O N E  W E E K  L A T E R

● qυorra neverѕea ●

"I said I don't want to talk about it," I repeat robotically, uninterestedly prodding at my jacket potato with my fork. "It's over now. No use lingering in the past."

Hannah looks at me with sympathetic emerald eyes. Today she's chosen slim-fit trousers and a loose white blouse that complement her figure nicely. The evergreen nature of her smart attire has me in deep thought.

A whole lot of shit can pull the brakes on your life, but other people's lives will carry on. Time cannot stop ticking by, and it most certainly won't stop for you. Life is a race. Against your own goals which seem so far in the distance, against your nightmares which gain on you from behind, but most importantly against yourself. And unfortunately most of the time, you are the only unsurmountable obstacle in your way.

"You have your philosophical face on again. Did you listen to a word I said?"

I look up with a, "What?"

She gives me an unamused look but repeats herself.

"I know you feel as though ignoring your distress with resolve the situation, but a lot of the time, the best thing to do is talk about it. I know he left a week ago, but it's not lingering in the past; it's writing a conclusion to upsetting yet unforgettable parts of your life so you can start living in the present and build yourself up for an exceptional future."

I physically deflate at that, forcing a spoonful of beans and potato in my mouth.

"Well maybe I don't want to have an exceptional future," I counter after I've swallowed. "Maybe I want to lead a miserably meaningless life from now on. Ever think about that?"

Hannah shoots me a look, "Nietzchean, much?"

I roll my eyes at her reference and add my own, "Well, life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale-"

"Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I get it, Quorra - you're clearly unhappy right now," she interrupts uncharacteristically, "but how am I supposed to help you if you don't want my help?"

She gets up calmly and leaves the canteen, leaving me with the weight of her rhetorical question and my half-eaten jacket potato. 

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All work done for the day, I return to my room, closing the door behind me.

It's dead silent: not even a creak in the floor as I walk towards my bed and sit down.

It's cold and dim. A chill skitters down my spine.

The blinds are up, the bluish light casting the room in an ethereal glow.

There's a lot of space here now. A few days ago, someone came to dismantle and remove the other bed in the room. Somebody else needed a replacement. The mattress, frame, covers, and duvet were all swept up. Gone without a trace.

Left more room for the cold.

I went insane the first night I was alone. I threw all the remaining things belonging to him away.

There's no remnant of him anymore. Not a single thing to trigger my memory.

So why so I still remember him? Why can I still hear the velvety smoothness of his voice, the deep rumble of his laughter, the sinful syllables of profanities he claimed to give up? Why can I still see him sitting on the edge of his non-existent bed, his honey-brown eyes, his silky-soft hair? He's gone but will never be gone.

"Why?" I mumble to myself, on the verge of tears that will not fall for the thousandth time in the past week.

It's stupid. I'm stupid. Just a stupid teen caught up in a stupid romance that she thought would last. Never again.

I'm focusing on studies now. I'm not going to starve myself like before - not for my sake, but for Hannah's. I'm not going to cry myself to sleep or be melodramatic about this. It's nothing. He's nothing. Not to me. Not anymore.

Even if once he was everything.

My dream now is to leave this university with good grades to my name.

I'm going to do my work and live each repetitive day after repetitive day, hoping and willing myself to push through for just one more repetitive day. I will graduate from Harrow University and I will find a job where I will work for repetitive day after repetitive day until I can't anymore.

And then I'll be old and wrinkly. I'll be in a house by myself. I'll be at peace and ready to move on. Out of this world. Maybe into another repetitive life.

That's what life is. A repeat of twenty four hours over and over again. Maybe it's not even a repeat. Just one long, long period of many, many hours. Maybe it doesn't repeat; maybe it flows. Maybe it's worse like that. You don't get to start fresh. You just keep going, building on misery and mistakes. Because that's what life is.

It's not meant to be depressing. It's just how it is. And I get that now.

So I'll just push on forwards.

For one more repetitive day.

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O N E  M O N T H  L A T E R

◈ѕlaтer нarтley◈

"Hello, here's your cappuccino and blueberry muffin. Please enjoy your meal," I smile warmly and set down the small plate in front of the brunette lady, bowing my head in a nod before heading back to the kitchen.

I glance back over my shoulder, smile fading with each second. She laughs at something the man opposite her says, replying and then suddenly blushing scarlet at his raised eyebrow. Embarrassed, she kicks him under the table and looks down at her food for a distraction, sipping away at her cappuccino.

By the time I zone back into reality, I bump into a customer waiting in line.

"Ah, my apologies," I wince but breathe a sigh of relief at the mother's forgiving smile.

I dawdle my way around the identical triplets hugging her legs and enter the kitchen in the back of the cafe. The addictive smell of roasted coffee beans and baked goods is tenfold as strong in here, and I can't help but let my smile return for a fraction of a second.

It falters when I think back to the happy couple outside.

A girl with a beauty she'd never confess to comes to mind.

All of a sudden, the ringing of a phone breaks through the air. Fumbling around for my phone, I frantically pull it out of my pocket and look at the caller.

Bellavue General Hospital.

A wave of disappointment washes over me before my eyes grow wide and my breath hitches. Bellavue? Bellavue is calling me?

