I stare at my scarred wrist. It’s bright pink, almost like a bracelet that’s been carved deep into my skin. If Davian isn’t real . . . If he’s just in my mind. Then why can’t I talk to him about this? I’ve been able to talk to him about everything and I’ve never been able to say that about anyone in my life.

But Davian . . . He’s this huge kind of different that makes me question everything in life. Sometimes I wonder if maybe he’s not in my head, maybe he is real. How could he be in my head? I’m not great at imaging things. At least I’ve never really thought about something and suddenly five seconds later it’s there.

I never thought about Davian. I guess I just met him and everything kind of fell into place. He was amazing, wonderful, everything I’ve ever wanted. And still I don’t know anything about him. Maybe that’s the thing that keeps me from letting myself believe that he’s real, because I know him but I don’t actually like _know know _him.

“Maisie!”

My Aunt’s voice booms from the bottom of the stairs. I quickly pull my sleeve over my left wrist, hiding the scar from her gaze. She doesn’t know about it, no one does. Not even Mom, well she knew about it but I lied to her about why I did it. I didn’t want her to worry. But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.

I run down the stairs, keeping my hand on the railing as I watch Aunt Trish stirring a pot of soup on the stove.

“You called?” I ask, watching as she hovers above the small pot.

“I did,” Aunt Trish smiles at me. “I need some help.” She gives me a smile but with her eyes all crinkled at the sides. It’s the kind of smile that makes me want to smile back.

I fight the urge to as I start forward. “Of course.” I approach the counter as Aunt Trish throws the hot, wooden spoon to me.

I gasp as I catch it by the handle. Gosh, I was so scared that the hot soup side was going to burn my hands.

“Nice,” Aunt Trish winks at me as I walk to the pot. The soup is bubbling softly, the flames underneath sparking blue and orange around the sides.

This doesn’t feel anything like the times I helped Mom in the kitchen. First she never threw the spoon that was boiling hot to me. But I guess different is good, I mean with Davian it defiantly is.

I start stirring as my thoughts flow with Davian. His name, his face, his smile, the way his hair is messy but not in a way that’s like bad. I wish he was here right now, I wish he was always here.

“Maisie,” Aunt Trish’s voice is more like a question than a call. I turn around fast, my cheeks burning. Maybe she can read my thoughts! I think as she gives me a look that I can’t read.

“Yeah?” I smile nervously as she peers over my shoulder.

She motions to the pot, and I swirl back around to find a huge expolsion over the sides of the silver pot.

I gasp, dropping the wooden spoon on the counter as I shut the fire off. I roll up my sleeves as I grab the handle and rush it over to the empty sink.

It sizzles loudly erupting with steam as I spray it with water from the sink. I’m not sure if it was ruined before but it defiantly is now.

I watch as it cools down, too afraid to face Aunt Trish. Maybe she wasn’t expecting me to do that, maybe all she meant for me to do was walk down the hall with the spoon and then toss it to her, giving her back her crown.

“Sorry,” I apologize as I slowly turn to face her. “I should have been paying more attention.”

I should have been watching the road, I should have grabbed the wheel when I saw the car instead of just staring at my wrist wondering why I wasn’t good enough.

“I’m so sorry!” I cry, my eyes pooling with tears as I bolt. I run for the door, not even turning around when Aunt Trish calls my name.

I force the door open, spirting down the porch steps as I escape into the sunset.

Everything flashes past me as I run, the trees the clouds, the cotton candy sky. The crash flashes in my mind, the look of Mom as her head hung limply over her shoulder.

It was the last time I ever saw her, but I still have to face her with her eyes closed and all the life taken out of her. I still have to go to her funeral. It shouldn’t be a have to thing, but it is. I don’t want to go, I just want everything to go back to the way it was before!

“Hey,” the familiar voice floods into my ears, making all my pain come to the surface. “Hey, Maisie.” Davian grabs me, wrapping his arms around me just like he did yesterday.

I sob into his shoulder, my arms hanging stiff at my sides. “I can’t go!” I cry as one of Davian’s hands grabs my neck. “I can’t see them bury her! . . . I can’t say goodbye.”

Davian swallows as he holds me close. “You’ve got to,” he tells me, his voice high and filled with pain. “It’s your last chance.”

He’s right. If I skip out on Mom’s funeral then I’ll never see her again. I’ll never get to say sorry, I’ll ruin everything. Just like I already have.

