Two sides of everything

That one moment

The thing that bothers me the most in this nonsense and fucked up world? People think they know you. They think they know exactly who you are. But let me ask you, have you ever thought about the fact that most people wear masks? Have you ever wondered what poeple think at 3 in the morning, when they are all alone? Because the essence of people is not in the way they look or in what other individuals say about them; that is made-up stuff. It's in that one song they can never forget. It's in those dance moves they make when nobody's watching. It's in the person they admire the most. It's in the kind of books they read for themselves. It's in the people they choose to be close with. And to find these intimate facts about somebody, you must break the shell made of rumors and fear of rejection. Why don't people do this? Because it's hard. Because it's way easier to pretend that you know someone, despite the fact that the shell is the only information you've got.

As soon as I walked into Hanna's, the smell of coffee dragged me back to reality. Today, there were plenty of people in the small café, but my little corner was still empty, as usual. Nobody really sits there except for me. There is no wi-fi signal and the light is weak, but I like it very much.

I sit down and think about doing some homework, but then I see a boy walking in with a red rose in his hand. A pretty blonde girl, probably his girlfriend, is staring at him, with her hands covering her mouth in shock. "I love you, Mary. Happy Valentine's Day", he says.

I look away and start playing with my fingers. Love. I don't like this word. I avoid using it or thinking about its meaning, but right now I can't help it.

From my point of view, love is just a stronger feeling of dependece. You start talking to somebody. You have things in common. You become friends, and then at some point you decide that you are close enough to be in a relationship.

And after that, you think you love them. But, the way I see it, you just become dependent. You are so used to them being a constant part of your life, that you don't even imagine a world without them. And when they leave, it hurts. That is called a broken heart. But you are just shocked by the new feeling their absence brings. You can get used to it. It's just like when your parents punish you and take away your phone; you feel like your arm is missing. But, eventually, you get over that and start to accept the fact that you don't really need that phone. You just like it when you have it.

"Hello, Emily, do you want the usual?" Hanna, the owner of the café, asks me.

"Hi, Hanna. No, this time I'd like some water. And two little coffee biscuits?"

"You know that those are for coffee only, Em."

"Pretty please?"

"Fine." She said as she looked annoyed at me.

I've known Hanna since primary school. She's four years older than me and she's literally the big sister I've never had but always wished for. But we kind of started drifting apart.

She keeps telling me that I'm not the same person I used to be and that I should think more about being happy than about the problems of nowadays' society. The thing is, I can't help noticing.

I can't help staring at people and thinking about how their life is so different than mine. I can't help having 3 in the morning thoughts. It's just the way I am. I've grown up. Yes, I am 15, I've got a full life ahead of me, but I am mature enough to realise that the world we live in is now full of shitty people and shitty things and you need to be shitty too so you can survive this hell.

Of course nobody knows what's in my head. I put on this "everything's just fine" smile and I go to school every day, on the same boring streets, with the same most annoying and childish people I've ever met and let everybody think that I am okay. But I'm not. Not even my family knows the real Emily Porter.

Oh, of course, my family. My parents are wonderful. Seriously, I'm really glad that they're my parents. My father is a cool dad without even trying to be one. I get along fine with him, but if we put the jokes and the school talks aside, I don't really have what to talk to him. I don't really know him, but I'm fine with that.

On the other hand, my mom is my best friend; and the only real one, actually. She is there for me and tries to understand me even if that seems really hard for her lately. She's kind and gentle and I like the fact that we have a great connection. What i feel for her is the only thing close to that concept of love. And do you want to know the most exciting thing about her? The story behind my name.

Emily. Seems ordinary, right? Well, I wasn't named like that just because my mom liked the sound of it of its meaning – hard-working. She didn't care about those at all. I remember her words perfectly, because she used to tell me this story at night, when I was little.

"Once upon a time, I had a grandfather. He was the worst husband, parent and friend. He didn't have a job and he didn't use to stay too much at home. He was a horrible man. But somehow, he managed to be the best man I've ever met. We had this connection... I can't even explain. We used to do lots of stuff togheter. He brought so many smiles to my lips, he made me put so many things under a question mark, he made me feel truly alive. He showed me how to play outside, in the nature, how to pay attention to the things around me and how to appreciate every single moment. We used to paint with our fingers, catch lizards and butterflies, go on long walks, play with dough. He watched me jump the rope in bare feet on the street. When it rained outside, he'd make me a slide out of a closet door. He encouraged me to pet a cow. He showed me the best way to eat nuts. We used to cook togheter. The last happy memory is when I told him that I would like to have a tree house there, in the garden. The next day, when I woke up, he was in the garden and guess what? He was building a tree house. Unfortnately, he never got to finish the house. He got sick, very sick. You know why? He used to smoke and drink way too much. The doctors told him to choose between life and cigarettes. He chose to leave us. And he did. I can not describe you the pain I felt when I found out. I still miss him really much. But, when you were born, I felt in you his soul, his presence. So then, I knew that you would be everything he wasn't. Loyal, true, successful. He was my soulmate. And his name was Emil."

And that made me find my name beautiful and full of meaning since I was 3.

I finished my coffee biscuits and left some extra money on the table – maybe Hanna will remember this next time I ask for her to birng me some of those – and head to my most favourite place in the whole world – not that I've been to many countries, but still – London Eye. It moves so slowly, you have plenty of time to stare at the city and think about different things. I see the Big Ben, the red buses and the cars on the "wrong" side of the street every single day, but the tourists next to me don't, and they make me realize that I should appreciate my life more. And there, above it all, in the London Eye, I appreciate everything my life consists of and I just feel very comfortable with myself.

So there was I, staring at the turquoise water of Tamisa, facing Big Ben, when my mom called me.

"Emily, hi. Where are you?" she said in a weird tone.

"I'm in the London Eye. Why? Is everything okay? You seem upset."

"Um... Yes, everything's okay... It's just... Me and your father are at the hospital and..." then her voice cracked and she started sobbing.

"Mom! What's going on? Tell me!"

"I-It's y-your great-grandma."

I stopped breathing. No. It can't be. Her name is Madlena. She was Emil's wife. She's 94 years old – or was? And she's the only reason my mom wasn't depressed after he died. Because she had to be strong for her grandma, she had show her that it's okay. But now, hearing her cry through the phone makes me think, what if she's going to be depressed now? What if she'll stop eating, stop cleaning herself, stop caring about anyhing at all? Don't get me wrong, I am very fond of Lia – that's what I call her – but the thought of losing my mom completely is driving me crazy.

"Mom, stop. It's okay, everything is going to be okay. Just hang on there, I'm coming, it's okay. Stop crying. Stay strong." I said before I hung up and hurried to the hospital.