E P I G R A P H

❝I just look at you and I love you, and it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.❞

☾ forty four | goodbye ☽

THURSDAY

The wedding was today. It sounds pathetic, but being without Holt was miserable. Not just because I love him, but because he was supposed to be here. He was meant to be here, with me. Holt did nothing wrong, well, admittedly, he did. But only to me. Holt would never intentionally hurt anyone; I just wish I had realized that far sooner.

The lady that did my make-up almost poked me in the eye with several forms of make-up equipment due to me being unable to stay still. I managed to not cry, but my leg was constantly tapping, my nails were terribly short now, not to mention the inside of my cheek began to bleed. I was so anxious, so eager to hear some news.

Patience is the virtue, Halo.

The wedding was nice. Esme and Santana got along well, they were both extremely worried about me, but I know how to put on a front, I held it together. But when my father and Aubrey announced their vows and tied the knot, I bawled. Not just because I was so happy that after my mother, he found love again, but because he got his happy ending. Despite being vacant from my life until recently, he was and is still a great father.

It got me thinking about Holt. What's new though, right?

It gave me hope that even if Holt does not survive this, I will be okay. It will take a long long time, but I will get through this, with or without him. I just hope that it isn't the latter.

I danced the night away with my father until my feet ached. Then everyone stuck around the building where the wedding was held due to there being several luxurious hotels nearby. Everyone made their way home separately excluding Maxen and I. We went home together.

He was quiet, awfully quiet.

When asking why, he simply said: "I'm sorry, Loey." I was confused, so I asked why. He then replied: "You don't deserve this. You held this family together, you hold everything and everyone together. I wish I wasn't such a shit person, so that I could do the same for you."

His words hurt because I felt shattered. All my pieces were scattered and it was frustrating because every time I would retrieve the pieces, they would get too heavy and I would end up dropping them yet again.

Maxen has done some terrible things. He has stolen from everyone, his own family. He owed Holt money, he has lured some nasty people into our family home and done unforgivable acts, but nonetheless, I love him. Life is too short to fight against loving someone.

He's been down lately, I've noticed. Instead of being on the sofa in the living room where he seems to spend most of his days, he has been locked away in his small room, barely eating and rarely leaving. He won't admit it, but I think Aubrey entering our lives as well as Santana has been hard on him.

When everyone got home, the new family life began. Santana officially moved into the guest bedroom, filling it with her designer things and large objects of furniture. Her mirrored nightstands and marbled décor with silver accents made my lilac walls and old creaky bed look childish compared to hers.

I was so relieved to get out of the fitting gown that I had on. Tying my curly hair up into a bun, I removed my make-up. The hair stylist insisted on straightening my hair, claiming that my curls were, and I quote, 'too big' but I knew that Holt adored my natural state, so I told her that her nose is too big and called it a day.

When I showered, I sat on the floor, cradling my frail body in the tub as I shook. I liked to think that I held myself together and kept from breaking any further, but I think my body was more broken than I had realized for when I turned the faucet off, the droplets of water seemed to stay on my face until I dressed and fell asleep.

I woke up at the crack of dawn after having a night of restless sleep, feeling as though I barely slept a wink. I planned on going to the hospital straight away, but Kristel came over with Jax and Nova, who both asked about Holt's lack of presence. I contemplated between telling them that he is in the hospital or creating some narrative, I, of course, decided on the latter to prevent their fragile minds from worrying.

I told him that he was really unwell. Nova said that she had a cold last week too and she slept for a really long time, she even joked about her mother saying she thought she died at one point because she was so dead asleep. When she proceeded to ask if Holt had been sleeping a lot too, I said yes.

If only he were just asleep rather than in an induced coma.

FRIDAY

Today I sat in his room with him. I bought a cheap journal that I picked up from Target on the way and a black ballpoint pen. I remembered his words like the lyrics from my favorite song; 'I always thought that angels wore glowing halos and white wings, but it took me until now to realize that angels are the ones that don't look at you like a monster, when you are just an angel-like them but with tattered wings.'

I always wondered how a mind so full could come up with something so simple. Poetry is an amazing art form, it is putting your thoughts and feelings into few words of which translate your pain into few words. My emotions consist of not many. I feel sad or I feel happy, there really is no in-between. I can usually hold myself together well, I can keep myself grounded, but this situation, it made me want to put myself in Holt's stance and write something.

As poetry is Holt's art, drawing is mine, so I incorporated the two and sketched an intricate visual of his hands. Of all things, that was what came to mind because his hands were my strength as they were his. His hands kept me close, his hands pushed me away. His hands held mine, his hands kept me safe.

I drew his long slender fingers, the few veins of which travel beneath the surface of his pale skin. I did as best as I could with my singular pen, but I think it resembled them well. I sat there for almost two hours, watching his still hands which rested next to him on the bed, taking note of how long his nails were, how calloused they were. Everything, but they were one of my favorite aspects of his.

I recall telling him a while ago how much I loved them and he did not see a reason why. But our hands are so underappreciated. They do everything for us, without them, we could not do things half as easily as we can. But I did not love Holt's hands for what they did for him, but for what they did for others. They held me tight the night his brother passed, they held his joints when he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, they held me ever since we confessed our love for each other.

