I Was Here

Chapter 1

I'm not someone who believes in fiction or fairytales—it's just not my thing, and though that sounds cliche, it's my life. People like living in an imaginary world where their hearts don't get broken, and people don't use them, but when I look around and view reality, that's all I seem to see. Mistreatment, broken trust, a myriad of heartache—the whole lot of them. I've seen it before, and I'll see it again. It's nothing new really, just a never-ending cycle that needs to be broken...

Cam, stop sounding like some who's experiencing a midlife crisis. Just because you're the way you are, doesn't mean you need to seem like you're living a sob story, my subconscious remarks. I guess it's somewhat right.

I decide that I've written enough for today and that I'm starting to get kind of motion sick from the movement of the car, so I close my journal, putting it away in my backpack.

Looking out the window, I begin to recognize my surroundings from the houses we are passing by to the trees I used to climb up as a kid—brings back good and bad memories.

After another five minutes of driving, we finally arrive at the designated location and park our car in the driveway. It's only noon, but after being in the car for hours, your body gets pretty exhausted. I'm ready to stretch out over a bed and go to sleep to recharge myself.

I help my parents with our bags, bringing them to the entryway. Whatever's happening inside my grandparent's house is a little noisy, but I continue on.

Once everything is finally out of the car, my mom takes out her keys, and unlocks the door. To my dismay, the house is bustling with many familiar faces and mine pales. What is everyone doing here?

Striding to the door is none other than my grandmother, a gigantic grin painted across her face.

"Everyone, look who finally arrived!" Grandma shouts happily. The entire room stops what they're doing to look at the doorway. This. Cannot. Be. Happening.

My aunts, uncles, cousins—you name it—start heading towards the doorway, helping us with our bags, bringing them inside and setting them down in our room. I need to get out of here now, or I'm not going to be okay.

"What's all of this for, mom?" Mom smiles, speaking to my grandma.

"We all wanted to have a little surprise party to welcome you home! It's been too long since you've all visited," grandma exclaims. All of my relatives from my mom's side are staring in our direction with the biggest smiles I've ever seen, and honestly, it's getting kind of creepy—or maybe it's just my subconscious' way of telling me to get out of here.

I look anywhere but their faces. If I look at them, all I'll see is some sort of sympathy, and I don't need that. I'm a grown-ass guy, and I can learn to deal with my issues in my own way—I don't need pity.

"Oh, you didn't have to, but thank you, mom," mom says genuinely, smiling back. "Would it be alright if we just settled in a little before joining you all back out here? We just arrived after a four-hour drive, and I think that Pete needs to rest," mom points, referring to my tired dad.

"Of course, dear. Come out whenever, but don't take too long," grandma implies, eying the room of relatives. On cue, we head to our room, and I plop down on the bed, trying to mentally prepare myself for the crowd out there.

I don't think I want or need to be put in the middle of the room with curious people. I don't want them prying into my life. "Mom, Dad, I'm going to head out to my place. I really can't deal with all of them right now. Alright?"

Without even bothering to hear their reply, I leave the room, sneaking out of the house and running towards the forest where the somewhat flattened plant path still lies.

I run along this path for about five minutes before seeing my place. A small white brick structure that looks like a house, but it doesn't have a roof, it's missing doors and a couple of walls. Either way, it's my hideaway. I used to sit in the corner where I was hidden, thinking about life for hours at a time. Nobody would ever find me here since it's in the middle of the forest and looks like it could belong to a serial killer, but little did they know, it's my safe haven. Even after moving away two years ago, this place still remains in my heart as the one place I can get away to deal with my internal problems, whether I'm physically here or have to make a mental image of it.

I sigh in relief, stepping into my place, recalling my many memories here. I wonder who built it, why they never finished it, or if they purposely kept it this way. What's the story behind it? Was it made for someone, or was it made for the exact purpose I use it? These were the types of questions that ran through my head when I discovered this place years ago. I'm surprised no one else has been curious enough to approach it to discover its secrets and found interest in its history like I have. 

Walking around, I look at the white walls, smiling when I make it to the wall with tally lines, marking every time I've come here. Too many to count. Still, to this day, the sharpie I left to mark my days here sits in a mason jar on the ground. Today is a momentous occasion. The first time in the past year that I've been here.

Uncapping the sharpie happily, I recap it on the back and go to the right of the wall to mark my presence—and that's when I notice the strangest thing.

On the blank space next to my last tally mark is, I WAS HERE. Next to those words is the name Riley and ten digits, which I assume is a phone number. This wasn't here the last time I came by. Who's Riley? Do I know any Riley's? No, not that I remember. Why would they write this here? Who leaves their name and number on a wall? Is that their number or someone else's?

All these questions keep running through my mind, driving me insane. I have so many questions but no one to help answer them. I've been coming here for years, and no one other than myself has found the place—let alone written anything on these walls.

Maybe it was a dare, and they thought nobody would be brave enough to venture in to find it? Who is Riley anyway? Are they a guy? A girl? Non-binary? With each thought that crosses my mind, I become curious and in need of answers. Screw it—here goes nothing.

I pull out my cell phone, deciding to do something very unlike me—text the number.

Me: Hey Riley—I think; your number is on a wall. I don't know if you put it there or someone else did, but I was wondering, do you want me to take it down?

That wasn't so bad, right? It's not like they're going to answer me. For all I know, it could be a number to a landline, and they could've changed their number. What are the chances that they'll answ—

Unknown: Hey! This is Riley! It looks like you're one of the lucky people to find my number on a wall and were brave enough to answer. It's nice to meet you, stranger.

Riley: And your name is...?

Me: I don't think I should disclose that information. For all I know, you could be my stalker.

Riley: You do realize that you are the one who texted me, right?

Me: That's beside the point.

Riley: You have my name, so it's only fair that I have yours. So...

Me: I'm going to need a little more convincing than that.

Me: But before you start, I have a question for you—why did you write your name on my wall?

Riley: I didn't know the wall was yours, but to answer your question, I like being spontaneous! Don't you? Meeting new people if you ever get the chance.

Me: That's why you left your number on the wall? You're kidding, right?

Riley: No! Like I said, I like spontaneity. We all need a little impromptu in our lives every once in a while.

Me: You expect me to believe that.

Riley: I'm living proof. If anything, everyone should learn to put themselves out there every once in a while. What do you say, stranger?

Me: ...

Me: Hey, I'm Cameron. It's nice to meet you, Riley.