It happened on a morning. A windy, cloudy, September morning—the first to be exact. It supposed it was the perfect day for something like this to happen. The weather made everyone feel down—well except the goths, but then again, they're the goths—and I was no exception.

I had no intention of greeting my friends at the door, high-fiving the guys in the football team, gossiping with the cheerleaders before first period, comparing homework answers with the smart kids in my calculus class. I just wanted to go sit down at my desk in the back of my AP History class, pull up my hoodie, and sleep. The teacher didn't care about me, and I didn't care about her.

As I walked into school, a few kids did come up and try to talk to me, but I just gave them tight-lipped smiles, and ended the conversations as fast as I could. The good thing was, everyone was in the same mood as me. There were no smiles. There were no smirks, and grins, and playful shoves in the hallways. Just sleep deprived teenagers with Starbucks in their hands, badly or not-at-all concealed eye bags, and a slight dislike and annoyance at the world around them.

There was a party last night, and I'm real glad I didn't go. It's a Thursday, and what kind of idiot holds a party on a school night? I would hate being hungover in this type of weather. I'm sure plenty of kids went to the party though—Tony Smith was hosting it. And everyone knew that the Smith mansion was the place for a party. Usually, I don't skip out on parties, but one, it was a weekday. And two, I was too busy helping my best friend study for an AP Statistics test.

I would drop everything for René. She was a quiet, nerdy girl, with large, innocent brown eyes, and unruly blonde hair. She never went to any parties unless it was to drive me home when I'm drunk, or to go call out one of the football players for not helping out on a project. She also happened to be the person I trusted the most in my life, and the one I knew for the longest—aside from my parents.

As I walked into class, most people were lying face down on their desks. Even the teacher seemed was busy scrolling on her phone. There was a video paused on the screen, and I sighed as I threw myself onto my seat.

Great I thought as I fiddled with the strings on my hoodie. We'd get to take notes on a stupid video.

The late bell rang, and the teacher looked up sleepily from her phone as she waited a few seconds for the last few kids to pile into the classroom. She impatiently tapped her fingers on the desk, her fingers hovering over the mouse to turn in the attendance, and start the video. Usually, Mrs. Miller was an attentive teacher, ready to get her class working. On some days I appreciated her enthusiasm. Most of the days, I didn't. However, her enthusiasm was much preferred to taking notes on some boring video.

Eventually, most of my classmates made it to their seats, and Miller played the video. It was dull, and boring, like I expected it to be. I disregarded the worksheet on the video that had been passed out, and smiled when I realized that René probably would fill out the worksheet, and double check her answers afterwards.

I wondered what it was like caring about everything all the time. How did one survive being so cautious and anxious? If I were in her shoes, that kind of stress would kill me. I wouldn't last a single day, worrying about everything, and focusing on all the details. Maybe that's why René and I were friends; we were exact opposites, like the opposite ends of a magnet.

I looked up, expecting to see René attentively watching the video and taking notes on the worksheet, and was surprised to see that the only thing taking up space on her chair were the legs of the guy who sat behind her.

I frowned for a second; René had never missed a day of school as far as I could remember. In fact, I could still clearly picture the day last year as a junior when she walked into school with a 104-degree fever, and still aced the AP Calculus test that most of the kids in her class failed. I'm taking that class this year as a senior, and I failed that damn test.

I shook my head, and put it down on the desk again, going back to my phone. I should've noticed earlier that René wasn't here when she didn't come up to me at my locker. Then again, I didn't go to my locker to drop off my stuff.

I pushed the thoughts of René out of my head. It was probably something personal. Her parents had gone through with a divorce lately, and as much as she hated to admit it, it was fucking her up. I'd call her afterschool to check up on her, and she'd rant to me, and I'd make sure she was okay.

Fifty-five minutes later, the period ended, and everyone scrambled to get to the door. I was prepared to launch myself out of the classroom before anyone else, until I was cornered by Nathan on the soccer team.

"Where were you last night?" Nathan asked, pushing his unruly brown curls back. Nathan was an attractive person I suppose, but I wasn't really into the slim, soccer player type. He'd asked me out once, and I'd said no, but the guilt still resonated in me. Nathan had been nothing but nice to me—and everyone else, but I didn't want to have to say "no" to him again.

