Page 51 of Rewriting the Story

“Here,” she says as she hands me a bunch of napkins before disappearing. Before I think she's not going to come back, she returns with a small ice pack she places on my hand. “For the pain.”

I stop myself from laughing at how ironic her saying that to me, of all people, is. Instead, I take a deep breath.

Her hand lingers against my skin for a beat too long, but neither of us mentions it. She doesn't note how she used to brush her hand against mine in a silent plea to hold hands—because she would never outright ask. I don’t mention how good it feels to have her touch against my skin again.

“Thanks,” is all I say.

She opens her mouth to say something but then stops herself, looking at the four cups she has before speaking again.

“I should get these to the girls.”

“Do you want any help?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ve got it. Just ice your hand and be more careful next time.”

Be more careful with the coffee or with being in your orbit, Amelia? Which one do you mean, because I know I’ll never get an answer from you?

“I will.”

As I watch her walk away, I realize the place I have to start.

I need an answer. An explanation. I need anything Amelia will give me as to why she did what she did, because I don’t think I’ll ever move on or figure out anything else without that.

It’s going to hurt, I know it will. If the hurt is what I need to move to a new phase of my life away from Amelia, though, I’ll do anything, even damage my own mental health, to pry an answer out of her as to why she broke my heart and never looked back.

18

Luna Moth by Maya Hawke

Irubmyfeetinto the sand as I watch my friends run around the beach, and for some reason, all I can think about is my family.

The last time I saw them was right before I left for England, and like my friends, I didn't keep in contact.

The last thing my mother told me was that I’m destined to be alone. Those words have stayed with me over the years. Sure, I wasn't the most forthcoming child, and I didn't really tell my parents much of anything. I kept to myself of my own accord, and I don’t regret that. They barely knew my friends, and any interaction we had back then was awkward at best. I could always hear it—the disappointment in theirvoices when we interacted. I wasn't who they wanted me to be, and they didn't like who I became on my own.

Not only did I disappoint them by not going to medical school or getting a good job like my brother did, but I followed my dreams. I knew they would see my path as a waste of time, which is why I didn't bother telling them when I changed my major. I knew there would be a conversation coming that I didn't want to have. Instead of that, I got a passive-aggressive text, and that was the end of it. We never spoke of it again, even when I graduated.

That’s kind of how my relationship with my parents has been my whole life. We don’t really talk about anything. Whenever I was struggling, all I was told to do was try harder. Never mind the fact that I already felt like I was trying ten times harder than everyone else to do the simplest of things.

That would always happen when I was younger, too. When my parents were mad at me for whatever reason, none of us would talk about it, and then a few days later, a new notebook would show up on my bed, or something they thought would cheer me up. Life would continue as if nothing had ever happened, and nobody would ever bring anything up.

Therapy has been helping me rewire my brain to actually talk about things, and since being medicated, my thoughts have become less scrambled and all over the place. I block out time specifically on my planner for things I need to do, and they actually get done. Lists with things I can check off is the greatest adjustment I’ve made for my brain to actually have motivation to do certain tasks. I’ve done all this work on my own, and part of me wants to mend my relationship with them at some point like I have with the girls.

I want them to be able to understand my brain. I want to be the family I wished we were when I was younger, but we all have to be willing, andI don’t know if they’ll feel how I do.

I know I’m a disappointment to them, but I still can’t help but wonder if they’re proud of me. I can’t help but wonder what they would say if they saw me now. I’m older. I look a little different. I finally found my own sense of style. I’m basically a grown adult—a real one, not just a kid pretending to be one.

I wonder if I tried to repair my relationship with them, if it would be of any use. Would they actually sit down and listen to what I have to say? Would they be willing to hear me speak, or would they do that thing a lot of adults do and assume I’m naïve because I’m young and the world hasn't jaded me yet?

I don’t know how to tell people who think that way that your experiences are what shape you—age doesn't really matter. I’ve grown so much in the past two years. I want them to be able to see me for who I am now. I want them to be proud of what I’ve become, despite them not believing in me.

“Amelia!” Grant shouts from across the sand. “Do you want to be on my team for cornhole?”

I come back to reality, digging my hands into the sand to ground myself. “Sure! I’m not the best at cornhole, though. Are you sure you don’t want Leo to be your partner?”

“Oliver is about to teach him how to surf. Well, attempt to teach him.” Grant smiles. “He’s not a great teacher, but Hads is out there too. I don’t care if you’re good or not; all we have to do is win.”

“Who are we playing against?” I ask as I get up.

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