Dead people receive more flowers than the living, for regret is stronger than gratitude. 
— Anne Frank 

Litost 
(n.) a state of agony and torment created by the sudden sight of one's own misery 

Monday — September 4, 2023 

Streaks of dawn break through the slight gap between the curtains in my room. It has been hours since the party yet I haven't gotten a wink of sleep. 

The culprit behind my current insomnia: Chance. 

The second I hit the bed and realized I was in the solitude of my room with no one but myself and my mind, Chance bulldozed his way through the barricades of my mind and refused to stop cluttering every thought encased within until I gave him my complete and undivided attention. 

I don't get why he reacted the way he did. Things between us had ended on good terms; we'd never gotten into a fight unless you count the petty 7 and 13-year-old squabbles. 

Before my parents divorced, the three of us used to live in a pleasant three-storied house in an upper-middle-class society. AKA this house. 

Chance moved in next door a couple of years later, roughly around the time when I turned six. 

I was out playing by the makeshift garden my mother had created because there wasn't enough room for an actual one. I wasn't feeling well the previous night but I was fine the next day, but my father insisted I take the day off just in case. 

Which was why I was talking to the lone silver-colored blossom drowning in the cluster of dark green leaves. 

My lips unwittingly curl into a smile at the memory. 

That was the day I met Chance. 

My father wasn't exactly millionaire-rich back then but we had more than enough to sustain us and monthly visits to lavish resorts for a three-day break weren't limited. 

He worked in a well-known tech firm at a high post. Everything I wanted, within reason, I got without having to worry, which was why I never really knew a life of struggle until my mom decided to pack up and leave with another man. 

Three years ago. 

My life was the dictionary definition of perfection up until I discovered that my father had been cheating on my mom and that my mom too had been cheating on my father. 

Not so perfect after all. 

I'd seen them fighting a few times over the years but I never gave it much thought because sometimes, couples fight. I didn't think of it as anything other than normal because soon after, they'd be back to being the picture description of a happy married couple. 

Mother. 

I miss her so much. 

Her warm embrace, her comforting smiles, her unwavering and unconditional love — everything. 

If I'd known that she wouldn't make it to my high school graduation, that she wouldn't be able to watch me fuss over college applications, that she wouldn't be able to wrap me in a bone-crushing hug when I'd tell her I finally got a job, that she wouldn't have the chance to witness the best and worst parts of my life, I would have cherished the moments I had with her a little more. 

I would have hugged her when she was crying in her room after she'd gotten into yet another fight with my father instead of locking myself up in my room and screaming at the universe for giving me such unbearable parents. 

I would have made an effort to wake up an hour earlier than usual just to see her smiling and singing in the kitchen as she cooked me breakfast rather than slamming my door shut and pressing my ears into my pillow, cursing at her to just stop and let me sleep. 

I would have smiled at her more often, I would have lingered in her hold a little longer, and I sure as hell would have reminded her that I loved her a lot many times more than walking out of the house the moment the slightest tension built up between her and my father. 

But all I have left are shattered thoughts of what I would have done if I'd known what would have become of her when in reality I should have done these things regardless of what the future had planned. 

I should have been a better daughter. 

I really should have. 

The distant honking of a car from somewhere on the street pulls me out of my thoughts. 

I flop onto my back and hug my pillow close to my chest and silently cry, wishing it was her hugging me, warming me from the inside, and wiping away my tears, telling me that I haven't disappointed her. 

Telling me that everything will be alright. 

Telling me that this Chance isn't worth crying over. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I wake up to an unabating, interminable throbbing in my head. 

Scratch that. 

I wake up to a relentless, soul-splitting war waging inside my head. Feet pound against the pavement of my mind as the battalion makes its way through the knotted memories, loading into tanks and whirring them to life, navigating the machinery through the entangled threads of thoughts. 

Okay, I really need to scratch that. 

I roll onto my other side and absent-mindedly skim my hand over the surface of the nightstand beside my bed with my eyelids half-shut, wrapping my fingers around the familiar object once they come in contact with it. 

I switch it on. 

06:22, Read the blinding numbers on the screen. 

I shut it off immediately. 

I blink my eyes a couple of times until I'm fairly certain I've somewhat returned to the land of the living and sit up straight. 

I reach for the bottle of water next to my phone and down it. 

Memories of last night force their way through the serenity — created by the absence of any thoughts crawling around — that engulfs my mind. 

Chance. 

Chance's sinister threats. 

Chance's lips brushing against my skin. 

Chance's devilish warnings. 

Chance's hand roaming around my body. 

Chance's unmasked hatred. 

Chance's soul pressed against mine. 

