A/N Hello, lovelies~! I would just like you all to know that this is my first story ever and I hope you all enjoy it! I'm working on my writing skills, and if I want to be an author one day, I figured I would have to get serious .
Chapter One

"Maya," Riley says. "I—I can't be your friend anymore. You're not the same person I knew from middle school, or even high school."

Well, of course I'm not the same person I used to be. Wasn't that the Secret of Life? People change people? Or did I remember wrong? I'm sure that I'm right, but I was also sure that my best friend would never leave me.

"Though you were never perfect, you used to be so caring," Riley continues. "I don't even recognize you anymore…."

That's because I don't know who I am anymore, Riley.

"I miss the girl you were, and every time I'm around you now, I miss her more. It's tearing me apart. I'm sorry, Maya…."

I can see that I cause Riley to lose more of her innocence and happiness and that she's desperately reaching her hand out to be saved from my cage. I want her to be free, to have someone she can lean on because frankly, I don't know how to care for her. So I don't stop her as she walks away. And when I turn to leave in the other direction, I don't look back.

The great thing about living in a dorm for singles is that I can pretend that my dad and mom didn't abandon me. They're at home, proud of my scholarship, happy that I'm taking these steps toward my future while wishing that I was with them. But that is not the case. My dad is in jail, rotting, and my mom is who-knows-where doing who-knows-what. It's not like she left me a note of where she would be.

I get out my easel and set it in front of my window. I pushed my desk to the side for this specific purpose. I take my brush and start painting. I only paint in black and white and gray because those are the only colors I see. The others faded from my view around three years ago, and I suppose it's the reason why I feel the need to paint. I don't want to lose sight of black and white and gray too.

The paint curls, curves, until I don't know where each stroke begins and ends. The black touches the white to form gray, and sometimes, when I am hopeful enough, I sit and stare at the canvas, waiting for a new color to emerge because, God, all I want is to remember. Remember the pressure of my dad's hold on me as he carried me in the market; remember the way my muscles felt when I returned my mom's smiles; remember the rush that came from laughing too hard with Riley. But the distinct memories never come back.

I cover and cover, layer and layer the paint until not even I know what I was planning on doing. Maybe I always intended to create this mess.

I always ask myself the same question when I lie like a mummy in my bed at night: Will I finally cry? I have never once cried. Not when the cops took my dad, not when I came home to no one, not when Riley told me she didn't want me anymore. I don't know if that means I'm not sad or if that means I'm just dead inside. I really don't want it to be the latter.