"I didn't come. I had some school work actually," I reply, standing up, trying to give Nathan a hint that I wanted to leave.

"Really? Since when do you prioritize school work over parties at Tony's?" Nathan smirked. I didn't' know if he got the hint or not, because it certainly didn't show on his face. In fact, nothing seemed to show on his face except the cocky grin that he had on. Even when I turned him down, he didn't seem extremely upset. He just moved on.

"I don't know," I muttered. "René needed a study-buddy, and I would rather spend time with her than go to some party."

"Really? You were with René last night?" Nathan asked, his brows scrunching in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"She was at the party. I saw her actually, and she was getting it on with these two junior guys. Maybe she showed up late, I'm not sure. Anyways, I was going to ask you this at the party, but you didn't show up so I'll ask you right now. You want to go bowling with me this Sunday? Just the two of us?" Nathan asked, a small hint of hopefulness arising on his face.

"Sure," I muttered, barely paying attention to what he said. Actually, scratch that. I stopped listening once he said that she was getting it on with some guys. Once I left the classroom, I realized what I'd agreed to with Nathan, but at that point, I couldn't care less.

I could only care about René, and what he said about her. René went to a party? I knew that she went there after I left, but I could only wonder why. René never drank a single time in her life as far as I knew, and I knew everything about her. Nothing seemed off yesterday night either. I helped—or at least I gave her some moral support because I was too stupid to understand what she was doing—on her Statistics stuff, then we hung out for a while, and I left her house at around ten.

Nothing was wrong. Her mom was smiling and happy; René was smiling and happy. Besides, if anything was wrong, she would tell me. I was sure of it. So why would she bother going to a party and drinking? She'd never done it before, why would it start now?

I pulled out my phone as I walked to gym, sending René a text asking if anything happened, and then I took it off silent in case she replied. I would risk losing my phone if it meant I could understand what happened to her.

Maybe she just decided to loosen up one part of my mind argued. I'm just turning into René by overanalyzing things. Even if that were true though, I still wanted to make sure nothing bad was going on.

The day passed by, and nothing changed. The weather was still gloomy, the mood was still glum, and my phone didn't receive any texts from René. At one point during lunch, I debated turning it back off and just asking someone who was at the party what happened. But still, a part of me persisted. I wanted to hear it from René herself, not some third party source that was probably drunk at the time and didn't remember jackshit about what had happened.

I sat with a group of popular girls at lunch. They weren't the horrible people everyone thought they were—in fact, they were quite nice. Today however, I had no interest in conversing with them. By this time, my mind was filled with theories about what had happened, and why she wasn't at school, and at that party.

I take back what I said earlier. I started to wish I overanalyzed everything like René, and maybe I wouldn't be forced to rely on details from others. If I paid attention, I could've spotted what was going on. Now I'd have to wait for her reply.

"Lexi!"

Someone snapped their fingers in front of my face, and it was Ariella Kelly, a tall, willowy girl on the school dance team.

"Yeah?" I asked, looking up at her.

"You look down. Is it the weather? I think it's the weather. Most people are in the same mood as you," Ariella stated, motioning around the cafeteria where the chatter was quieter than usual.

"Yeah, I guess," I said, trying to make it clear that I didn't want to talk. Ariella, who understood vocal hints better than Nathan, looked away and started talking to the girl sitting next to her.

The school day dragged on, with me checking my phone constantly, though there were no replies. Nathan had texted me though, something about Sunday, but I didn't bother reading it. I'd worry about Sunday once Sunday arrived. Right now, I had more important things running around in my mind; questions that I didn't have answers to, and it was bothering me. I just couldn't wait to get out of school and drive straight to René's house to ask what was happening.

Finally, as I sat in my last period French class, the bell rang, and as it did, my phone pinged too. My ears caught it through the bell, and I excitedly pulled out my phone as everyone piled out of the classrooms.

The text was from René! I read it over, and then two more times, and then—I was left more confused than I was previously. The text conveyed no information, nothing about what I asked. Instead, all it said was—

• • •

"Lexi! Honey, it's ok. Come on babe, wake up!"