"Slater! Take it outside, you're in the way!" a co-worker barks in my ear as they knock into me.

I scramble to regain my footing and move out of the doorway, hurriedly untying my apron and striding to the back door.

The hustle and bustle of the noisy kitchen is instantly muffled by the door, replaced by the howl of the wind. Ignoring the breeze provoking goosebumps along my skin, I click answer.

Deep breaths, Slater, I remind myself.

"Hello, this is Slater Hartley," I answer professionally, hoping to conceal the hopefulness and excitement in my tone.

I hear a shuffle of papers and then a, "Good evening, Mr Hartley. We have some excellent news for you."

"That's good," I reply, gripping my phone tightly with anxiety.

"You've got an interview. How is Monday at 2pm?"

My breathing stops all at once.

An interview?

One step closer to my dream.

I smile, though he can't see me.

"That's perfect."

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T H R E E  M O N T H S  L A T E R

● qυorra neverѕea ●

"Full marks. Nice job."

An exam paper is slapped down on the desk in front of me.

I feel my jaw unhinge.

"E-excuse me?" I stutter out, sitting upright in my seat, "Did you just say full marks?"

Mr Whitton chuckles slightly, kind eyes creasing at the edges, "Yes, full marks, Miss Neversea. Your hard work is paying off."

He walks away as I look down at the big fat '100' scrawled across the top of the paper, circled in red. Quorra Neversea? 100%? What happened between last week when I ate a whole can of Pringles and yesterday when I apparently aced this exam?

Is there another Quorra in this room?

"Oh my God, Quorra," Hannah gapes beside me, "I knew you had it in you!"

I breathe out a laugh, smiling widely. I touch the textured surface of the paper, as if to make sure it is real. Am I dreaming?

"I... I guess I do," I whisper, more to myself than anyone.

This is it.

One step closer to my dream.

Full marks?

That's perfect.

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S I X  M O N T H S  L A T E R

◈ѕlaтer нarтley◈

"Happy birthday to you!"

Everyone claps as I look down at the vanilla-frosted cake in front of me. A single candle glows proudly in the middle, shivering in the air and illuminating the dimly-lit room.

I close my eyes and blow it out, blanketing the room in temporary darkness. I save my wish for another time.

"I can't believe you're ageing this fast, D," Lucas grins ear to ear as the room fills with the low hum of chatter, and the lights flicker on "You know, anyone could easily mistake you for a 44 year old."

My mind wanders back to an unforgettable incident, exactly one year ago. I repress the memory with a sigh. "I don't think anyone is so awfully bad at judging age that they estimate twenty years older, Lucas."

"Perhaps they are deaf enough to mishear it though," he gives me a pointed look, knowing exactly where my mind is travelling.

"Please don't, Lucas," I respond, giving him a tired look.

He shrugs off my reply as usual, turning to his side to lapse into conversation with some of my cousins.

Though I'm glad my parents and I have grown closer over the past year, and not just over our loss of Addy, I sincerely wish they didn't organise this secret birthday party. They invited a wide array of relatives and friends, and while I appreciate their efforts, it feels as if I'm absolutely surrounded by all sorts of people, yet not the one person I want here.

Don't be stupid, Slater. You abandoned her; you have no right to be upset.

So I listen to my head, paste on a smile, and eat my cake like nothing has ever been better, pushing away the memories of her in my room and her on my bed and her on my lips, just like I pushed her away.

My dreams are coming true. Next week I start at Bellavue General Hospital. Just small tasks; nothing serious can be trusted with me yet. But it's happening. My dreams are happening. The staircase up to my goals is getting closer and closer.

So why is my happiness only on a downward spiral?

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O N E  Y E A R  L A T E R

● qυorra neverѕea ●

"It's been two years already?"

I laugh at the look on Hannah's face as we cross the road, brisk wind flying past our reddened cheeks as we take a seat on an aged wooden bench outside a cafe.

"Over two years actually," I correct, pulling out my notebook and flipping through my notes from the past few English lectures.

"Wow," she breathes, "Over two years since we came to Harrow. We're nearly done with our academic journey here, Quorra. Can you believe it?"

I roll my eyes and push her lightly, winding my woollen scarf tighter around my neck. It's as if over the years, she's become more melodramatic and I've become more calm.

"Yes, I can believe it. Way too much drama has happened here for it to have not been over two years," I shake my head, recalling the numerous incidents that have occurred simply over the last month or two.

She falls quiet for a little while as I read my notes under my breath, rubbing my hands together in hopes of friction giving me some sort of warmth. At some point I take out a pencil and start to scrawl down key ideas on the edge of my page.

Studying has become much like second nature to me. When I'm too stressed or too angry or too sad, I just go up to my room and study. It's laughably ironic - the one thing that used to bring so much stress on me is now where I take trusted refuge.

Maybe it's because I'm seeing results. After the first 100 I got, I started to get above 90 in all my following exams. I always strive for the top marks, and when I don't get them, I get a little upset. But that's good; it's a cycle. Then I go up to my room and I study again.

The days are repetitive, but I don't mind so much anymore. It keeps me going.

For one more repetitive day.