~2000 words

December—a horrible word, the worst month and a terrifying feeling.

People had elegantly summarised all happiness and sadness as: good times follow bad ones. But no one had ever mentioned that some bad times just kept recurring by springing up once in a while and forcing you to relive them from memory.

For Serena—it was every December that carried that bad time. And by now, using bad was too vague to describe it.

She flipped a page of her textbook and put another streak of fluorescent yellow on a sentence as she read through it again. "The original drifted population becomes founders and the effect is called founder effect," she mumbled under her breath and sighed heavily. She pushed her chair away from the table and looked at the book in defeat. She then raised her head and looked out of the window.

The window was misty and the drops of condensed water slowly rolled down the glass when they could no longer bear the weight of their own volume.

A weirdly relatable phenomenon.

Serena got up and picked up the old rug that she kept under her table, and wiped the mist off the window. She stared outside and let out another long sigh.

The sky had a freezing grey colour with tufts of darker clouds floating slowly in a directional motion. The streets, lamp posts, benches, sidewalks, roofs of houses—everything in sight was covered with a layer of fresh snow, creating a beautiful scenery like a winter wonderland.

December carried wonder, amazement and a mysterious beauty. Every season marked its beginning by something falling from the sky—in spring it was little flowers and petals; in autumn it was drying leaves; summers had some spells of rain along with the scorching heat; in winters it was snowflakes. And unlike all others, snowflakes had an intricate shape and they shone like little glitter under the faint sun.

In simple words—they were mesmerising. They left everyone awestruck, even those who hated the snow.

Serena found a magnificent grace in the way snowflakes drizzled down. She always caught herself looking forward to seeing it. It gave her a sense of calmness and peace—like a place to run to, away from her inner turmoil.

Snowfall and Christmas were the only things she loved about December. Besides that it was simply the worst month.

December meant cold days and freezing nights. No outings, little to no sunlight, constant sleepiness, no greenery, no scented flowers, no cold desserts—just pure misery. On top of that, Professor Sycamore always conducted exams just before Christmas. "End the year while reflecting on how you fared in your studies," was his classic reasoning. This meant studying while your brain screamed blanket and sleep.

But worse of all, December equaled staying indoors which meant living with your thoughts.

And that was never a good idea.

"Serena—"

The honey-blonde's torrent of thoughts came to a standstill and she averted her eyes from the window and turned around. "Hmm?"

It was Grace—Mama Grace for her. She looked around the room and a look of disapproval swept across her face as she sighed wearily. "I asked you to clean your room about an hour ago, didn't I?"

Serena nodded and rolled her eyes. "Mama, you also asked me to study at that time," she pointed out, not believing her hypocrisy.

Grace smiled sheepishly which made the honey-blonde shake her head and mutter 'impossible'. The middle-aged woman had heard that because then she replied, "yes, just like you. So if you are done now then please clean your room. You have to help Tim too."

"Yeah I know. So you may leave now," Serena prodded impatiently. She knew very well that if Grace stayed in her room for another minute, she would start pointing out things that she disliked and they would end up in an argument. So it was best for Serena to make her leave and avoid the trouble of arguing over something which was never going to change.

Grace shook her head in defeat and left, leaving the door half open.

"You could have shut it completely!" Serena called after her only to hear a 'I will next time' as a response. She groaned and trudged towards the door and closed it. She looked around her room and wondered what she was supposed to clean up.

She always kept her room neat and tidy. The only thing that she did not take care of was her bed—she didn't like making her bed right after waking up and later she felt too lazy to do it. And just like that the day switched into night and she had to go to bed again. But with Christmas came Christmas cleaning—another thing that made December detestable.

The seventeen year old teen cast a glance at her bookshelf and shrugged to herself.

Guess I will just dust my bookshelf a bit.

She grabbed her phone, plugged in her earphones and played her cheerful lofi playlist. She smiled and twirled around as she plucked the books from the shelf and dusted them, followed by a fit of sneezes and jump-scares from spiders and silverfish. She rearranged her books and put them up genre-wise; her favourite ones getting the top shelves and the others making it to the bottom-most.

As she continued, she came across a little book about which she had completely forgotten. It had made its way into the deepest recesses of her brain long ago but now, with the book in her hands, everything seemed to come back to the surface as she dusted its jacket and read—

"How do dinosaurs say goodnight—," she muttered under her breath and tugged at the earphones, pulling them out of her ears. She sighed shakily and sat down on the floor, opening the book and skimming through it.

She smiled bitterly as she looked at the slightly discoloured pictures and read through some of the text.

I thought I'd always be happy while opening you but I am not.