Chance Chance Chance Chance— 

I flinch when I hear the door fling open, taking me aback and momentarily erasing my thoughts. 

Destiny storms in in a frenzied manner — disheveled hair, clothes inside out, makeup smeared across her face, shoes in one hand, key card to the lord knows where in the other — and tosses everything clutched in her hold aside on the floor before dumping her body on the mattress and curling up in a fetal position. 

I am suddenly aware that it is not even 6:30 in the morning and my head is aching and I've got no idea why since I hadn't let a single drop of alcohol make its way down my throat last night. 

And that my best friend is currently undergoing an emotional crisis. 

And that I've got no desire to comfort her right now not because I'm a vile vindictive bitch but because I simply don't have the energy to do so. 

But I guess the world isn't going to come to an end if I shove aside the unexpectancy in my life right now and make an effort to help her. 

I painfully lift the comforter off myself, wincing when the cold air pierces into my skin. I settle myself onto the spot next to her and lightly tap her head. 

"Who do I need to kill?" 

She sniffs and wipes her face on her pillow. "I think I'm in love." 

I'm so done with her. 

●⁍●⁍● 

"You again." 

I lift my head and find a familiar gaze staring back at me. The same smirk as last night plays on his lips as he stares at me with a boyish charm. 

"Me again." I reply, putting down my cup of coffee and tucking away my book. He slips into the booth and plops himself onto the seat opposite mine. 

Destiny had decided that she would skip the first two periods to get some extra sleep, leaving me no choice but to get through the first quarter of the day on my own. 

Count on Destiny to ditch you last minute for beauty sleep. 

Although to be honest, sleep is better than school. She'd tried to persuade me into staying back but my stubborn ass wouldn't listen. So I don't exactly have anyone to blame. 

"Funny how I've never seen you around and all of a sudden I bump into you twice in less than 12 hours." 

I smile a little and roll my eyes. "Just moved here." Moved back. 

I'd run into a fair amount of people in the two weeks that I'd been back, only some of whom seemed to recognize me, thankfully. I didn't miss the surprise that took over their features on seeing me, and I didn't miss the pitying glances they threw my way when I told them about the death of my mother. 

They'd pitied me enough when news of the divorce got out. My parents played it off as a mutually beneficial arrangement — that there was no bad blood between the two of them — but it was all for a show, of course. 

Which is why it's funny seeing him in the town I grew up in. He must have moved here after I'd left. 

I don't understand why my father won't let me go to Sparrowville High. It's only a twenty-minute drive from here; I'd find a way to survive. But no, he insisted I go to Blackwood Creek Academy because — apparently — it's private and more high-class and for the rich and he can't have me tarnishing his image by going to a public school, even if it is one of the best. 

Not his exact words but whatever.  

Most of my old friends still study there and I probably would have fought him harder if I hadn't realized last minute that Chance attended BCA. I thought he'd be happy to see me again because I sure as hell was overjoyed just by the thought of it. 

I'm really regretting not fighting for where I should have gone.  

"Figured. I definitely wouldn't have missed such a gorgeous face otherwise." 

"You do realize you haven't told me your name yet, don't you?" I ask. 

"Hm," He leans across the table and brings his face closer to mine, "I think it's better this way, don't you think? Adds a bit of mystery to our inevitable love story." 

I press my lips in a line, trying and failing to suppress the smile that tugged at my lips. 

"Keep dreaming, Romeo. I've got school." I say, slinging my bag across my shoulder and picking up my phone. 8:17, read the numbers this time. 

I think I'll make it in time. 

"So, I'm your Romeo now, huh?" 

I walk out of the café, half of me hoping for him to leave me alone and half of me hoping for the conversation to continue. 

Turns out he does eventually follow me out and falls into step beside me. 

"I mean, if that's your way of telling me to jerk off to dreams about you, then—" 

"Oh my god!" I exclaim, shoving him in the shoulder. "Back off, you perv. I'm calling 911." 

He lifts his hands in mock surrender. "—I'm a perfect gentleman, for your information. I would never resort to practices as blasphemous as that." 

I snort. "I'll be on my way now. Thanks for your unsolicited presence." 

"BCA, right?" He asks as his gaze falls on the golden crest etched into the deep teal blazer. I nod as I take in his clothing and realize he, too, is in BCA's uniform. 

He tilts his chin towards the small parking lot of the café. "Free ride." 

"Nope." I decline, "Name first." 

"Come on, please? You'll find out eventually anyway once you get to the campus." 

I'm already walking away. It's just a 10-minute walk from here. I laugh when I hear a long, dramatic sigh in the distance. 

I think I hate life a little less now. 

Just a little. 

