"ꜱᴏ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴍᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ɪꜱ? ᴛʜᴇɴ ꜱᴀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴍᴇ. ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅɪᴅ?"

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

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If someone had indirectly destroyed my future, I would never ever forgive them. There would be no way in hell we'd get back to who we were before it happened. This had to mean that Kyran would do the exact same thing—right? It'd be the most logical thing to do.

But part of me was hopeful. Maybe he wouldn't blame me. Maybe he would feel sympathetic towards me, because what he did to me was so much more worse than what I did to him.

What I did to him? It felt like I didn't even do anything wrong—it couldn't be my fault he was distracted. But it didn't really matter whose fault it was.

The next few days at school were a blur of whispers and stars. People looked at me like I was a ticking time bomb—which I was. I was just one trigger close to exploding at any moment. I wasn't sure if everyone caught hold of what happened at the match, or if it was just me. But, I kept my head down, focusing on everything else that didn't include Kyran Drake. Like my extracurriculars, my assignments. It was hard though, especially with the constant reminders of Kyran everywhere I went.

"Hey, Avery. Did you hear that your boyfriend fucked up his game?" Some of his football "friends" found it quite entertaining—in fact, I was quite sure they were happy that Kyran messed up. After all, it gave them the attention they probably wanted. But I'd underestimated Kyran's influence on this school, he really was a star even when he didn't do his best.

Well, he did his worst, if I was being entirely honest.

Maybe that was why he was a no show at school for the past few days, and it didn't help that I wanted to talk to him—in person, not over text.

So, when he did show up a week after the game, without the usual Kyran Drake smile, I felt more awful than ever.

Kyran's sudden arrival at school was like a storm cloud looming over a normal day. The usual swagger of confidence in his step was gone, replaced by a heavy, almost disheartening weight which slowed him down. His football friends seemed unsure how to approach him, their laughter awkward. It was clear he was angry, and everyone could feel it.

For the first time since the incident, the entire school shut up about it—and all it took was their star player to come back looking like he'd punch somebody.

I spotted him at lunch, sitting alone at the far end of the cafeteria. He definitely made that choice, and I saw his friends steal glances now and then. His dark eyes got even darker somehow, fixed on some distant point on the wall. My heart ached, but now wasn't the time to go over to him.

Throughout the day, I kept my distance, but I could feel his anger like a heatwave radiating through the hallways. The stares and the whispers that followed me this whole time shifted to him, and I knew I should be grateful for that. But I couldn't feel it.

When was the right time to ambush someone and check if they were alright? Did I have to apologize to him? My mind was reeling—in my head, I felt like I didn't need to apologize but maybe, he felt like I was the reason. But then, that'd be dishonest of me.

Was I thinking too much?

I finally decided to face him. Waiting wouldn't do any good, and the guilt was eating me alive. Maybe, if I tried to talk to him it'd all be better. After school, I found him in the parking lot, leaning against his car. There was no one else around, and it almost seemed like Kyran wanted that—he probably had enough of the repeated whispering behind his back. Normally, I'd have said, 'Welcome to my WORLD!', but obviously it wasn't the right social cue.

"Kyran," I called out softly, and I got a weird déjà vu of the day of the match when I shouted his name. He looked up, his eyes locking onto mine, and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. For a moment, I saw a flicker of something—hurt, maybe? But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a hardened glare. The Kyran Drake ™ glare which scared most people off.

"What do you want, Avery?" His voice was cold, almost emotionless and it hurt that it was so devoid of the warmth i was used to.

I swallowed hard, my heart pounding in my chest. More than that, I was at a loss for words. "I wanted to...um, talk. About what happened."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "There's nothing to talk about. I messed up, and I paid for it. End of story."
Part of me was super glad he was seeing things that way, but it seemed more like spite than anything else. He definitely didn't believe that.

"I know you blame me," I protested. "But, I wanted to check on you. Check if you're alright."

