Page 92 of Blue in the Deep Blue Sea

Mom says having Gianni is enough, but deep down, I think she hates me too.

Bye, Olly.

I hope one day after I am gone you’ll hate me a little less.”

A tear rolled down my cheek as I crushed the letter in my fist. The memory of her in that oversized hoodie a week later slammed into me, and I finally realized what she’d been trying to do. Just six years after my mum.

My chest tightened until it hurt. My whole world seemed to cave in as I wiped the tear away, dragging my palm across my face.

“Fuck,” I muttered, leaning back against the wall.

I never saw the signs.

I hated myself for all the times I’d hurt her, for helping push her deeper into that darkness. I threw her away over stupid reasons while she was completely alone. I even told everyone not to hang out with her because she was a liar.

I was the reason she never had friends.

And if she’d gone through with it, I would never have forgiven myself.

That’s the thing. You never realize what someone is carrying until it’s almost too late. Then, when they’re gone, all that’s left are the questions. What could I have done? What if I’d stayed? What if I’d listened? You drown in your own tears because you stood safely on the shore while they were drowning, watching them fight to keep their head above the water, convincing yourself they’d be fine. They reached out, silently begging for someone to pull them back, and no one did a damn thing.

That was me.

The person I used to be.

“Fuck,” I gasped again.

A sound behind me pulled me from my thoughts.

She was still here.

And this… this was my chance. To hold her. To tell her she wasn’t alone. To be there before it was too late.

The door creaked open.

She stood in the doorway, balancing on one foot while the other hovered in the air, wrapped in bandages.

“Olly?” She rubbed her eyes, steadying herself against the doorframe. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing,” I said, pushing myself off the wall and walking over to her.

Before she could protest, I slipped an arm beneath her knees and lifted her into my arms.

“And why aren’t you sleeping?” I asked.

“I woke up and you weren’t here,” she whispered, burying her face against my chest. “Now I can’t sleep.”

I carried her over to the table. With one hand, I swept the papers aside and sat her on the edge. Then I pulled over a chair and gently rested her injured foot on it.

I took her hand and searched for the scars from 1996.

There were two.

One on each side of her wrist.

My thumb traced lightly over one of them.

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Those don’t come with a pretty story.”