To The Moon and Back

𝟐𝟔 | 𝐬𝐮𝐧

S U N

The star round which the earth orbits.

T O  T H E
M O O N & B A C K

BY THE TIME that I step into my apartment, I'm crying. I'm not crying because my lip is busted or because this excruciating pain shoots through my head every ten seconds—fuck, I'm not even crying because Pandora shoved me down the bloody stairs.

I'm crying because I feel so fucking overwhelmed. I want to see Rory but I don't want her to see me like this, besides, she's probably at school with her little girlfriend.

"Fuck!" I shout, knocking and shoving everything around me—the lamp, the cushions, the appliances in the kitchen, the art hanging on the wall. Just all of it. Everything is broken on the floor. Shards of glass, pieces of canvases.

I run my hands over my face, groaning as I pace back and forth. Usually, when I get like this, I try to end it entirely and that's why I'm fucking mad because I can't—I want to but for some fucking reason I can't. I want to slit my wrists, I want to take every pill in the cabinet, I want to die and I'm irritated because I can't. I just can't.

I'm breathing heavily, I'm trying everything I can to calm down but I can't. I sit down on the couch, holding my head in my hands as I listen to my own pathetic sobs. I close my eyes and the throbbing in my head escalates. 

My breathing slows but remains shaky. Unintentionally, my mind drifts back to the incident with Pandora. I was just four steps from the bottom and she shoved me. I didn't have time to process what had happened, I didn't even get to catch myself nor break the fall, hence the busted lip and metallic taste in my mouth. I think I bit down on my tongue by accident.

She didn't help me up and I didn't expect her to but usually, when she hurts me, she's quick to apologize after, this time she ran away—literally. She left. And I walked to my car and hoped that the front-facing blow to my head would cause enough damage for me to fall unconscious during the drive home and I'd crash. But quite clearly, I'm still fucking alive. Barely.

Other than Rory, there is one thing that calms me down: drives. I walk around, searching the floor for my keys, noticing they're near the fridge on the floor. . .right next to an envelope signed by Everly.

I ignore the keys and pick up the letter instead. It's Thursday, of course, she wrote to me. She missed last week. I presumed she received my letter and decided not to write back. . .but she did.

I tear it open, exposing a folded white piece of paper and I read.

Dear Atlas,

Am I hallucinating or did my brother actually write me back? It must be so because I believe that there are at least forty unread messages sitting on your phone from me--I know this because, obviously, I sent them, and they all say read but I doubt you actually did read them.

So, tell me. . .this girl. She sounds lovely. Have mother and father met her yet? They never approved of anyone I bought home but I'm sure they will love her. From the way you describe her, she almost sounds as mother described father when he was younger—similar to you.

And I'm good, thanks for asking. College is okay, I think Alula is rubbing off on me because I'm considering changing majors. I think I want to do something fashion related, like mum. I'm not sure if I will though, because if I do go through with having a child, I may not have time for school anymore. And Harlow and I are doing well—we're in this, like, weird phase. I'm not sure how I feel about him yet and I'm not sure he is either. I do miss home. It's hard going through this alone and being so far from everyone but I'm still not ready to tell anyone, except you of course, so it's probably a good thing.