Why did you leave?

I always leave the house at 7:13.

Not 7:10. Not 7:15.

7:13 is exactly how long it takes to avoid the neighbours, the school bus, and myself.

I take the back route. Past the mailbox with the peeling number 17. Past the crack in the sidewalk that looks like a lightning bolt.

Every step is memorised. Safe. Predictable.

By the time I reach school, I’ve smiled at three people and said I’m fine twice.

So far, so good.

At 8:03, I sit in my usual seat.

At 8:04, someone sits in his.

I look up instinctively. But of course it isn’t him.

I look down, staring at my red converse, mentally slapping myself in the face for even daring to hope. My chest constricts. Ivy twists and tightens around my ribs, threatening to pull me into the ground. Mud reaches my mouth. Then my nose. Then—

Get a grip.

Get a grip.

Get a grip.

The teacher’s voice is a distant hum. I don’t know what she’s saying. I nod anyways, like I’m listening. Like I’m here. I doodle in the margins of my notebook. Not flowers this time. Just black lines. Over and over.

“Nick?”

I blink. Everyone is staring. Including the guy sitting in his seat.

“Question 4,” Ms Miller taps the whiteboard with a marker.

“Right,” I say, standing up hastily. My chair scrapes the ground as I rise. My feet feel awfully heavy as they take slow steps towards the front of the classroom.

I take the marker from ms miller.

I stare at the board.

I blink.

“Nick?” Ms Miller's voice rings out again. She sounds worried.

“Yeah, uh, hold on a sec,” I mutter as I take in the math problem.

I stare at the board.

My palms begin to sweat. Not because I don’t know the answer. But because he’s not here to tell me I’m wrong. Please…where are you?

“So first just factor everything. And don’t ask why dumbass it just make it easier.”

I factorise the bottom and top of the fraction. My hands move, following his instructions.

“You see now that its factorised its way easier than your method. Like, what were you even doing on your paper? And since the denominator equals this at x equal this and also this and so you get vertical asymptotes.”

I didn’t really get it.

“Oh god you’re hopeless bro, this is basic! Alright you dimwit let me break it down. Factorise. Find zero. Kill the common factors. Horizontal asymptote.”

I could practically hear his eyes rolling in his head. The marker squeaked as I wrote down my working and answer. I put down the marker on the teacher’s table as I head back to my seat.

“Correct.”

I turn to Will, and perhaps my muscles are in order again.

My lips inch up, but—

Of course it isn’t him.

I stare at my converse again.

The cafeteria smells like chicken nuggets and burnt cheese. The table i always sit at is almost full by the time i get there. It’s nearest to the food, so we could start eating as quickly at possible.

The chatter dies down slightly as i approach, tray in hand. They make space for me.

It’s been 113 days.

Grief seems to have an expiry date.

I don’t think i have one.

Our friends seem to be recovering, saying stuff like, “wish will was here, he was a good friend.”

They would all nod, thinking of the good old days, looking somber for a while. They start to accept. They start to move on.

So why can’t i?

“You okay?”

It’s Amanda. She was quite close to Will too. I wonder how she’s been. I hope better than me.

Her voice is quiet as she slips beside me.

I nod. That makes three times today.

“I’m fine.”

That makes four today.

Lying is not good. He used to laugh and mock me whenever i told him that.

I’m such a hypocrite. He would find that funny.

I would go to church and confess my sins to the priest, but I cant bring myself to go there. Perhaps it would help me heal, to move on.

But if i went to church, i'd probably get on god’s blacklist for cursing at his statue.

Then id go to hell when i died.

Then I wouldn’t get to see will again.

But its unfair isn’t it?

All good people seem to get the worst fates, don’t they?

Will didn’t deserve to die, he was so nice and amazing and stupid and dumb and—

Across the cafeteria, someone laughs loud and wild, the kind of laugh him and i always laughed.

I pretend I don’t hear it. I pretend I don’t remember it.

I eat my food in silence, feeling Amanda’s gaze on me every once in a while.

What’s her problem?

I fix my eyes determinately on my my burger. It tasted horrible. Soggy and virtually inedible. I force the disgusting thing into my mouth, taking a bite out of it even as my mouth screamed at me to remove the atrocity.

“Aaron?” A tentative voice broke the momentary silent I appreciated.

“Hm?” I turn my head.

It was Amanda. Again.

Sitting next to me, she rests a hand on my shoulder. Gently.

I look back at my food, not wanting to meet her concerned gaze.

“Hey, if you ever want to talk about Wi—.”

“I don’t.”

I really don’t. I don’t want to talk about him! I cant!

I’m surprised at my response. Amanda seems surprised too.

I’m so used to just nodding my head, saying ‘I’m fine’, whenever someone attempts to comfort me.

I didn’t expect my voice to come out so sharp. And something other than my monotonous tone. Emotion.

Ive tried so hard to suppress all my feelings, pushing them deep, down, hiding it until it’s completely concealed. So none will show.

“I’m sorry,” I say immediately, mortified that I let myself show emotion and speak so rudely.

I struggle to keep the emotions down. They’re try to climb up my gut, up my throat, threatening to spill completely. I force them down. Slowly, they sliding back down, settling somewhere near my stomach. I feel sick now.

Amanda looks curiously at me, her head cocked to the sid slightly, as if try to figure me out. Her piercing blue eyes look deep into mine, and the intensity of the gaze makes me feel like she could see my soul, my pushed-down emotions, my broken heart.

She rests her hand on mine.

“It’s okay, Aaron. It’s oka—.”

I jerk my hand off the table, remove myself from her touch. I stand, not even bothering to return my tray, to get away.

Away from Amanda. Away from my emotions. Away from me.

I feel my emotions rising up my throat, a lump forming. I fight for air, a battle between my emotions and myself.

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

I push down every single thought and emotion that threatens to overwhelm me. I push it all down. Hard. Waves of anxiety, sadness, anger, wistfulness crash over me again and again. Again, again, again.

Im drowning.

I’m drowning where there’s no water. I’m drowning in my mind, my thoughts, my emotions. Sounds are muffled. I’m pulled deeper. I try to scream, but i cant.

I’m drowning.

And i cant swim.

I push open the boy’s bathroom door. I receive frightened gazes as i stumble into a cubicle and retch. My body is trying to purge something it cant reach. My insides are infected my something invisible. I heave, but its not the food I’m trying to get rid of.

The world spins. Saliva and vomit drip down my chin and I’m oddly aware of my heart beat. It’s too loud. I can hear it.

I get up, steadying myself by pushing my hand onto the cubicle wall. I wipe my mouth with the hem of my shirt, the after taste of my vomit persisting on my tongue. I stumble out. Hands reach out, trying to steady me.

“Let go of me!”

I flail my arms in an attempt to get them to release.

Smack! My hand makes contact with a boy’s face, his glasses tumbling off. Internally, my conscience apologises.

But right now, what i wanted was for everyone to stop giving a shit about me. Why couldn’t they leave me alone? I don’t want to talk. I cant tell anyone. Why cant the world leave me alone?

My chest tightens. Every heartbeat a hammer against my ribs. The world pulses, too loud, too fast. From what? I don’t know.

Maybe something. Maybe nothing.

I collapse. Colours blend, sounds stretch, faces swirl.

There’s so much air around me—

But none of it reaches my lungs.