“Chapter [] (1)”

I’m not at Myo’s desk anymore when I wake. I’m laid flat on her bed, over the pastel covers. The ceiling seems farther than usual. It’s gray in darkness. The entire room, in fact, is cast in shades of black and gray. I sit up. It’s pouring outside. Thundering. I won’t be able to walk back this way. 

The moment my head is vertical to the bed, I fall back down. I feel like a ragdoll, unable to properly move without being dragged down by my own body. I slowly move myself off, collapsing beside the bed and resting my head against it. My entire body feels numb and cold. I can’t feel it. 

Myo was my best friend. She was everything. What do you do when you lose everything?

Her laptop. I struggle to her desk and sit down. I open it, waiting to let it power on to show her lock screen. It’s a photo of her and me, a selfie she took with me at the park. 

“Why are you taking a photo?” I had asked her. “We’re just going to the park, it’s not a big deal.”

Myo had smiled, lifting her phone.

“It’s nice to look back on memories and remember the time you had with your friends. I would hate to forget.” She had snapped a photo. “Let’s cherish these moments while we still get them, and when we’re older, we can look back to the time I won our race to the slides so you can’t tell me I’m misremembering.” 

“Hah!” 

Is it my fault? I can’t help but wonder. Is there something I could’ve done to save her? Could I have saved everything? Is it even possible to save “everything”?

I miss Myo. Her lock screen prompts a password. I’ve never had a reason to open her computer until now, but I suspect this might be the reason why she told me her password.

[143637]

I once asked her what those numbers meant. Why would she choose such a random combination? She would just smile and cheekily avoid the question. She would tell me, “You’ll understand one day.”

Myo, what will I understand? 

Her computer unlocks. There isn’t anything left in it except for a single pdf. Everything else is deleted, every single app and tool. I wonder when she got so good at computers? I try not to think too hard about the missing toolbar. The home screen is a photo of pale blue blossoms. “Her”.

She seems to be everywhere. I can’t escape her, and she can’t escape this place. Both of us, trapped like flies in a web.

I open the pdf.

It’s a letter. 

“Dearest Clover,

You and I are trapped. Trapped where? You may ask. We’re trapped in the pages of this book. There is no way for us to escape. Can you imagine that? Our lives, ink on paper, there for something truer, realer, more human than us to entertain themselves. We were created to suffer. Clover, we have no other purpose other than to feel pain. When I realized this, I hoped. I hoped it wasn’t real. I hoped that our story would be something gentler, warmer, adventure, romance, sci-fi. It isn’t real. We aren’t real. Our story isn’t going to be warm and gentle. It’s a tragedy. Cold, and cruel. No matter how, something will hurt you no matter what. And there’s nothing I can do about that. I can’t bear to watch it. I have to close my eyes. I love you so much. I wish we could have a happy ending. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I won’t ever get to see yours. Please, don’t forget me.

With a slowing heart of ink,

Myo”

I slam the laptop shut. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair. She can’t leave just because she’s scared. Or horrified. Frustration paces in my stomach, its scales scraping my insides. Agitation. It quickly weakens to numb sadness. Why didn’t she tell me sooner? I could’ve…I could’ve helped her, I could’ve supported her, I could’ve told her that it was normal to suffer in life. I could’ve told her that our lives did have meaning, didn’t they? We aren’t just words on a page…we…

I want to stop waking up.

I know this is all just a story. Just a form of entertainment for your sick, twisted mind. I hate you. I hate you all! I hate the author, the reader, the world. I hate everything. I hate it so much. 

Myo’s knife is on her nightstand. I know why she always wore long sleeves. Even in summer, she would wear loose sleeves that flared at the ends, white with her shoulder-less shirt. And her scars—she was always good at hiding them. 

She keeps it sharp. It’s loved and worn, the wooden handle carved with little flowers and creeping vines. The blade has a shallow engraving on it. “Don’t forget”, in cursive. An hourglass is carved near the tip, covered in moss and wild grass. A carnation, curved around the end of the handle. I’ve never gotten to look at this knife up close. She was always so protective of it…

I flip it over. The blade has another engraving on it, reading, “Promise me.” Plants flow from the handle onto the blade, rosemary, petal, and those cursed blue blossoms. 

DON’T FORGET ME screams the knife. It’s drawn Myo’s blood far too many times. I put it back down onto the nightstand and open its drawer. A bottle. Her parents still haven’t discovered it. I struggle to open the plastic prescription bottle for a moment, trying to figure out the squeeze-and-twist mechanism. Eventually, I figure it out, and shake out a handful of pills.