A Perfect Stitch

Chapter 73 | engaging with strangers

Life was somewhat getting better when one thing just had to ruin it, secrets.

I was a shameless coward.

And the biggest mistake I made in my childhood was to think that growing up would be so much fun.

Look at what became of me, an irresponsible girl who couldn't admit her mistakes.

Fake it.

Fake it till it's real.

Just be happy, Ellis.

The voices retorted in my head.

I tried.

I had tried and still kept trying.

But, I couldn't bring myself to be happy.

I couldn't be any happier.

I wasn't happy.

Telling a depressed person to be happy was like asking a colorblind person to appreciate the beautiful colors of nature, which was an impossibility.

So, how could I be happy?

Why should I be happy?

Yet, I forced a smile.

It was a big smile.

No matter how hard I tried, it didn't change the fact that I was a disappointment.

No one seemed to see me struggling, no one ever saw me working hard, no one even saw my difficulties, yet everyone noticed my mistakes and judged me.

Everyone had something to say about me.

They always had something bad to say about me.

And I just wanted to cry.

I wanted to cry not because I was weak.

I wanted to cry because I had been strong for too long.

Yet, no tears came out of my eyes.

It was stressful to even figure out what was going on in my head.

If asked, I would say I was fine just because I didn't want anyone to worry.

I didn't want Dwain to worry.

I wished I could go back to the younger me who had less to worry about.

Nothing hurt more than crying at night without making any noise and losing breath to every silent scream of pain.

I wished I could give up.

I wanted to let go of everything, to just abandon everything and run away.

Yet, I couldn't.

This struggle hinted at a tragic ending, perhaps, death.

It sucked.

Grief was universal.

There was no exception to this predicament.

So, I pulled the duvets across my body and grieved.

The first stage of grief was denial.

I stood at the precipice of loss, refusing to believe that my little perfect world had been shattered by Dwain's resentment, grasping at the fragile threats of hope, desperately clinging to the belief that this nightmare was nothing more than a cruel figment of my imagination.

But as reality seeped in, denial crumbled and thrust me into the next stage.

The second stage of grief was anger.