The Wasted Days.

I slept all day the next day and then the day after that too, only getting up when Jared came into the room or when I had to puke. I just wanted to cry, not because I hurt, but because I was numb to it all. Because it felt normal. I felt wrong. I just wanted to cry because I never thought dying would suck this much.

I thought about what Jared had said, about how I was doing better than what they expected, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, I still had a chance. Maybe I could march into that hospital and demand treatment and be okay. Because I was stronger than I thought. Because I might actually be able to survive this.

Maybe I wasn’t a waste.

At least that’s what Jared kept telling me.

But, then again, he also told me there was a boogyman in my closet that wanted to eat and destroy all of the dust bunnies living underneath my bed and that it screamed and yelled and made a ton of horrible noises. I’d believed him and slept on the couch for the next week, wondering why I even cared about the dust bunnies. It’s not like they were as cute as the real ones. When I’d told my mother about this problem she explained he was just talking about the old vacuum she’d stashed in my closet.

There’s no denying that Jared had lied there.

But for some reason I always seemed to catch the little bit of truth in those lies. Like, the vacuum did want to eat the dust bunnies and when it was running it did make some of the most wretched sounds I’ve ever heard in my life.

This made it hard to dissect the truth from the lies.

It’s sad to say that, to this day, I’m just as gullible as a five year old when it comes to Jared.

“You awake?” He whispered, stretching his arms so they laid around me comfortably. I nodded silently, trying to calm the war inside my head.

Do I tell him? Do I not?

I needed a flower to pick the petals off of. That had always made making decisions easier.

“Are you feeling okay?” I nodded again, afraid of opening my mouth, afraid of blurting out my thoughts. “Will you please say something then?”

I sighed. “What do you want me to say.” My voice sounded strained, even to my tired ears.

Jared rolled and placed his arm on the other side of my body, lifting himself up to look down at me. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” His eyebrows were scrunched together, worry and concern rolling off of him like waves. This was becoming too common for a seventeen year old boy.

“I’m fine, really,” I tried to reassure, but my voice was just as thin as before. Suddenly tears were leaking from my eyes and fear was leaking from his.

“What’s wrong, Sayers?” he whispered, moving one hand to brush my bangs from my face. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, deciding that I’d tell him. “R-remember when you said I was doing better than they expected?” I asked him watching as he nodded, confused. “Maybe I can still beat this if I tried.” My voice was pitchy and hopeful and it made me sick. I felt like running to the bathroom, but I knew that that wasn’t the case.

I wasn’t going to be sick.

This was the nervous feeling. This was the feeling you get when you stand up in front of a room of people, who don’t exactly think highly of you, and voice your opinion. This was the feeling you get when you wait for their reaction. This was that feeling.

The two were so similar, yet so different.

“What are you trying to say?” He asked and I looked back up into his glassy, cerulean blue eyes. They were coated with confusion, but I could see that he understood exactly what I meant. He was just looking for a confirmation, a sign, and trying not to get his hopes up.

“That maybe I should go back to the hospi-” I didn’t even get to finish because he was wrenching me roughly out of the bed and throwing random clothes at me, telling me to change. I watched, shocked, as he slammed my bedroom door and waited for me.

And then I smiled.

Because I’d finally done the right thing.

For both of us.