He saw his hands and he thought of bloodied knuckles, he thought of the people that he had let slip through his fingers, he thought of all the holes he pierced through walls. But when he saw his palms, he thought of how that is where I resonated, in the palm of his hand, resting there eternally for I was his.

And there came my poem, without effort.

Independence is a big thing for me, but I still have that. Well, half. A huge amount of me, admittedly, relies on Holt Stone because I love him. What is the point in loving someone if you cannot place your trust in them?

I closed the notebook, placing it down on the chair next to me before walking over to the side of his bed and grabbing his lifeless hand, bringing it to my lips as I kissed it, rubbing my thumb back and forth.

"I love you, Holt." I whispered. "I'm staying strong for you, but it's getting hard. I need you back."

His hand unintentionally twitched slightly in my hand and I gasped, my eyes flying to his, but unfortunately, they still remained closed.

I exhaled. "You'll wake up." I said, though I did not know who I was reassuring, him or me. I suppose myself because he may not even be able to hear me. "You might think that you have no one to come back to, but you do, you have me. And Ace, Mase, and Esme. We all love you, so keep pushing, okay?"

Holt, of course, did not respond, but I pretended that he said 'yes' before placing a soft kiss on his temple and hesitantly leaving the room.

SATURDAY

Ace said that Mr. and Mrs. Stone came to see Holt once or twice. Apparently, they were both completely distraught, which angered me because all eighteen years of his life, they have never taken the time to appreciate his existence. It was always about Everest, which I get, because until recently all I thought about was Everest.

I feel obsessive because he is gone, I lost him years ago, but I refused to move on because I thought I did not deserve to when all along Everest was a cheating—mind my language—asshole.

But Holt's parents never had a reason to treat him as nothing but his brother's shadow. I am not a parent, but I know from my father that regardless of how different your children are, you always treat them as equals. Maxen has done terrible things whereas I have not, but still he treats us the same.

"Halo," a feminine voice sounded and I opened my eyes, squinting, surprised to see Mrs. Stone. "can I have a word with you for a moment?"

Anger boiled in me as I stood up, rubbing my tired eyes as I followed her out of the waiting room and off to the side. 

"What is it?" I asked, trying not to sound rude, but I was unsuccessful.

Mrs. Stone flicked her dark hair off her shoulder, pursing her lips. She looked tired, like she was trying to hold things together, but much like me, she was not doing too well. "I wanted to apologize."

I cocked an eyebrow. "For?" I pressed.

"Everything. How I have treated you since being with Holt. How I have treated Holt." she explained, using her hands as she spoke. "Everything." she repeated.

I shook my head. "I forgive you." I replied and she sighed in relief. "But I cannot speak for Holt and unfortunately, he may not be able to stick around to hear your apology. You should have thought of that before you mistreated your own child."

Her eyes welled with tears. "I could not stand seeing Holt because he is my lost son's twin. It is an unimaginable amount of pain. Though, that is no excuse. I cannot lose Holt too, I physically cannot." she began to cry.

I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Holt is incredibly strong, Vera." I said truthfully. "Hopefully soon he will wake up and when he does, he will have his mother back."

She nodded. "He will. His father too."

"I'm glad to hear." I forced a smile.

I turned around, prepared to go back to the waiting room, and continue my nap, but Mrs. Stone caught my wrist. "Halo. . ." she looked pained. "What is he doesn't? What if. . .What if he doesn't wake up?"

"Then you were too late."

SUNDAY

Considering that Holt's birthday is in two days, I headed out to try and find him a gift. I contemplated the idea for a while because the chances of him waking up are not definite, but I was too hopeful, so I got my father to drive me to the mall and I paced every inch or every shop, all that I came up with was a copy of The Great Gatsby, because he retold me several lines the night of that party where we were dared to spend 'seven minutes in heaven' upstairs.

I went through each and every page and highlighted my favorite parts. The parts that reminded me of him.

One particular line stood out to me. There are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice.

It reminded me that even beyond Holt, I will never find a love like his and it stung a little. And by a little, I mean a lot. If I had not spent so much time worrying about my pathetic early-adolescent love—which was barely love—then I could have spent more time thinking about the person that matters.

I drew another picture today. It was ugly and all over the place. In the end, I decided to rip it to shreds. I hated the person that I was becoming. So needy, so annoying. Why could I not just hold it together? 

I laid next to him on the bed for a while. I avoided doing that from the beginning for the sole purpose that I would cry, and I did. I laid on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat, his arm around the nape of my neck. It felt good to be in his hold, too good. I just wish that he would wake up and speak to me, but he couldn't.

Occasionally, he would twitch in his sleep, and I would be filled with instant excitement, only to realize that he still was unconscious. He was still warm, though his hands were cold. His lips were chapped and his body bruised.

As I fell into a deep slumber next to him, I decided to believe only that he would wake up. There is no other option. For a seventeen-year-old, I have lost too much. Some would say otherwise, some being people that have dealt with a loss more intense than some childish crush and their mother. But some would agree that any form of loss is hard, no matter how old or young that you are.