She scurried on her little feet; past houses, trees and people. One hand was one her straw hat, holding it in place to keep it from flying away; the other held a book, tightly clutched to her chest. For her, time was passing, like sand grains slipping down an hourglass, and as nature had it, no one could stop it. Every grain was precious.

Every moment was precious.

She didn't know for how long she ran or that beads of sweat covered her nose and forehead even in the dry winter month. All she knew was that she had to return the book. She had to give it back.

And she had to see him one last time before he left.

"Ash!"

She stopped in her tracks and her mouth turned into a smile when she saw her best friend. He was making his way to a truck, carrying a box that was a bit too large for his tiny, skinny frame.

Hearing his name, the boy stopped too and an equally big smile crept onto his face when he saw the straw hat girl.

"Serena!"

Serena made her way towards him quickly and held out the book.

"I came to return this," she breathed, tired from the long sprint.

The boy looked at the book and shook his head, "keep it, it's yours now. Consider it a gift!" He exclaimed and grinned as he kept the box down with a huff.

Serena frowned. She didn't want to keep something that wasn't hers. Plus Christmas had already passed so there was no reason for her to take it as a gift.

"But this is your favourite book and Christmas has gone, so why would you give it to me? It isn't my birthday," the girl said, unsure about taking it.

"Gifts can be given anytime, anywhere and sometimes, without reason," Ash gave a toothy grin that brought colour to his z-marked cheeks.

Serena still didn't seem convinced and at that Ash said—

"You are my best friend, and I want you to take good care of it."

Her face lit up and she looked at the book longingly, "so—I can keep it?"

"Yes, of course! And you know what—when I come to visit you, you can give it back!"

Serena smiled, nodding enthusiastically. She held the book close and promised to herself that she was going to take good care of it.

"Thank you."

Ash smiled and picked up the box again and kept it inside the truck. He clapped his hands once done and stretched his arms. "That was the last one," he said excitedly.

Serena's smile faltered and she looked down, drawing circles in the snow with her boot. "So you are really leaving today," she mumbled, mostly to convince herself that her best friend was truly leaving and wouldn't stay.

"Yes! We have our train tonight. It is so exciting, isn't it?" He jumped enthusiastically as a few snowflakes started falling.

The girl felt her voice crack and gulped it down. She managed to force a small smile, "yes, it is."

Serena shut her eyes and clutched the book tightly. Her nails dug into the book and her knuckles turned white as her breathing became shallow.

"How long do you want me to hold onto this," she muttered bitterly. She opened her eyes and let some tears roll down her face as she looked at her hands. She quickly let go of her grip on the book and started crying uncontrollably. "Just take it back already!" She spat as she frantically wiped her eyes with her hands. But the tears wouldn't stop.

It was not just an outburst or a breakdown. It was a dam of pent-up emotions that always threatened to gush out. On most days, she could encase them within the walls of her insecurity and solitude, pushing that box into a far corner of her heart, and be her happy, cheerful self who lacked confidence but was striving to get to it.

But sometimes, she felt too weak and her emotions seemed too powerful to be able to confine them. It was then that she wished that she had never met him—never tried to be independent, never stepped outside, never went to Miss Pete's, never looked for the jar of plum jam, never turned to look at him.

Simply just never met him.

it's on days like these that i ask myself—why are we allowed to feel and think so much?

why can't the heart only pump blood? why can't the brain only do whatever it does with all those neuronal connections? why do we feel butterflies in our stomach? and why does our brain dream of places we never thought of during the day?

why do we remember every bit of detail of something we so desperately want to forget?

it's all a mystery and, as much as i like mystery thrillers in books and movies, i hate it in real life. i hate the fact that i don't have the answer to my questions. i hate having to deal with this every time i see something that reminds me of you.

and—do you feel the same? do you think as much as i do? do you feel as much as i do?

i really want to cherish all of those little, insignificant things we did together back then—fighting for candies, making pancakes, creating snow angels. whenever i look back, i want to look at it fondly. but i can't.

you broke your promise. and that's why today i am crying, wailing, sobbing, hugging myself, consoling myself, whispering words that will comfort me. i am alone with these memories you gave me only to forget them yourself.

what about you, ash?

A/N: Well I have nothing much to say except How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight is at par with The Very Hungry Caterpillar. And I can't help but still feel a bit sad that Eric Carle, author of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, died earlier this year. His book is still one of my favourites.

Anyways, by now you must have read chapter 1 (if not and you scrolled down to read the a/n then please go back up and read it). Not very eventful but we are headed off to a good start. Guess you and I both have to wait to see where this goes.

And again I am not good at these little author's notes so I might as well stop talking now. ^~^

Happy Wattpad-ing~