Reading Online Novel

Punk 57(35)



Don’t hold your breath, ‘cause you weren’t first! Someone had to build the stairs that you climb.

I was at the warehouse last night, and it just popped in my head. I think it fits the song a lot better, and with the beat, I think I’ll like the way it’s going to come out. Thoughts?

And yeah. Before you give me shit, I was at a party last night, sitting by myself, and writing music. So what? I think it helps my street cred, to be honest. You know…the quiet loner? The mysterious, hot rebel? Something like that? Maybe?

Whatever. Fuck it. You know I don’t like people.

Anyway, you asked me my favorite place in your last letter. The warehouse is one of them. During the day, when no one is there, you can hear the pigeons flapping through the rafters, and you can take in all the graffiti without everyone around. Some of it’s pretty incredible.

But I guess my absolute favorite place, other than you, of course, is my house. I know, I know. My dad is there, so why would I want to be? But actually… After my dad and sister have gone to sleep at night, when everything is dark, I crawl out my window and up to the roof. There’s a little hidden valley between the ridges where I sit back against the chimney, sometimes for hours, dicking around on my phone, taking in the view, or sometimes I write you. I love it up there. I can see the tops of the trees, blowing in the night wind, the glow of the street lamps and stars, the sound of leaves rustling… I guess it makes me feel like anything is possible.

The world isn’t always what’s right in front of you, you know? It’s below, it’s above, it’s out there somewhere. Every burn of every light inside every house I see when I look down from the rooftop has a story. Sometimes we just need to change our perspective.

And when I look down at everything, I remember that there’s more out there than just what’s going on in my house—the bullshit with my dad, school, my future. I look at all those full houses, and I remember, I’m just one of many. It’s not to say we’re not special or important, but it’s comforting, I guess. You don’t feel so alone.



Misha



I hold his letter in my hand, the last one he sent me in February before he stopped writing, and stare at the handwriting probably only I can read. The rough strokes and abrupt marks crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, and the way he never puts the appropriate amount of space between words, so his sentences end up looking like one big, long hashtag.

Amusement creeps up. I’ve never had a problem reading his writing, though. I grew up with it, after all.

So many times I’ve read this letter. Looking for clues—any clues—to figure out why he stopped writing after this. There’s no hint that this was a goodbye, no indication that he was going to be any busier than usual or that he’d gotten bored or tired of me…

The emptiness is getting bigger and wider and deeper, and I sit on my bed, “Happy Song” playing from my iPod, and study his words that always put the perfect light on anything.

I’m not ready to start my day.

Why don’t I want to get up or even muster the energy to worry about what I’m going to wear?

He’s the only thing I look forward to. The only reason I rush home from school, so I can see if there’s mail for me.

I look up and stare at the words I wrote on my chalk wall last night.



Alone

Empty

Fraud



Masen’s words are in my head now. Not Misha’s.

“Ryen!” my mom calls and knocks on my bedroom door. “Are you up?”

My shoulders fall a bit, and I force myself to answer. “Yeah.”

I’m not entirely lying. I am awake and sitting up in bed, cross-legged and reading.

But as I hear her steps retreat back down the hallway and the stairs, I glance at the clock and see that I’ve procrastinated long enough. Folding the letter back up, I slip it into the white envelope and stick it in my bedside drawer. The rest of Misha’s letters are under my bed, every single one close in case I need them.

Standing up, I make my bed and pack my school bag before walking to my closet and snatching out a pair of white shorts and a black top. I may have already worn that outfit this week. I’m not sure. I suddenly don’t care.

Once dressed, I head for the bathroom to do my hair and make-up since I already showered after swim lessons last night.

I can’t believe that asshole threw me in the pool. It was my turn to stand up to him, and I was doing a damn good job, but just like a guy, when he can’t win with wit, he uses brawn.

Slow clap for Masen.

He may have had the last word, but he’d had to step up his game to do it. I feel an ounce of pride and smile as I enter the bathroom.