"𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗰𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝗺𝗽 𝗽𝘂𝗱𝗱𝗹𝗲𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂."
Chaos may be the only way to describe Clailea Del Rosario's 9 years of life.
In a nasty divorce, somehow Clailea's druggie mother w...
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I HAD A WHOLE CHAPTER WRITTEN AND IT DELETED.
I'M GOING TO CRY.
I lay on my bed, consumed completely by the heavy tiredness that school ha brought upon me.
I never thought school could be so utterly draining.
Despite this, I am drenched in the sopping wet emotion of gratitude, so much so that's seeping into my skin, making the mental emotion feel physical all the same.
A knock on my door breaks me from my half asleep trance, I lean up on my elbows to face my door.
It opens slightly, and to my surprise Adonis stands on the other side.
I tense upon seeing him, because all I see is the Adonis who was screaming at my Usok. I don't know what their fight was about, no one will tell me, I just hope it wasn't something stupid.
Just like I used to do daily, I build a big brick --no, steel-- wall around my eyes, shielding all emotion from my face.
Adonis on the other hand, is the complete opposite, as if we've switched. He has every emotion, somberness and something else I can not name written on the page that is his face
"I won't be long," Adonis whispers, clearing his throat after he realizes he is, in fact, whispering.
The wobble of his voice is familiar, because it coats mine whenever I'm about to cry.
Adonis seems to be remembering the fight as well, and I get the feeling the whole encounter is why he's here in the first place.
He seems to know I have the feeling. Although hesitantly, Adonis slips through the door, slowly shutting it behind him.
"I was just," Adonis looks away, flicking all his fingers against his thumb, and I notice his nails are uncharacteristically short, a red line atop a few of them.
He clears his throat again, fiercely fidgeting with his fingers.
"worried." He finishes, and that's when I realize that's the emotion splayed across his face.
Worry, as if it had never gone away in the first place.
He steps a little bit closer, but stops again shortly after.
I wait for him to speak, the impatience consuming me.
And when it does, in floods guilt. Is this how my brothers feel all the time? Waiting for me to speak, to do anything?
They don't push me to talk, but I can tell they want me to with the way their eyes light up when my mouth opens slightly.
"And mad," His hands turn to fists, and I realize he's still as mad as before.
But, this time he's trying to fight it away.
His eyes are a sea of battle, the ship of anger fierce and powerful, the opposite ship, the one that wants him to stay calm and serene is slowly losing.
