The blinds in the living room were pulled shut, a stream of light filtering through the small gap between the blinds, letting the smallest rays of sunlight enter the room. Sunlight trickled into the room, and Violet groaned internally.

She had to get up, she knew that. It was Monday morning, and school was going to start in an hour. She had to get up, but the thought of sitting up and entering the outside world wasn't appealing. Violet wished she could stay right here, just like this, curled up in Oscar's spare bed sheets, her eyes closed shut. In that fleeting moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist ― it was just Violet. 

Here, her mind was free to wander, and to ponder about the universe she resented living in. Here, she could think about all the beautiful things. The smell of new books, and old, the night sky spread across it's vast canvas, the suburban sunset she, Oscar and Shawn always watched in the evenings from the window, the sound of a pen scratched into paper. And she was free to think of all the ugly things too. Gunshots, screaming, shouting, crying. She could think about whatever she wanted.

Violet pulled the sheets around her even further. It was good here. Enjoyable, even. As Violet shifted in the make-shift bed, something crinkled beneath her. She pulled it out from under her body and spread out the crumpled sheet of paper. She flinched as she read the words written in her looped handwriting.

She'd written them last night, after re-living the memory of the day before yesterday. 

The bowling alley. Ice-cream. Mint and vanilla.

It had been careless on her part, really. It had been an impulse and as Violet reached the end of the poem, her eyes stung from how passionate it was. How beautiful. She read over it again, read over her cursed words, already knowing who this was about. She knew who it was about from just the first line.

"Fuck," she murmured, crumpling up the sheet again and reaching for her backpack which lay at the foot of the sofa. Violet sat up, her eyes still stinging ― but now because of the sunlight, not the words ― and tucked the paper inside of her bag, at the bottom so she would only find it at the end of the day, during English class when her teacher, Ms. Andrews, was bound to ask her about the poetry competition.

She didn't want to be reminded of it before that. 

As Violet zipped her bag close — now having to get up from the bed entirely ― she saw the same damned piece of paper she'd written the same damned word on. INHALE! She had underlined, circled and highlighted it a million times and had carelessly thrown it into her backpack last night. Violet shook her head and zipped up the bag, placing it at the foot of the bed. Violet grabbed her bed sheets and folded them up, wincing as she did so.

She looked down at her wrists ― remnants of last night still there, aching painfully. Itchy skin, old scars, blood ― Violet shook her head again. Her wrists felt weak. She silently reminded herself to wear a shirt with longer sleeves ― she couldn't risk Sofia seeing.

Perhaps she would take one of Oscar's shirts. She hummed to herself, pulling the sofa back up to its normal position and sighing. Violet looked out the large window right in front of her line of sight ― the sun dancing peacefully in the sky, a canvas of oranges, and pinks, and yellows. Oscar had once told her that if lived without watching the sun rise at least once, you weren't truly alive.

There was a crushing weight of being alive.

One could exist. But Oscar had told her that what was the point in existing, when you're not living? Oscar had told her that so many people were alive, but not alive at all. She thought that he picked up all the philosophical fucked nonsense from her. But he couldn't have.

How could he, when Violet wasn't living at all? How could he, when Violet was just existing?

She shook her head and took her eyes away from the sunrise.

Sofia didn't really live. Not entirely. She found herself thinking how much easier it would be to just slip back into her sheets, squeeze her stuffed animal, and just stay there, in the cold comforts of her bed. It would be easy, she thought. It would be easy to just be here, and not in society. What was the point of "society" when she didn't live there at all?

Sofia lived in her meticulously crafted daydream universe which she'd been using as a coping mechanism since her childhood, and she was perfectly okay with that. She liked her dreams, and her little world she'd crafted for herself. She was happy there, in her small apartment she'd bought entirely with her own money. She was happy in her dreams, in which she could eat anything and everything, and not have to worry about her weight or small meaningless things like that.