“I’m tired,” I lift my head up to look into Davian’s eyes. For some reason when I get deep into my thoughts I want to know what his beautiful brown eyes think. “I always feel so tired and I tell myself that it’s over and everything’s fine. But the next thing I know I’m, sobbing in the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper stuffed in my hand.”

Davian’s fingers brush my hair out of my eyes. I didn’t even realize it was there until he pointed it out. “How often does that happen?” He ponders his voice just as soft as his eyes.

I let out a trembling breath as my hands begin to shake. “Everyday for a year. I’ve been doing this . . . Feeling this pain.”

Davian keeps his had on my face even after my hair is no longer in my eyes. He stares down at me, his eyes filled with sadness. He parts his lips but no words come out.

The next thing I know we’re back in each other’s arms, except this time I’m holding onto him like he’s about to disappear.

“Why?” I whisper as he licks his lips pulling out of the hug. “Why do you listen to me?”

Davian smiles softly as he runs a hand through his brown hair. “Because I care.”

I like that . . . But I still don’t know why. We barely know each other, so why does he care so much?

“We don’t know each other,” I look down at my bare feet as my eyes still drip tears.

Davian brings his hand to my chin lifting my eyes to meet his. “I don’t need to know you to care about you.”

The little butterflies start fluttering in my stomach as his eyes linger on mine. “Why?” I ask again, my voice trembling.

“Because I know your pain,” Davian mumbles. “I know why you smile even though you’re not happy and I know why you come out at night when you can’t sleep. You may think I don’t know you but I know everything about you Maisie Bowden.”

I feel like that should creep me out, but it just makes my heart melt in my chest.

“I care about you too,” I whisper as Davian’s eyes smile back at me. He knows me, because every time he smiles I feel happy. That doesn’t mean anything but then at the same time it means everything.

New hopes are coming Old hopes are crumbling

Will I become better? Will I become smarter? Will I show change? Will I (finally) become taller?

Probably not That’s what I feel a lot

New questions are arising Old questions are ongoing

Will we finally stop isolating? Will a mask stop fogging my vision? Will the flights stop being cancelled? Or will more variants leave us broken?

New responsibilities are coming Old responsibilities are staying

Next year will be quite a change Will I be able to face it head on? I’m growing older, not young anymore Will I forget, or stay true and strong?

New dreams have made their way Maybe, just maybe, they’re here to stay

Things I never thought I could do I’m finally giving them a chance Maybe I can actually do amazing feats Maybe I’m more than just first glance

I’ve made new resolutions Maybe I’ll start to keep them

Cherish every moment, every day Start planning for the not-so-distant future Expand my variety of genres of books Say no to my doubts and fears and more

Everyday for a year I’ve been grim and been forgetting Maybe it’s times to hope and remember

Write for myself, not for anyone else Help my family, the people I love most Uphold the skills I’m already great in And never, ever forget to hope

Exactly one year ago, I wrote a poem Things didn’t go as planned, and it took its toll

But I’ll still dream I will always remember I will do what I love And one day, I know that things will get better

You and me It’s just confusing I don’t understand if you want to Or if you don’t want Please just give me a hint It’s always back and forth Do love me Or do you hate me Every day for a year I’ve been doing this I’m tired Really tired Please tell me Or I’ll let go

I get up, make sure Riley is still alive. He is, so I walked down stairs, trying and failing to not trip on one of the other cats. They are lucky they are cute! I feed the brothers their food, and head up stairs with Riley’s special food. I make sure he eats it all, and then I inject him with insulin.

“Everyday for a year I’ve been doing this,” I tell my lil pain in the butt cat. “And you have never said thank you.” He just looks at me with his one yellow eye. Not even a mew or a purr. Little ingrate. I stand up, and start to leave.

“Okay, you want me to say thank you. Thank you for locking me in a room and stabbing me in the neck. You know that hurts, right?”

I turn, trying to figure out where the voice came from. I look down...no, it cannot be. “Yes, I can talk. I just didn’t want to before.”

“Riley? I have had you for 15 years, and now you start talking? And sorry, but you need the insulin.”

“Still, it hurts.” Was i actually having this conversation with my cat? Was I actually having a conversation with a cat?

“Well, I am sorry to hurts. There is no other way to help you. Unless you an get your pancreas to start working again.”

He looks at me, closes his eye, and seems to be in deep throat. His face scrunches up (adorable!) and he seems to be in slight duress.

“Riley?” I asked, starting to get a tad worried.