I find myself roughly shaken as I open my eyes. One of my moms, Allison, is staring at me concernedly, while the other, Kira, is grabbing my shoulder to wake me up. They both look stricken as they stare at me, and I know exactly why.

I touch my eyes, and they're wet, with a trail of tears flowing down my cheeks. Even if I think about it, it starts happening. Even if I dream about it, I start unconsciously crying until I have no tears left.

"I'm fine," I whisper softly, closing my eyes tightly to stop the waterfall that's bursting from my eyes. "It's just a dream." It's not just a dream. It's a memory. In fact, I don't even have dreams any more. Most of the time, it's just old memories that are played back to me, and make me want to curl up and pretend I don't exist.

"Just a dream?" Allison asks incredulously, reaching over and doing her best to pull me into a hug from the passenger seat. She kisses my forehead and says, "you don't have to lie to us."

"I'm not lying," I say softly. It was meant to come out rough and defensive, but lately, nothing I say seems to come out like that. It's not that I can't; I'm just worried that one day I'll say something rough or rude, and it will happen all over again.

I'm careful now. I'm anxious; I'm worried. That's the only way to keep myself and others safe.

"Honey..." Kira trails off, her shaking turning into comforting rubs on my back and shoulders. Both she and Allison know that no amount of persuasion will get me to open up to them. The last time I did that, I landed in a therapist's office where people pretended to care about me.

"It's okay," I say, and then turn my head away from both my moms and look out the window instead. After a long, seven-hour car drive, we're here. Here in our new town, about to exit the car into our new house. It looks around the same size as our old house, however the houses here are much more unique, with different types of gardens. Each house isn't a copy of the one next door.

In some ways, that's good. I don't need to remember the old house or the old town. But there's also a sense of hopelessness. It happened, and now we've moved away from it. There's no chance that I'll ever see it again, and I'm certainly not going to visit that place once I graduate.

"Okay, if you're sure," Kira says reluctantly.

"Well then, let's start unloading our stuff. The movers brought in all of our furniture and a lot of our clothes, but we do have some of our stuff in the suitcases, so let's get moving," Allison says in an attempt to pull us out of the depressive conversation.

Out of Kira and Allison, Allison is the one that tries to forget. She's the one that tries to cheer us up through distraction. Kira, on the other hand, just likes to get things over with, and take things head on. She just wants to talk about it until it's gone. Either way, it won't stop what's going on within me.

There's a storm of emotions within me that I can't explain with words, and I will never try to explain them either. I know that I won't be able to make it through without falling apart past repair. That's why I stopped talking about it, stopped answering those questions from my parents and therapist truthfully, knowing that the answers would just make me feel so desolate and alone that I would just wouldn't be able to take it anymore.

We finish unloading everything, and I drag my backpack, and two suitcases up the stairs. I've been to this house before, a month ago at the beginning of October to be precise. It's the end now; there's around eight days left before the Monday of Halloween. I don't plan on dressing up this year, or greeting the trick-or-treaters. Just two months ago, I'd be out partying and—

Don't think about that. Don't think about that. Don't think about the past few months. Don't think about the past few months.

I repeat those words in my head like a mantra—partly because they are. I only have one rule for my unexpected life—don't think that; don't think about the past few months. The only way I get through is by following these rules. Though, it's extremely easy to unconsciously break them.

My room is a pale blue color. My bed's already been placed, and there are a few boxes of clothes placed by the doors of the walk-in closet. I also have a bathroom attached to my room which is good, because I don't have to walk down the hall anymore when I wake up in the middle of the night with a cold sweat.

I drop my suitcases next to my bed, and walk to the bathroom, to make sure I don't have drool marks or anything. I don't have the drool marks—I look exactly the same as I did two months ago. A little worn out sure, but not to the point of being unrecognizable. I still have the same dark brown—almost black—hair, and the same dark brown eyes. I'm half-Latina, and it still shows on me.

After so much change, the one thing that's remained constant is how I look.

It's scarily unnerving, how what's on the outside can stay the same even though everything on the inside is different—completely different.