●⁍●⁍●

"Here's your timetable. The timings for all your classes are mentioned along with their room numbers. You'll find a map if you flip the page around. If you have any more questions, feel free to approach me." 

I nod at the lady at the desk and walk out of the administrative building. 

Imagine a school so huge that you'd need a map to find your way around it. 

I'd taken a tour of the campus beforehand, so I don't have to worry about not being able to find my way around. 

It's my senior year in high school and also my first — and only — year at BCA. 

Last Saturday, I was absolutely mortified at the thought of attending a new school, not to mention it was the final year. My nerves were skyrocketing and I'd tried to cram almost every word of each of my textbooks into my brain just to make a good first impression on the teachers. And I'd taken extra extra care of my appearance because good looks get you around a lot better. 

Even though that shouldn't be the case. 

But now that I'm here? 

None of that seems to matter anymore, because last Saturday, I didn't know that enrolling myself in BCA would mean sealing my fate for an entire year of forced proximity with someone who seems to be hellbent on turning my life upside down. 

Cherry on the cake: said person is my (ex) best friend. 

The rational part of me would tell me to suck up and corner him and extricate some much-needed answers from him but every time I think of doing that, whispers of Sunday night reiterate in my mind. 

And I don't mean the part when he slams me into the wall. 

I mean the part when I enjoyed his slamming me into the wall. And pressed his body against mine. And his warmth, his heat, his— 

God, my head is so screwed right now. 

"I second that." 

My feet come to an abrupt halt and I manage to catch myself just in time to save myself from turning into a pile of organs, smeared across the footpath. 

My hammering heart slows down a couple of seconds later when the car that has come barrelling down the road drives off with its ear-piercing honks, and I let out a sigh of relief. 

"You know, I'm beginning to think you're part of Blackwood's female cult." I whip my head around to find him leaning against the back of a building that's right next to the parking lot. "The one dedicated to stalking me and cornering me until I have no choice but to sleep with them to get them off my back." 

I glower at him — though it lacks any bite because he is way too pretty to be glowered at — as he lazily runs his hand through his mop of dark blonde hair. 

"And I think you lied this morning because a perfect gentleman would go out of his way to save a girl who was just about to be run over." 

"Small world, innit?" He tucks his hands into his pockets and walks over to me. A faint trace of a British accent slipped past his lips, taking me by surprise. 

"Small world indeed." I say, "Or perhaps you're just a crazed serial killer with stalker tendencies and too much time on his hands." 

He lets out a small laugh. 

"That theory might hold. Don't let your guard down, love." I roll my eyes. 

"Ted Bundy reincarnated." I mumble, loud enough for him to only just hear it. 

He winces. 

"The killing part could be true. The rest? Hell no." 

"I believe we're done here." I state and begin walking toward my first-period class. I haven't got the faintest idea of how I detoured from the admin block to the parking lot but turns out I haven't got an idea of a great many things in life right now so I just keep my legs moving, analyzing my timetable for the day. 

"Creative Writing, huh? What do you do in class? Rewrite Ted Bundy's biography?" Wouldn't that be fun. 

"Oh, and AP Calculus? Damn girl, you got brains." 

I fold my timetable and stuff the crumpled paper into my blazer pocket, discarding my to-go cup of coffee in a bin along the way. 

I've made it to the senior building but Blondie still hasn't given up on following me around like a lost puppy. He does have a wolfish look to him, to be honest. 

"It's a bit depressing though — the fact that your classes are so different from mine. PE might be the only time I get to see you today." He throws his hands in the air. "I'll have to wait an entire 7 periods." 

"Do you always insist on being such an infuriating leech or are you just here to pick on the new girl?" I ask, narrowing my eyes at him with mock suspicion. 

"Woah," He takes a step back and clutches his heart with a dramatic gasp, — how is his ego still intact? — "First off, do not compare me with those slimy disgraceful creatures. Secondly, last I checked, walking to class wasn't classified as a crime." And then his lips curl outwards into a pout. 

Lord. 

Those lips have no business being so attractive. 

"Alright, fine, just, please, for the love of life, wipe that look off your face." A light note enters my voice toward the end of the sentence, causing a bright grin to take over his face. 

"You should have a look at those cheeks of yours." He says, pointing at my face. "They seem to be rather flushed." 

I unconsciously bring my hands up to my cheeks. "They are not!" 

"Aw," I glare at his cackling face. "You're blushing, love." 

"I. Am. Not." Please, please, please universe, wipe the blush off my face if there is any. "And I am not your love either." 

"Whatever you say." He winks and walks into the building just as the first-period bell rings, "Love." 

Fuck this piece of shit for making me late with his absolutely unsolicited flirting.