"I was totally fine until you showed up here," he snapped. The words hit me link a punch to the gut. I was trying to reason with this guy, but no. He wanted to act petty.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the wind. "If that's what you wanted to hear."

He stared at me for a long moment, then sighed. "You know, if you wanted to be pissed at me, you could've done it after the game...but for some reason, you chose to do it when I was playing one of the most important matches ever. And then, you sat there, staring at me. Nice job, Avery. Maybe you need to start realizing that not everything is about you." He turned away, getting into his car without another word.

I stood there, watching as he drove off, feeling more lost and helpless than ever. Did I make everything about me?

I trudged home, my thoughts swirling in a tornado of confusion. And guilt—he made it seem like it was my fault. His words kept echoing in my mind, each one a tiny dagger of doubt that pricked at my conscience. Was I really that self-centered? Had I truly failed to see things from his perspective?

By the time I reached my house, the sun was closing in and the sky was painted a dark pink hue. I checked the time—almost four. I'd made it in time. I hesitated at the front door, taking a deep breath before pushing it open. I did it every day. I could never tell what mood my mom was in and I knew it was a breaking point of my freedom.

The random clacking of dishes greeted me once I stepped foot in the house. At this point, I'd gotten quite good at knowing what each situation at home meant—clacking of dishes meant my mom was busy, and wouldn't bother me for a while, but would still go on an indefinite rant about how I never did anything around the house.

I'd also learnt to ignore the words, and block them out. Much easier that way.

She acknowledged my presence as I entered the house, and didn't say anything for a moment. I watched her eyes drift to the clock on the wall, and to my luck, I was there on time.

"Finish your homework, and work on your SAT prep," she said, not looking up from the dishes. "You need to teach Eliza as well when she gets home, so don't waste time now and say you have stuff to do then. Understood?"

"Yeah," I replied, without thinking.

"Yeah?" she asked, her voice rising slightly. She stopped the running water for a moment for dramatic effect.

"Yes, mom," I said, and satisfied, she turned it back on.

I stalked off to my room, dropping my bag on the floor as I flopped onto my bed. I logged onto Instagram on a private browser to see quite a few people messaging me—sure enough, about Kyran. They wanted to know if we broke up, if he lost his spot at Notre Dame, if he was going to quit football now...For a moment, I wanted to fling my phone out of the very same window he climbed through. How was he effortlessly able to say that everything was about me, when the entire school only cared about him? The only time they ever started caring about me was when I started tutoring him...and then, pretend-dating him. The common factor in this was Kyran Drake.

Not me.

I threw my phone aside, burying my face in my pillow. It felt like someone put an entire boulder on my shoulders, and I was shrinking into the depths again. I felt like screaming into the pillow just to let it out. I took a deep breath instead, counting to ten before exhaling slowly. I had to pull myself together, before my mom found out.

I sat up, and forced myself to my desk. I started working, but my mind kept drifting back—"Maybe you need to start realizing that not everything is about you." Ignore, and deflect, I told myself.

But a mere half an hour into my work, I heard screaming from downstairs. That was odd—there was the usual screaming at me, but if I was in my room, who was screaming at who? Mom screaming at Eliza? That was infrequent, but it did happen. I slowly made my way downstairs, not wanting to trip on anything—this situation made me way too curious. I had to listen in, not turn the attention to me.

Standing outside my room was enough to hear what was going on downstairs. This was how I managed to master my game of sneaking around in my room, and then as soon as I heard something—even a small movement—I'd know to start pretending.

But this time, it was odd—it wasn't my mother screaming at my sister. It was the other way round. It was my sister screaming at my mother. They were at least five feet apart from each other, and that was a safe thing for Eliza--I could only hope my mom wouldn't take her temper out on her. Just in case. However, I knew Eliza wouldn't really have a problem. Even if my mom almost lost it, Eliza would hit her back.

And my mom would forgive her almost instantly.

