opia; matty healy.

23%

Wednesday morning is slow and torturous. Mum is up, in the kitchen humming a tune like she would when I was younger. I wonder, as I watch her from the doorway, whether she truly is trying her best. From behind and out of sight, it seems that she is becoming who she used to be even when no one is watching. And when she turns around and catches me staring, a quizzical look on my face, she only smiles wider.

"Your father's home from work today- maybe you could take the day off?" She suggests, but I'm reluctant to agree.

I shake my head, "I have to grab my art folder."

"How's that going?" She attempts to push me further and get more out of me, but it's early in the morning and I'm not used to this unorderly routine she seems to have got herself into.

I sit at the kitchen bench and reply bluntly as I accept the breakfast she's made. A small smile plays up on my lips at the familiar recipe of home-made pancakes that remind me so much of my childhood. They remind me of going to Venice Beach as a kid, packing up the morning's breakfast because they were too good to let go to waste. And we'd buy punnets of strawberries and I'd fold them up in the pancakes, letting the juice drip onto the sand without a care.

Part of me wishes this was still a reality, that I could be ten years old and sitting with my feet in the Californian sand. A lot of me knows this will never happen again, and I push myself further from my parents – both physically and emotionally. I seem weak and powerless in their eyes when I subject myself to their fake smiles and plastic breakfasts.

I leave quickly this morning, waiting for Matty at the end of my street so that we can walk together as we do each day.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks quietly.

I laugh a little, "Yes, Matthew, I'm fine. Please stop asking," I plead.

"Okay," he pulls me closer, "as long as you never call me Matthew again."

"What's wrong with Matthew?" He scrunches his nose at the name being spoken once again.

"My mum calls me Matthew when she's pissed at me," he claims, making me laugh a small laugh once again as I agree not to call him by his full name.

We part at my locker as he goes to find his, but I know we'll meet in the classroom – at the back, in the corner, the three chairs vacant and saved for Matty, Erica and I. I grab an English textbook from my locker, pulling it out only to find a small note falling gracefully onto the bottom of the metal cabinet. My heart stops for a moment, knowing instantly that it's another one of Alex's notes.

I look around quickly, turning back and picking up the note. I take a quick glimpse at the words: your friends don't care. I feel like I'm back in elementary school, bullied by the kids in my class who claim that I'm unliked, their harsh words thrown right in my face like the bold letters on the paper in front of me now.

"Hey," Matty's voice is quick to appear behind me once again; I try my best to hide the note in between the textbook pages, "what's that?"

He catches on, grabbing my hand and prying my fist open, which isn't difficult because I don't try to stop him. In elementary school, I'd never had anyone to stand up for me, but as Matty's expression turns to anger, I realise that perhaps it was better had I not had a friend to protect me. Instantly, I'm afraid, because I feel as if Matty is capable of much more than I can fathom.

"Another note, Isabel?" he says from between his teeth, "he needs to fucking stop."

"He told me it wasn't him," I throw into the air, unsure as to why – because I too am mad at Alex despite his claims to have not written the notes that have found their way into my life.