𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐊𝐀 - a feeling of intense, aching nostalgia or emotional pain, sometimes without a specific cause or an ability to resolve it.
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Even though Newt has known Sander for seven years, he has barely ever exchanged a word with him, let alone ack...
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"Stay. Please." Dad looks at me with pleading eyes, grabbing my wrist to stop me from walking away.
"Not right now. Sander needs help babysitting his siblings and I have to study. Besides, it's Monday! I have classes tomorrow."
"The upcoming weekend?"
"I don't know, Dad. I need to study and I'm not sure how long Sander's siblings will be with us. What's with the hurry?"
"It's not a hurry, it's losing my patience. I've asked you to spend time with me for months, but you're always 'busy'. I just want some time with you. I barely see you. This... this is what's making your mother feel like I'm replacing you guys with Chuck; you don't give me the chance to talk to you."
My heart sinks a bit as I look down, nodding. "I understand, but especially right now, I can't disappear for a whole weekend. Maybe during winter break."
His gaze softens lightly. "Okay. Better send me a date."
"I will. Must go now, though. See you."
Before I get to walk out of the door, Dad embraces me with a hug. I peek at the living room one last time. At his new son and wife. At Sonya, who decided to stay with Dad instead of Mom for once.
"Bye, Newton."
I nod one last time, then finally close the door behind me. I need to visit the supermarket, take the train back home, catch up with Randy, Rico, Mal, and Kieran before they kill me, and help Sander with Claire and Ledger again.
Twenty minutes later, the groceries are in my hands. My feet automatically move to the right spot–it's not that far away from home. Just a few streets. Sonya and Sander used to meet up very often because of this.
Once I'm in front of his house, I stop for a moment.
It's a terraced one. The bricks are a shade of brown, streaked dirte, as though the house itself has been neglected for years. The mortar is crumbling in places, and a deep crack snakes up one corner of the building.
The front door, once painted white, is now peeling and gray, with rusted parts that squeal loudly whenever it's opened. The single window on the first floor is clouded with dirt from cigarettes and general dust. Faded lace curtains hang limply on the inside, more for blocking prying eyes than for decoration.
A narrow strip of what might have once been a garden separates the house from the pavement. Now, it's just a patch of dry dirt with a few weeds poking through. A bicycle leans against the wall. The mailbox, dented and crooked, clings to the wall by a single loose screw.
The roof is missing a few tiles. The gutter threatens to fall off any moment. Trash collects by the front steps—cigarette butts, scraps of paper, and a crushed soda can.
I put the bag of groceries down in front of the door, ring the bell, and walk off.