"NO ONE AT SCHOOL LIKES ME, MOM!" she screamed, her voice breaking, through the tears that fell on her face. She was sobbing uncontrollably, occasionally hiccupping the words. I watched as my mom silently listened to my sister scream her head out, her expression almost unreadable from up here.

"I'm not Avery to get good grades all the time," she said, her eyes now a dark shade of pink. She had to have been crying for long. She was probably having a conversation with Mom while I was in my room. I wondered what my mom said that triggered her. "You can't expect me to get the same grades that she does. Just because she's so good at everything, doesn't mean I have to do the same thing!"

There it was—my mom's realization that people are different. She had to know that my ambitions were never the same as my sister's. She definitely had to know that no one was ever the same. I was never able to speak up but I was glad Eliza was doing this. My heart clenched as I listened to Eliza's cries echo through the house. Because, as twisted as my mother's logic was—one thing was true. She had failed at being a decent mother, to not just me, but also my sister.

"Eliza," my mom started, her tone softer, "If Avery didn't teach you properly, I'll get her to do it again."

And it was in that moment, I was able to understand that my mother would never ever see things clearly. She would always be under the impression that I was evil, and my sister was a victim.

"You don't understand, do you?" Eliza screeched, not including the word 'Mom' in her question. "Avery teaches me, but I don't get it. For the first time in your life, stop blaming her for literally everything."

Oh, shit. She didn't just—

Saying my mom was shocked would be the greatest understatement of the year. Scratch that, the biggest understatement of the fucking century. My mom just stood there, her hands on her hips, looking both exasperated and at a loss for words as she regarded my sister who was screaming her head off. This was a rare moment of vulnerability for her; usually, she had some sort of evil snarky retort of insult ready for any situation.

"Eliza," my mom said, "I'm not asking you to be your sister. You're just not trying your best!"

Eliza shook her head violently. "Do you even know what my best is, mom? No. I try my best every single fucking day but, it's never enough. And, Avery...she tries her best every single day too, and she does so much better than me but that's not enough for you either. Do you want her to get two hundred percent or something?"

I stepped out of my room, tiptoeing to the side so I'd be able to see better. My mom was still confused, her voice failing her—or maybe, it was her brain that was failing her. She didn't even know what to say to Eliza.

"You have a problem with what we wear, what we say, what we do...literally everything. But your dear nephew, who doesn't give a single shit about you is more important to you," Eliza cried. I realized this was more than her failed grade. This was about more than that—-this was stuff I wanted to say to Mom but was never able to. "Did you want a son or something, and then ended up with us? Is that why you're so pissed all the time?"

"When have I ever treated you badly?" my mom shouted, "Your wonderful dad left us, and I have left everything to take care of you two."

"I know nothing about how to talk to people. I have no clue how to behave with people—in fact, I lack normal social skills. I spend lunch times in the library studying because you told me to. Everyone else is fine. They have friends, they are getting better grades than me, they are literally smiling all the time. And I'm trying to be someone I'm not."

The argument ended there because Eliza ran off to the bathroom leaving my mother stranded. If this couldn't make her realize that something was wrong with her—and us—there was going to be nothing anyone could do.

And I realized that Kyran was right. I was a master at making everything all about myself. 

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Ahoy Wattpadians,

Working out a publishing schedule here, so we're updating every Saturday now 😊(finally)

After a series of irregular updates, I've managed to pull myself together et voila, you get some regular updates now. I hope you guys liked this chapter, and like one of my readers tells me, I don't like keeping my characters happy for long. I thrive in giving them lots and lots of conflict but that's a story for another day. I also want to extend a huge thank you for reading. It means the world to me, and this book is my baby. So, I can't thank you enough for checking it out. 😍

So, on that note, if you enjoyed reading, please consider leaving a little vote and a comment. I love y'all and I'll see you next weekend. 🫡

Somehow alive,

Dree. 💕😘