violet skies / michael clifford

who am i

29. who are you, michael?

I'm still weighing the options; to not tell her at all, or to tell her everything. The second one is what I want to choose. But it's difficult. I've never been a person who talks about feelings.

She doesn't pressure me, just sits there, waiting for me to gather enough courage to speak.

"Sometimes I don't really know who I am. Like, I knew my place when I lived with my parents. I knew who I was supposed to be. I always hated being told what to do. But lately, I have no idea what I'm actually doing. It's like I'm just drifting."

"When did you leave home?"

"I dropped out of school at sixteen. My parents didn't like that. I was staying at other people's houses for a while, just to get away from them. That was before Cal and I got our flat."

"Do you see them?"

"Who?"

"Your parents?"

"No," I say, looking down. "I don't think they want to see me. I said some things before I left."

"I'm sure they love you no matter what."

"Love hurts."

"I know," she says, "I know."

The image of my mum crying flashes through my mind. I don't want to think about my parents. It hurts too much, knowing that I'm alone. Other people can go to their mum or dad for advice or comfort. I never liked asking for help. I only ever had myself. Maybe that's why I've turned out this way.

My lungs tighten. For a short moment, I can't breathe.

Then, I grab her hand. It's a subconscious reaction; my body has found that holding her hand brings some kind of safety. She's become my go-to fix.

"Thanks," she whispers.

"For what?"

"For letting me in. For still being here."

I find it strange, because I'm the one who should thank her. I hold her hand tighter, just thinking that for once, I should be to her what she is for me.

"Anytime."

We spend some quiet time, and I'm enjoying her company. She doesn't have to say anything. The silence is comforting. When the spot we're sitting in starts getting more crowded, we walk back to my car.

"I should have taken you back to school."

"I hate school."

I release her hand and put the key in the ignition. "Why? You're a good student."

"Just because I get decent grades doesn't mean I love school," she says, rolling her eyes at me. "Not all students who get decent grades love school and do extra homework. Anyway, my grades are slipping now."

"They are?"

"Yeah," she shrugs.

I guess that proves what a bad influence I am on her.

I let my thoughts wander quietly in my mind, giving her a quick glance before my eyes are back on the road. She doesn't seem too worried about her grades, which confuses me. "Don't you care? You really shouldn't–"

"Who are you, my dad? Don't give me the parent talk, I'll get that when he finds out I've been skipping classes anyway." Jessa leans her head the other way, staring out the window.

"I'll go with you," I say. "I'll pretend I'm a new student or something."

"You look too old."

"Ouch."