Sofia was only ever happy in her dreams, and she was content with that. Almost. 

She was almost content with it. There were times when her little daydream universe wasn't enough ― and all she wanted was to wake up one day without bloodshot eyes, and a heavy heart. All she really wished for, all she really wanted, was a place where her soul was understood, and her body loved.

So sometimes, Sofia's dreams weren't enough. 

But they were enough to keep her going. 

They were nothing but an excuse for her to just get on with the day. 

So, today, just as every other day, Sofia found herself using the excuse. She was tired. She was tired from her mind working on overdrive. She was tired of her heart paining with every thump. She was tired of her aching legs, and her aching soul. She was tired of the mask. She was tired of not being able to help Violet. She was tired of everything.

But Sofia put on a smile, and slid out of her bed, slipped on her slippers, looked out her window at the sunrise, and smiled wider than ever.

She had to keep going.

Leslie's world had always been like one of those old Charlie Chaplin movies his mother used to play for him. Bold, raw, and natural. But entirely black and white. Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the blinds, the flickering light bulbs in the room, jarring Leslie from his sleep. He rolled over in his makeshift bed ― he'd decided to bunk in Queen's room for the night ― and rubbed his eyes. He looked at Queen. The other boy, who had practically become his brother, was already looking at him.

Queen's eyes were sad. Angry. His usual twinkling eyes were replaced with nothing but regret. Leslie didn't know what color Queen's eyes were. Queen had said they were brown, whatever brown was. Leslie saw only in black and white. He was entirely color-blind. Of course, he didn't really care, nor did Queen. But he missed colors sometimes ― Leslie knew you couldn't really miss something you never had, but he missed colors. He missed blue, and yellow, and silver, and gold. He missed them all. Not that he knew what any of those looked like.

Leslie looked at Queen again. A silent exchange passed through them.

You forgot? Leslie asked, raising his eyebrows.

I did. Queen answered back. His eyes had nothing but regret.

Leslie sighed and sat up, "Well we can't do anything about it now, dude. So let's just get to school, and you can sort it out with Shawn then."

Queen nodded, sitting up in bed as well. "I guess, yeah." Queen's voice had lost its touch too.

Leslie just sighed again.

Breakfast was quiet. 

Shawn prodded at his food with a seething expression, Violet just stared at her plate, not eating as usual, and Oscar, forever kind, and helpful Oscar, was cursed to be the one in the middle of it all. He shoved a spoonful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, the tense atmosphere pricking him like needles. Oscar knew better than to speak.

There was something so beautifully fucked about this Monday, and though Oscar didn't know what made it so, he knew it was going to be a day for the books. He swallowed his food, looking between Shawn and Violet, trying to decipher what they were feeling.

He looked closer at Shawn, mapping out his brother's expression ― drooped shoulders, gritted teeth, bloodshot eyes, shaking body, fidgeting hands ― Oscar had to look no more. He knew Shawn was going to explode. He knew all the anger and regret and sadness which had been boiling inside him from that ruined Saturday were going to break through the lid and erupt in a frenzy of screams and sobs.

But maybe, just maybe, Oscar could hold the lid tight and have Shawn sort out the matter peacefully. But Oscar knew his brother, and he knew how much Queen meant to him, so he sighed and shoved another spoon of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Shawn was going to detonate, and he would have to be there to clean up the shards afterward.

Oscar glanced at Violet who still hadn't eaten anything.

She was wearing his shirt.

He knew why. He wasn't oblivious like she thought he was. He knew what she'd done last night. He knew how she'd tried to hide it. Oscar knew everything, and he knew he was going to have to talk to her about it. But for now ― Oscar looked at Shawn who was gripping his fork so hard, his knuckles were turning white ― he also knew that he had to take care of Shawn first.

Violet wouldn't dare try anything at school, he was sure of that.

So Oscar, stuck between his two best friends, needing to help them both, stuck another morsel of food into his mouth. School was going to be a mess.