“Nothing. It still doesn’t work.” He sighs, and hops on the bed. A few moments later, he is fast asleep. I stare for a moment, not quite believe in what I saw and heard. I head our the room, and down the stairs.

“My cat can talk. After 15 years.” I said to myself as I got ready to head to work.

“Please be quiet,” Woz snapped at me. “I am trying to sleep.” I look at the tuxedo cat, grab my key, and leave.

At least my days will be different now.

I rinse my hands. Cold water washes away dust and fills the cracks in my dry palms. If I could lie in that pool of water that I hold, I would never leave.

“Every day for a year I’ve been doing this,” I say to myself in the mirror, “and every day for the next year you will continue.” What have I been doing? I have been surviving.

I had to draw a line. I am not a piece of clay that can be manhandled and mistreated. I am a lump of gold that can be moulded and refined. I stitched up my wounds. I let the water run down my face. With clean eyes I saw the world for the first time.

I will not be a host any longer. No more leaches and parasites will suck out my kindness and turn their backs to me. It is my world, and I come first. When I wake in the morning it is not with a sense of burden, but with a sense of determination.

The cool tiles of the bathroom are a reminder of an icy past. Can you help me thaw out? With your temper and your rage that you burned me with? I do not need you now. I never needed you.

So I must say good bye. Turn over a new leaf. Farewell, you. You have left me happy, no matter what you wanted the outcome to be. I have been renewed. I have a new ritual. I can do anything.

Every day for a year I’ve been doing this. This job seems to be a never ending pit of just... nothingness.

SNAP. Day over. SNAP. Day over. SNAP. Day over.

I’ve seen people do it. Make videos, millions of hits. When you watch them, you see the disease named Age taking over them, consuming their likeliness.

But it’s mesmerising. Seeing a change from every photo. And yet, I questioned ‘why don’t I do it’

So I did.

217 selfies in, and I know I have a way to go but to see a change in my face from even a month apart, it’s crazy. I look like a different person.

Hairs grown, beard scraggly, eyes tired. I’m the same yet completely different person. I don’t understand it.

Even when I get to photo 365 and think, ‘Everyday for a year I’ve been doing this’, it won’t nearly be enough.

The bright red autumn leaves on the ground marked my path like a trail of blood through the graveyard. Everyday for a year I had walked this path. Past the chipped tombstones and cold stone angles. Past the old groundskeeper who looked at me with pity in his eyes, right to the beautiful grey tombstone near the oak tree. Sighing I stopped in front of it. I had no more tears left to cry but I had plenty of quiet sighs and silent regrets.

A sort of nervous excitement danced in me as I bent down to pick up yesterday’s flowers and replace them with today’s. Today I had chosen bright yellow Birdsfoot Trefoil. The flowers of revenge. They stood out against the soft orange and reds of the autumn graveyard.

Even though it happened a year ago every time I close my eyes I see happening as though it was yesterday.

I hear his terrible singing and contagious laughter. The swaying of the car along the mountain road. The flash of red as the other car came from no where. The glimpse of the face in the red cars windscreen. Then the fear and panic that clawed through my chest as we fell. Then the stillness afterwards.

I remember the way his scent of pine and citrus slowing was bleached away by the stench of blood and cleaning products. The way his eyes seemed to open one last time then fell closed just as the machine stopped its steady beeping. And the months afterwards of endless tears and black dresses.

I don’t need to remember the ache in my heart because I feel it everyday.

A bird called to its mate in the distance snapping me from my train of thought and returning my attention back to the tombstone.

A tombstone is more than just a stone. It is a legacy, a hundred promises and a thousand memories. It’s eternal, the legacy is set in stone. The memories will always remain with me. But today I just had two promises too honour. Promises made through half sobs on rainy days in the graveyard. I had a waited a year too fulfil them and now it was time.

1. Never forget. Everyday I did this. Everyday I would continue to do this. Today especially.

2. Right a wrong. This was the promise that gave me jitters both from nerves and excitement.

A small smile crept onto my face. Everyday I had been planning. Everyday for a year I had been getting ready. And now I finally was.

The small smile stayed on my face as I reached into my coat pocket and my fingers came to rest on the cold metal of the gun. I strode from the graveyard without looking back.

AN: THANKS FOR READING PLSSS COMMENT CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM!! Thx!

If you take every day in the past year, and then multiply it by 5, you will get the amount of days that I have hated myself. But like Carl Sagan said, to make an apple pie, first you have to create the entire world. To create love first you have to be created. Love yourself.