He will wake up and when he does, I will be right here, loving him every step of the way. I am aware that love is not enough to bring someone back to life, but he is not dead. He is in this sad place between life and death, lost without any direction, and though I am not in that place, I pray that he finds my voice, my touch, my warmth. I pray that he feels my love and chooses to follow me through though darkness and awake where his home will be enveloped by my arms.

I am his home. And here I will wait amidst a storm, strong and tall. But he is my foundation, and without him, my exterior is cracking away. I hope that he wakes up so that I can still be a home, for him and myself. If not, I fear that I will never be a home again. Not for anyone.

It really does suck. How when we love someone, our home stops being a building with four walls and a roof, and become a person with kind eyes and a heartbeat. We spend all our lives believing that a home is somewhere you live, but when you fall in love, you realize that home means something different to each and every individual.

But what is home to me?

Him.

Holt Stone is my home.

MONDAY

Mr. and Mrs. Stone came to visit again today. The both of them, not just one. They seemed sad, awfully sad, and—this may sound cruel—but it satisfied me. Knowing that they have been put in a position where they may lose their son. I pray that they don't, but they needed a wake-up call. No child deserves to be treated the way that he has been. He is not a shadow, he is Holt, and he deserves just as much love as any other child.

They got a few updates from the doctor, but there was nothing new. He said that Holt was still in stable condition and that he was doing well. Vera, being the worried mother that she had decided to suddenly become, asked multiple times when he will awake, and every time the sympathetic doctor gave her the same response: "it is entirely up to him and how badly he wants to come back."

She knew that his awakening was not something of which can be predicted, but she kept questioning staff as though maybe after enough pestering one of them will cave in and give her a faux response. I think that she just needed some closure, some confidence. Someone to assure her that he would wake up, because her husband seemed to be being rather pessimistic.

But no one would.

There is nothing worse than false hope, and though I was giving myself that, I would hate for her to have unrealistic ideas.

A lot of his family came in and out today, so I ended up going home. My mental health was declining rapidly and though it was okay to have off days, I had not been taking care of myself. So, I went home, had a long, hot bath, then put on my favorite pajamas, and laid in bed, watching the movies that I idolize on my laptop.

I had never felt so alone, so lost. . .so incapable of doing even the smallest tasks. And this was only the beginning, the beginning of the pain, the suffering, and the endless congo line of emotions that were in store for me.

The loneliness was stupid though. Because I had so many people around me that cared and I was so fortunate for that, but it was loneliness in the aspect that he was not here. If the circumstances were not so depressing, I would be okay. I am not all that dependent, especially not on a boy, but you always miss someone more when you know that seeing them is not an option.

But that is just the thing. I can see him. Physically he is here, but mentally, he is somewhere else. Somewhere dark. As I aforementioned, the circumstances are rather. . .absurd.

I tried my hardest to remain positive, though, and I kept myself distracted.

He will be okay.

TUESDAY

It's Christmas eve today and I woke up feeling slightly better. It's Holt's birthday today and the day before Christmas, so there were reasons to be happy, not many, but a few. 

As soon as I awoke at the lovely time of twelve PM, I wanted to head over to the hospital but Kristel found all the Christmas shit in our basement, therefore insisting that I help her set it up. Considering last year, it was just Max and I, we didn't bother with the Christmas decorations, it just felt like a reminder that we were alone.

On the day of Christmas, Zayden and I took his little sister to the park. It was so empty and even though Zayden's mother had no idea where she was, not to mention what time of the year it was, they were okay. 

The years before that were sad too. Every year has been since my mom left. But this year, my step-sister pulled every dusty box down that creaky ladder, and then, Maxen, Kristel, and I put that wonky reindeer on our front yard, strung flickering lights on my front porch, and lastly—and most importantly—we set up our frail, old little tree.

Surprisingly, by the time that was all done, it was getting late, so I headed over to the hospital with Ace, Esme, and Mason. Mr. And Mrs. Stone were there too. Everyone bought gifts. Esme and Ace got him a new journal to write in, an old brown one with a strap that clicked in the front. Mason bought him an ounce, then me. I bought that lousy poem I wrote and the book I got him.

I don't know what Holt's parents got him but I am sure that considering the circumstances and their wealth, it is something extraordinary.

Everyone gathered in his room, chatting about nothing but him. Eventually, it got late and everyone left, everyone except for me.

"Happy birthday, Holty." I laughed, holding his big, pale hand in mine, staring at his long, slender fingers. "You're eighteen now. Big one one-eight." I chuckled, tracing around his nail. "If you can hear me, I know there are no candles or cake, but make it your birthday wish to wake up."

Breathing heavily, I began to cry for the millionth time this week.

I watched as his hand twitched in mine, gasping, I diverted my gaze to his face. He was still unconscious. But then his eyelids began to flutter, his hand moving yet again and my heart rate started to incline extremely. This has happened so many times but it never stopped me from getting any more excited.

Sighing, I grabbed my hoodie from the chair beside me and then my phone, preparing to leave, when I turned around to give him one last glance. I froze on the spot as his grey eyes stared back at me, dark