and then you left // cth

chapter 1: white walls

alexis
The walls are white.

They are bare and pale and staring at me with such a lack of color that I begin to question the thought of color itself. The entire room is white, now that I look at it: the bedspread, the dresser, and even the closet door. Guest rooms are intended to be this way, I guess. White and plain, so that the visitor can customize the room to fit their liking. But to me, the room resembled more of a prison than a bedroom, and I didn't plan on staying for long.

I like black. Black and grey, or maybe a light blue. And white isn't bad, not in small increments. Like those pillows in a hotel bed, all freshly washed and smelling sweet. Or clouds in the sky on a bright summer day. But I've always liked the cloudy ones more. And on those days the clouds are a distinct grey.

This white room that is now mine is the opposite of my bedroom at home. We renovated my room a few years ago, once I got past my horrendous twelve-year-old self's sense of style. My bunk bed was replaced with a queen size covered in too many pillows, and the pale pink walls were refreshed with a grey so light they appeared white if you looked away too fast.

My bedroom is now two states away, in Washington. And I'm here in California, where the sun is too bright and the sand gets everywhere that you don't want it to be. The stars don't shine because the pollution is too thick, and the pavement on Hollywood Boulevard gets so hot in the summer you could burn your bare feet if you dare walk on it without flip-flops.

My eyes avert to the window, which has white curtains- what a surprise. Outside, I see the colorless grey-blue sky that is nearly known as the trademark of Southern California. The houses outside all look the same, except for the alternating trim colors. There are a few trees outside, in the yard. But they don't get enough oxygen, because of the smog. The leaves are a sad, pale green. They are envious of the bright green trees that line the highways of my hometown.

She said that moving would help me. But nothing else has, and I doubt this will. Nothing, let alone plucking me out of my normal habitat and moving in with my grandmother could make me forget about everything.

I don't remember telling anyone that remembering it all was the problem, because I love the good memories that are still left. There are so many more good than bad ones, anyway. I want to remember the surge of happiness I would feel when I would see him waiting for me on the porch of my house, or the flutter in my chest when my phone lit up with a text from him, even if we had been together the entire day. The way it felt to fall asleep next to him, and the way he'd laugh as he told me something stupid about his day. His days were always better than mine. His bright eyes would grin at me, his smile lighting up his whole face and somehow sneaking onto mine.

But that all ended six months ago, along with everything else.

"Alexis?" A hand taps on the door. He used to call me Lex.

The door squeaks open, and Gram is here, noticing the way I glare at the wall. I haven't moved since I got here, which was a few hours ago. I would call someone, but my phone is buried in my suitcase, and besides, who would I call? There's no one now.

"Maybe you should unpack, honey," Gram suggests, and begins walking over to my untouched suitcase, sitting next to me on the bed. When I got off the plane, I grabbed it from the overhead compartment and followed the stream of people to get out of the airplane. I'd planned on somehow escaping, maybe running away and sneaking onto a plane that was headed for some foreign country I'd never heard of. But the plan hadn't really been thought through enough, I guess. Right when I got off the plane there was an airport employee waiting for me, dressed in a flight attendant costume and a smile.

"Alexis Patterson?" She'd asked, looking me up and down and pursing her lips. Maybe people in California didn't wear sweatpants and oversized hoodies on planes, maybe they were always dressed up and ready for the paparazzi to shine lights in their empty eyes.