F E B R U A R Y  1 0 ,  2 0 1 1

Hey. Sorry I haven't been writing for a while. 

It's harder for me to get to do the things I want since I have to always have somebody accompany me. You probably know how that feels like.

Do you also know how it feels like to use a feeding tube? It's so. . . disturbing. And a little bit gross. I hate it so much.

How would you feel if you felt food literally travelling from your nose all the way to your stomach? There's another option, which is letting the tube to be inserted in the stomach. But, like, I'd be crazy if I'd let myself get stabbed in the damn stomac —

Sudden pain started shooting down my fingertips. Oh, no. A twitch? I hadn't experience twitches in months. Ever since my legs went dead, I started getting them less and less.

But a few moments later nothing else happened. No twitch, no spasm, not even an over exaggerated gag reflex (yeah, I got those too. It was just too embarrassing to tell you.) All I felt was pure, raw pain in my fingers, and I wasn't even moving my hand anymore. My hand had gone rigid, like it sensed the pain, too.

What the hell —

"Your handwriting."

My shoulders jumped. Oliver and Tom had just came home from school but I hadn't even heard them come in through the front door.

Oliver frowned. "Where's the Three Stooges?"

"They went back to the house ten minutes ago."

"And left you here?" His frown deepened.

"At least they told me!" I retorted. "What about you, huh? You could've knocked first!"

He smirked. "Now where would the fun be in that?"

I ignored him. Turning my head, I switched my attention to the other Grant. "Tommy, what are you doing?"

Tom was putting his earphones back in and was getting out something else from his bag. "Going to plug my phone on the speakers. You don't mind, right?"

"Actually yeah, I kind of — "

The song played out of nowhere and the guitar chords started, from what I recognise as Besitos by, yet again, Pierce The Veil. I'd heard him play that song more times than I could remember. He really loved this band. I sighed. 

When Tom played one of his songs, there was no stopping him.

"What?" I exclaimed loudly when I saw Oliver's mouth forming a sentence. He leaned closer so his lips were just above my ear.

"Your handwriting," he repeated. "It's getting messy. I can't even read half the words in here."

I glared. "Hey!"

"I'm serious!" Now he was shouting, but I didn't blame him — I was probably shouting too due to the song drowning out our words. "What is that? Disclude something?"

"DISTURBING!" I screamed. "Tha wayn'tven close!"

"Well, it just proves that your writing is — wait, what did you say?"

"AND UNTIL, THAT, DAY. . . I'LL STEAL YOU FLOWERS FROM THE CE-ME-TE-RYYY!"

Tom's voice was loud enough to make the roof go crashing down, and sadly, his voice was far from an angel's.

I pressed my hands on my ears. "Oliver, can we just — "

"REEEED ROSES! RED ROSES OF THE DEAD!"

My feelings were now torn into two: I was fifty percent glad that Tom's raging voice was deafening so I wouldn't have to answer Oliver's questions. But I was fifty percent sure that I'd go deaf the next day.

________

There were a lot of things I usually expected to happen in the morning. A bird tapping my window. My phone buzzing. Mom calling for me.

But I certainly wasn't expecting this.

As you all know, across my bed was a window. Oliver wasn't "living" across from me anymore — I had to move downstairs to the guest room due to my inability to walk, remember? 

It was, however, right below my old room.

And on the window there was a note that said:

DO YOU WANT TO GO TO THE MOVIES WITH ME?  

- SHERLOCK

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't shockingly happy if the real Sherlock was behind that note. But, my life was not a TV show, and there was only one person I associated that nickname with. I couldn't help but break into a smile because it'd been a long time since he called himself that.

Thankfully, the bed was close to the window, so I only needed to slide myself against the mattress — in other terms, wiggling my poor ass — to get to the window. I pushed it open, and after staring at a blank, brick wall, I looked up.

Jake?

"What are you — GET OUT OF MY ROOM!"

Even though I couldn't see Jake anymore, I heard him make kissing sounds. "Aaww, our little Ollie has a crush!"

"GET OUT!"

After a few more arguing and what sounded like a door banging, Oliver finally stuck his head out. He was looking down on me, and I swear, his eyes looked a little bit more greener.

Before he could say anything, I beat him to it.

"Watson agrees to go with you to the movies!" I called from below, saying it slower than usual to prevent myself from slipping.

I guess it worked, because his only response was a cheeky grin.

A few hours later, I asked Mom if I could go. But oddly she was asking a lot of questions.

"It's going to be the two of you?" she inquired.

"Kind of," I admitted. "The other Grants are gonna be yer, but he told me they braw yeir own friends, so I guess. . . yeah."

Mom frowned. "Have you, uh, considered using the AAC device, dear?"

