Sincerely, Emily ✓

25 • Oliver's Secret

IF I HADN'T LIVED.

That's the key.

If she died the same day I was decided to live, would she live again if I — ?

"Emily!" Oliver called from outside. "Can I come in?" Even though I couldn't lock the door, the Grants acknowledged each and everyone's privacy, even the most doofest of them all.

"NO." I wasn't in the mood for talking. Plus, there was a really cool scene happening in Sherlock now.

"Come on, Em!" he whined. "It's been two weeks! You're basically a ghost." He paused, and his voice sounded more serious. "I know these past few weeks has been torture for you. I can't even imagine being in your position, so trust me, I'm not going to pretend like I understand the pain."

"THAT IS RIGHT," I said. "YOU DO NOT AND NO ONE EVER WILL."

I didn't cry at the funeral. I hadn't shed a single tear since it happened. I was just a blank space, floating in the unknown. . . lost.

I was angry. So angry. To whom? Everyone.

I was angry at Him, who let this happen.

I was angry at myself, who wasn't going to die like every other ALS patient.

I was angry at Mom, who left in the first place.

Immediately I felt a sharp pain on my bottom lip, and now I realised I'd been biting on my lip — too hard. A prickle of warm blood trailed down my lips.

I didn't care.

When I finished packing to move in here, I didn't carry anything that belonged to Mom's. Not her photos, clothes, anything. Nothing. I didn't want to be reminded of her. Because there were always a routine of emotions that came over me — sadness, numbness, then anger.

"Alright, that's it, I'm going in," Oliver sang.

The door opened but my eyes were still trained on the TV. I couldn't see him, no, I could sense him. Closer. The heat and warmth of his body began clouding over mine, and not much after, he was crouching in front of me.

"Hey." He snapped his fingers. "Hey — Emily. Snap out of it."

I blinked, my focus wavering from Benedict Cumberbatch and centering on Oliver's green eyes.

He frowned. "What happened to your lips? It's bleeding."

"OH." The advantage of having a flat, robotic voice: no one could really tell if you were lying or not. Because the tone of your voice would be the same. But then again, no one would know if I was being sarcastic, so boo hoo for that.

I licked my lips, and even though I still felt a prick of pain, I think I managed to get rid of the blood. Seeing Oliver's relieved expression, I guess I was right.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked curiously.

"I NEVER SAID I WAS OKAY."

He stared at me for a few moments, sighed and went over to turn off the TV. My face fell into shock, then annoyance. "WHY DID YOU TURN IT OFF."

"Because you've already wasted much time, and I'm beginning to regret ever buying you those DVDs," he muttered. "You've been moping too much. Come on, you have to get out, Em. Two weeks, really?"

"I AM FINE HERE."

He scoffed. "No, you're obviously not." Then suddenly, he strode over to me and began pushing my wheelchair, out of my room; out of my secret sanctuary.