Growing up in a large, middle-class (if not lower) family had its challenges. More than I can account for actually. I had five older sisters and two older brothers. Throw me into the mix and that's a grand total of eight children living under one ro...
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Ro. The nickname sounds eerily familiar, as if I've heard it dozens of times prior. I'm having a difficult time of recalling precisely when though. While I am trying to figure out where I've heard the term of endearment, my head starts to pound, an excruciating migraine now present. I attempt to ignore the searing pain that is attacking my skull vehemently by staring at Noah. My eyes zero in on his features. I can feel the warmth radiating from his palm against my cheek, the troubled and perplexed countenance still sitting on his face. His lips start to move, however, his voice sounds muffled and far away. It's becoming more difficult to focus on anything and a loud ringing suddenly erupts in both of my ears. Everything starts to get blurry, and soon, I'm encircled by the darkness.
I can hear voices, one belonging to a girl and the other a boy, but how come I can't see anything? "What's the matter?" the girl's voice is laced with concern, and although I can't see her, I can tell she's wearing a troubled expression just by listening to the quivering in each and every one of her words.
"Everything," the boy rasps out. It sounds like he's been crying for a while. "I don't want to live anymore. There's no point." Oh my god. Don't tell me he's talking about what I think he's talking about! I want to scream, yell, shout, do something— anything—to tell him that life is too valuable to be thrown away just because times are getting hard, but I can't seem to find my voice.
"Don't say that, No. Things are going to get better, I promise." The girl assures. No? Is that a nickname?
"You don't know that for sure," he replies. My heart stops. I don't know what's happening right now. "I can't risk it anymore. I'm sorry, Ro." It's that nickname again. Ro. Wait... does this mean he was talking to me then?
I jolt awake, nearly toppling over off the bed. My skin is coated with a thick layer of perspiration while my throat feels like it's been drought-stricken for the last three decades. The room feels like it's spinning around me as I sit up, leaning my back up against the headboard of the bed. For a second, I stare at the gray and white covers strewn over my body, my brows furrowed together in confusion. My sheets are a mixture of purple and teal. My eyes round in horror. Immediately, I examine my surroundings and a loud gasp falls from my lips. Where am I? I'm not the least bit acquainted with the room I'm in and panic begins to surge within me.
What happened? The last thing I remember is being with Noah at Starbucks. We were supposed to meet up with his biological mother, but she never showed—oh god, Noah! Where is he? As though he read my thoughts, the door across from me swings open and I let out a breath of relief at the sight of the boy. Without thinking, I toss the covers off and charge towards him. I slam into his chest, no warning whatsoever, arms coiling tightly around his torso. Noah stumbles back a step, most likely because he had been caught off guard, but he manages to regain his footing.
"Rory, what's wrong?" he questions, anxiety adamant in his tone.
"I don't know," I answer. It's the truth. I can't explain it, but I just have this strong, unexplainable urge begging me to embrace him. Could it be because I feel bad about his biological mother not showing up like she said she would? Maybe. Or could it be something more than that? Next, I break away, slightly embarrassed by my irrational actions. "What happened?" My gaze is fixated on his chest and nothing else. I can't look him in the eyes right now; I don't have the courage.