I gulped. "I don't needa now, Mom. Noddanow."

I rolled myself towards my room before she could protest any further. I didn't want to use the talking device until I couldn't speak at all. And if I did use it, it would somehow make all my other symptoms feel more real. I didn't want that.

Not at all.

After ending up with a grey sweater, some leggings and brown boots, I bid my goodbyes to Mom, and when I opened the door, Oliver was already standing there, smiling.

He helped me get seated in the car while the other Grants arranged my wheelchair to fit in the car's small garage. I was cramped against the window with Jessie, Ollie and Tom on one side of me. Jake was in front, and Raph was driving.

Once we arrived at the mall, Raph drove to the parking lot and turned off the engine. Oliver, running like the runner he was, dashed to the back of the car to get my wheelchair out. After opening the door to my side, he (again) carried me (which still embarrassed me) to the wheelchair. I turned to give him a small smile, and he grinned back — totally unaware of the attention that we were getting.

We stepped into the mall, feeling the cold breeze welcoming us. Almost instantly, all eyes turned to me and my wheelchair. People turned their heads, others did a double-take, and oh God, some of them were even taking pictures. 

I mean, seriously. It's like they haven't seen a wheelchair before.

I tried to ignore their lingering gazes but it was not easy. A spotlight may as well have shined on me.

At long last, we reached the cinema. We approached a group of people I didn't know, but they all seemed to know the Grants — each and one of them shook hands, swapped hugs and gave high-fives. I suddenly felt so out of place, especially with this damned wheelchair.

But they introduced me to their friends anyway — Mackenzie, Alex, and a lot of others I didn't bother remembering. Not that I didn't care, but I was sure I wouldn't meet these people again. It was just a truth I began to accept.

Since their curious gazes got the better of them, I told them about my "leg condition" — Oliver of course backed me up — and they nodded multiple times, with those over-exaggerated smiles you see people give to patients. I tried not to let my disappointment and anger show.

It was when we were already in our seats when I noticed the number of all of us. There were equally five boys and five girls. Jessie sat next to Alex, Jake sat next to Mackenzie, and even Tom sat next to a pretty young girl who I suspected was fourteen, too.

A few seconds passed before I realised that they all. . . looked like dates. And that today was Valentine's Day.

And that I was sitting next to Ollie.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes," I croaked.

WERE WE ON A DATE?

"This is. . . jussome friendly hang-out, right?" I asked hesitantly.

He turned to look at me and shrugged. "If you want it to be."

"Then whadda you wannit to be?"

There was a knowing glint in his eyes, but before he could elaborate, the screen started playing.

That was all I thought about throughout the movie. When it was a funny scene, I pretended to laugh, but it was never real. Another thought occurred to me. If today was the fourteenth of February, then that meant yesterday was my one-year anniversary of the Thing. February 13th. My first letter.

It wasn't something I was proud of, or something I wanted to celebrate, but it wasn't easy to forget. A year felt so fast. And if that felt fast. . .

The movie finished and I was still lost in my thoughts. I didn't even remember what it was about. I just remembered getting into the car, thinking of all the things that had led me here, of what had happened, of what was going to happen. The Grants didn't seem to notice; I didn't want them to. They were too engrossed discussing the movie. I think it was some sort of routine because Tom — who was sitting beside me — only shook his head before drowning himself on his phone.

In the front, I saw Oliver move the rearview mirror a bit. On the mirror, his green eyes pierced through my own brown ones, asking a silent question. What's wrong? 

I looked away.

Without warning, I felt pain traveling up from my arm to my hand. The abrupt change caused me to let out a hiss. Oliver had joined in the Three Stooges' argument so he didn't notice, but Tom noticed. He let out a small frown.

"It's okay," I said quietly before he could say anything. He had an unreadable expression.

Then, he pulled out his earphones and said, "Don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm," before putting his earphones back in his ears as if his words didn't mean anything at all.

I stared at him, unable to comprehend that those words meant deeper than he thought, and that it was Tom out of all people who'd said it. Maybe this kid was wise after all.

Don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

Sometimes I forget that he didn't know about the Thing, but what if he did? Did he know that I was in pain, and that I was hiding it? It only occurred in the arms, but it still hurt, regardless of whether I was moving it or lying still. And concealing the pain was getting worse and worse.

And there was one thing that he also didn't know.

Don't set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

I was already on fire.

God, that line cuts deep.

For those who don't understand, the line means that Em is just lying to the others that she's fine and okay in order to not make them worry. And if you're warm on a winter night, you feel safe and reassured, right? That's the thing. She wants them to feel that way. So she lies to them, which only hurts herself in the process, because she's silently in pain.

My poor baby.