaking fist, holding it firmly. It surprises me; Max is never normally one for excessive physical contact. A hand on a shoulder is about the most he's ever done willingly... He must just be doing this to comfort me. That's all it's gotta be.
My breath catches in my throat but slowly, steadily, it begins returning to normal — my rapid beating heart once again finding a regular rhythm.
His hand stays on mine all the while — reaching the point at which I can relax his fist. He doesn't move his hand away as I expected. Instead, he slides his hand into mine, intertwining our fingers strongly.
I'm holding hands with my guy best friend. Except it feels like more than just casual friendliness.
That's not even the strange part. The thing is, it feels right, somehow.
The documentary ends; the lights are flicked back on.
And then it feels wrong. So, so fucked up and wrong.
He must feel it too, because we drop each other's hand at the same moment. Shifting away from each other. Not even looking at one another.
The return of light seemed to have brought on a rushing onslaught of shame and embarrassment to both of us.
It did to me, at least.
I guess these sorts of things are a lot easier to deal with in the dark.