It is Nora's room, I am sure of it. Except it isn't. Her bed is gone, so are the posters that used to take up most of the cream coloured wall at the back of the room. I stop in my track, my mind struggling to make sense of what I am seeing. I know her bedroom. Every inch of it (almost). This is not it. I glance back at Tubbo, who is engrossed in his phone, clearly not able to see me. He hasn't, cannot, notice how I have stopped.
Turning my gaze in front of me, I study the room more carefully. It is refurnished, with tall bookshelves that are built in, seamlessly fit in with the ceiling, floor and walls. They cover one full wall and part of another. There is also a desk, not the IKEA kind, but old, rustic. Stable, heavy and dark, made entirely out of wood with two little drawers that have locks on them on either side. Between them is a fairly good office chair, not leather but it still fits in with the desk and the matching bookshelves.
It looks nothing like a teenagers room. It looks like a study, an office. Did she move out? Did she— she has left for college, I realise. But where are her things? I furrow my eyebrows in quiet wonder, thinking hard. It makes no sense. Does she plan to never visit? Or is she going to... My room.
I float a few meters to the right, and stare. I am gawking, I note in the back of my brain, but I do not stop to shut my mouth. They have not moved my things. They were so quick to repurpose Nora's room while mine looks the same. It is like a museum. Like going to some castle and not being allowed to touch anything. Or a museum, where the workers seem to think that if you look at the relics too hard they will shatter. My clothes from the day I died, the day before I died, still lay on the floor, right where I threw them. They did not even clean it up.
A chill goes down my spine, either from the major uneasiness I am experiencing, the creepiness of it or the thought that 'this is how much they care. Look at how much they loved you and mourn you'. I wonder if they would be able or not, to change it. I wonder if Nora approved of them keeping it this way. It is kind of creepy, but mostly sad. And an extremely unhealthy way to cope with the loss of their son. Grieving is okay, but this is overwhelming. It has been months. Lots of months. I count back the time in my head, just to see that I got it right. Yes, it has been nine months I think.
I catch my own reflection in the window, a reminder that I am still here. The boy who looks back at me looks sad, with half-lidded eyes and the corners of his mouth are downturned. He looks pitiful. No, he looks sad and pitying. Like when people see a dead animal, that is how his reflection looks. For a brief moment I wonder if the person staring back at me even is myself, because I do not recognise him.
It is whilst staring in at my room that I realise something; as unhealthy as this is of them, coming here is just as unhealthy for me. I am burdening myself by forcing myself to be here, to watch them live their lives, by checking up on my old life. This is a waste of time. A mistake.
I wince, flinching as my reflection copies the change in my face. Face hot and red, I quickly sink down and materialise for the briefest of seconds.
"Let's go. I don't want anyone I know to see me, in case they get a heart attack," I say, giving Tubbo what I hope is a wicked and humorous grin.
He nods. "Okay. That way?" He points down the road in the direction we came from.
I nod quickly, not stopping in my movement and taking charge down the road. Going ghosty again, I decide not to float, but walk, even if I can't feel the ground beneath my feet. Or around them. I do not have much control of that since my feet can't differentiate stepping on the ground and stepping into the ground.
We walk in silence for a few minutes, even after I solidify. The only sounds around us are the birds chirping, the quiet rustle of leaves in the wind, and our feet thumping against the asphalt. I am afraid that if I speak, my voice will betray how I really feel and he will pity me. Pitying will change the course of action I have picked, nor will it make it any easier.
Tubbo speaks first. "You seem... duller, somehow. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Did you see them? Were they happy?" He presses on.
"I didn't."
"What?" Tubbo looks taken aback, his whole body reeling away from me. I sigh.
"I didn't see them. I don't want to burden them," I say, "they've already grieved, or begun grieving, I don't want to ruin the process or cause any unwanted or unwelcome emotions. Plus, I'll just have to watch them grow old and die anyway. I don't want that."
The sob is barely contained in my throat, and I think I might break down any second. I try to keep my explanation clean, factual. Free from any emotion. Walking with my back straight, head high, I feel like I might actually be able to pull this off. To be guilt-free. Happy, even in the absence of my family, the simple joys of life. Life, which I won't ever be able to experience again.
Immediately questioning that conclusion, I give the brunet walking beside me a glance. So maybe I will be able to experience life, but it would not be the same. Not really. But perhaps I am all right with that, genuinely. No pretending, no suppressed sadness.
"Oh." Tubbo processes what I said for a moment. "I see. Are you sure?"
I nod. "Yes."
"Okay." He says and we fall silent. This time it is not as awkward. I wish I could tell him more, but it is like my throat is closed up, preventing me from saying the words. And maybe it's better that way. Ignorance is bliss after all.
What would it take for me to open up? I do not know. But I fear that if I did, my emotions would spill over, flowing and flooding everything, like unplugging the ocean by a stopper at the very deepest, darkest part of its floor. Which would be unbearably embarrassing and awkward. Which is why I would rather keep my mouth shut, keep all these feelings swarming in my head to myself.
But I can't stop myself from thinking about it. Nora's room, empty. Swabbed clean, no trace of her left. And mine, a perfect relic, unchanged, untouched. Except that there were no dust. No dust. I am suddenly riddled by the realisation. No dust. That had to mean... someone deliberately chose to clean my room, every day or only when necessary, I do not know, can't possibly know, but they do clean it. And somehow it looks the exact same as the day I left it. Which means they clean it from the dust, but are careful not to move anything around.
Mum. Of course it's mum, who else? Nora is not even there, and I doubt dad would ever go to such lengths to keep part of me still there. Images flash through my head. My mother, dusting, vacuuming, airing out my room. Everything to keep it as it was. Except that nothing is like it was, and it never will be.
We shouldn't have gone there, why did we go there, I shouldn't have looked- My thoughts are cut short by Tubbo breaking through my inner panic. But it is not his voice that stops me. It's his touch. I look down at my hand—our hands—, then up at him, then straight ahead, biting the inside of my lip. It's too much. But I don't tell him that. Instead, I let him hold my hand, all the way home.
AUTHORS NOTE !
I WOKE UP IN A NEW BUGA- *gunshot* anyway, hello, yes, i'm not dead wooo!! thanks for sticking with me tho and waiting patiently for new chapters 🫶