(a/n:) I am not used using size 10 on word. I always use century gothic, verdana or trebuchet always on size 8. this is what I am thinking now, sharing. I am writing what I feel and what I wish would happen. Bear with me, please.

ANYWAY, this is my first story on , if you would like to see more of me, breathe in and see author twaineeii. Enjoy and review.





Sunset in the horizon, a feel of gloom deciphered around the faded rays of the sun. I sat in solitude, finding a solution and at the same time, I'm also heavy with a truckload of locked feelings. Feelings that are quite incomprehensive, too much I couldn't make up the exact words they're trying to tell me, decoding the symbols won't help.

It never helped when he says sorry, or whatever he comes up to. I don't care if he left a message saying that he was wrong and that he was not careful with the words he just said—it doesn't seem to mean anything to me now. They're just words—but words that pierced right through me. I never thought I was such a person who would do those things. I never thought that I could be someone so heartless. I never knew that I could ever come up with such ideas that seemed so upsetting. The real reason why I am feeling so glum because I don't know what I'm turning into.

Those words were timely repeated. It was distributed unevenly as the time passes. Once the person said those typical dagger-like words, all memories zoomed back and realization stroked me like a slap. It won't end until I imagined myself being fine, being the best that I could be. I could only calm myself by thinking that I can change, that I can improve. But those words never stop, and I don't know if I'm really human.

I touched the soft sand beside me. I breathed, taking in fresh air with all my might, and exhaled it impassively. The sun hid itself behind the clear blue water, seeming to say that it was time for me to go home and time for me to forget the day. I looked at the surroundings. People with dogs, hotdog sticks in their hands and boomerangs, why was everything normal? And why am I feeling this way?

I sometimes picture myself as the person behind me—problem free, thinking about what to buy in the groceries or mainly planning about what fun it would be like to go home. I envy them. How can they achieve such happiness when I couldn't?

I sighed as I got up. A moment of walking and I was at home, facing the wooden door overflowing with the memories of my childhood. The neighbours were silent and only the sound of the cicadas hummed. I left my flip-flops on the mat and entered the house.

My mother was fixing the table, dad was in the living room, watching and my sisters and brothers were probably inside their rooms.

"Home." I made it audible just for my parents to hear.

"Moira, how was your day?" my mom said, busily placing the saucers neatly on top of the plates.

"Good." I said and proceeded upstairs.

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