Polar opposites sharing bunk beds and possibly falling in love in the process. Alex would not believe it in a billion years.
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Alex is an only child, a force of nature, and an academic machine. At least, she likes to focus on those aspects of h...
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It's been a week since Alex had that panic attack, a week in which I've been particularly scared to bring it up. My mom used to get panic attacks, once or twice I've been witness to the utter despair as she hurried over to a corner of the house in hopes to make it stop. I didn't notice much on her face other than the fear in her eyes. Those were the worst kinds of attacks.
Most of the time, however, they were a different kind of attack, the kind that crept up to her and struck her at her most vulnerable. She would get them without warning. She would be walking down the hallway during a family gathering, and she would get one. I would be walking next to her, my mind stuck on another thing entirely, but then I would look into her eyes. Even though she'd be smiling wide, her eyes would conceal desperation.
At some point during dinner, she would excuse herself to the bathroom and come back as if nothing had happened. I never questioned her about it, I knew it would only make her feel worse. Sometimes, I regret that. Maybe if I'd tried to help her, we could have developed a closer relationship in the process. I hate to say it, but the rift between my mom and I isn't really one-sided. I'd try to help, really try, but I'd always give up in the end. My mom was the kind of woman that exhausted you, no matter how much I wanted to help her, it was impossible to get her to see beyond the wall of smoke she'd created.
Alex isn't like that, I told myself, she'll listen to you.
But would she? Or was I imagining things?
After chatting with Wiatt for a while, I walked into Alex's room with a renewed sense of uncertainty. Alex is a stubborn girl. She's an amazing, determined girl, but she's stubborn nontheless. I still don't know how much she would value my advice when it matters.
I'm not sure if I want to find out.
Lucky for me, something distracts me from the thoughts compiling in my head. Alex stands in front of the plastic table Wiatt placed in the room. He said it was for homework, but I mostly use it to put useless papers, one of which Alex is staring at right now. She stares at the page, fiddling with the ends of the sleeve of her navy-blue sweater.
"You know, if you want to take a look at my notes all you had to do was ask," I say.
Immediately, she puts down the papers with a gasp. She turns to look back at me.
"I'm so sorry! I-"
"Hey, it's all right," I say. Her shoulders relax. "It's endearing to find you doing something other than crying these days."
I don't mean to hurt her, it genuinely is endearing to see her dry-eyed. Throughout the whole week, she's been crying nonstop. She told me at some point what was happening, that Bay was moving back to England, that her best friend was leaving. I thought that was the whole story up until I found her crying on day 4, looking at her computer screen. An instagram page was pulled up; I don't remember the profile name of the woman on the other side of the screen, but I remember thinking it was strange. Maybe there's some other reason she's been coming from school and climbing the ladder to her bed just to throw her head at pillows and scream.
