I'm standing alone in my old room, nostalgia washing over me as I look around at all the memories I left behind. It had been a year since I was last here and, honestly, it looked abandoned and, well, downright sad.

Even before I left, my mom had been nagging me to clean out my room, but I wanted to get out of Elwood City so badly. I knew I was destined for greatness and greatness just didn't happen in a small town like Elwood City. But here I am, a year later, finally cleaning out my old room because my mom told me that if I didn't get it done this summer, she would take it all to the dump. I'm pretty sure she was bluffing, but I'm not sure I'm willing to take the risk. As much as I want to be done with the small town, I don't relish the thought of having all of my childhood memories of it washed away.

Cautiously, I walk toward the small bookshelf hanging above the bed. Nostalgia washes over me once again as I pick up the first volume in the Sherlock Holmes series and flip through the pages lightly. I glance at the inside of the front cover and the neat cursive letters that are printed there fill my heart with warmth.

For my sweet Fern
- Love, Mom

I remember the day I got this book; I was seven years old and desperately wanted to become a detective. I kept begging and begging my mom for the book until she finally got it for me for Christmas. I thought that as a detective, I'd be able to fix anything. I shake my head at my childish naivety, and wonder how I could've ever been that stupid. I'm briefly reminded of the days I used to spend curled up in my bed, reading the series and desperately trying to become a detective myself. I pick up the books and place them gently in the cardboard box I brought to carry my old things.

Walking over to my old desk, I pick up the old notebook I used to write stories in. The front cover read 'Property of Fern Walters' in my shaky, eight-year old handwriting. Opening up the small notebook, I skim over some of my old stories, realizing how far I've come. I'm so glad I gave up all that detective nonsense and decided to pursue journalism instead. I decided that I would find a job at some newspaper somewhere and write my first novel on the side. Hopefully, I'll become a famous author, but if that doesn't happen right away, I won't let it crush my spirits.

I look up to see a familiar picture propped up on my old desk. It's a picture of me standing with Arthur, Muffy, Francine, Buster, and George in the park. Buster is sticking two fingers behind Arthur's head to make it look like he has bunny ears, and Francine and Muffy are playfully fighting for the spotlight. I don't remember when it was taken, but it was obvious we were having fun. Everyone looked so happy, even George had a huge smile on his face. I remember looking up at the picture every night and feeling truly accepted. They were true friends to make me feel that way, and I start to feel a vague feeling of guilt gnawing at me. The last time I heard from my friends was at graduation and I really missed them. I really didn't mean to lose touch, it just sort of… happened. I wonder briefly if they're in town but ignore the thought for now because I really need to get this done.

I pick up the picture and place it alongside the Sherlock Holmes books and my notebook, then I head for my closet. I decide that I should probably find my old hair ribbon because it was kind of important to me, but before I can reach the closet, I catch my foot on something and find myself tumbling face-first into the hardwood floor.

Ouch, I thought to myself, rubbing my now-sore leg.

I look back at my feet to see what I tripped on and find an old, pale blue photo album with nothing written on the front and I think I might vaguely recognize it. On the first page I find my second grade class picture. At least, I think it's mine… Why would I have anyone else's class picture?

But as I skim through the faces I really can't seem to find my own. I look carefully at the lively-looking girl on the bottom right-hand corner and… wait a second…

Is that… me?

The girl in the picture had a red hair ribbon fastened in the middle of her head just like I always used to, and she was wearing my trademark purple shirt and yellow pants, but…

That can't be me… can it?

She was way too lively and innocent and happy to have been me.

That has to be me.

When I flip the page, the picture I find looks a lot more like the me that I remember. In my third grade class picture I find myself easily; again, on the bottom right-hand corner, I'm the girl who looks quiet and reserved and somehow a lot smaller than the girl in the other picture. There's a smile on my face but it's small and obviously faked. I'm honestly taken aback by the stark change I went through in one short year, and with a sharp realization I understand what happened.

When I was seven years old my dad disappeared.

He didn't disappear, he left, I thought angrily to myself. I am absolutely not going back to my childhood delusion that he simply disappeared.

Okay, when I was seven years old, my dad left.

I don't really remember him leaving, I just remember waking up one morning to my mother's teary voice telling me that my daddy had disappeared.

"Will daddy ever come back?" I had asked

"Oh, I don't think so sweetie.." my mother had replied reluctantly, as if she didn't want to believe it herself.

I should've realized then that he had chosen to leave, but I didn't until many years later. I became obsessed with detective work. I thought that I could solve the mystery of my daddy's 'disappearance' and then I could get my daddy back. My mom wouldn't have to cry herself to sleep anymore, I would have my daddy back, and my family could finally be happy and normal. I thought it was all up to me to find out what happened to him and bring him back, but after years and years of studying the methods deduction and practicing crime solving, I still had nothing.

So that's what had happened to me. When my dad left he took my happiness and childhood innocence with him. Of course I knew there had been a change in me, but seeing the two pictures side by side broke my heart all over again. I remember my bubble of innocence being broken, everything that used to be so amazing became so lacklustre, so useless. I remember being less excited when someone invited me over because I knew that whatever time I spent with my friends was time away from finding my dad and fixing my family. I found it hard to trust anyone, and I became obsessed with detective work. In the pictures the transformation looked so tragic that if that girl on the bottom right-hand corner wasn't myself, I probably would've cried.

But when I flip the page again my breath catches in my throat; the picture that I find is of me and my dad. I had almost forgotten what he looked like, since my mom found it too painful to keep pictures of him up around the house. In the picture, I was hoisted up on his shoulders, and the look of glee on my face was almost overwhelming. I really don't know for sure, but this certainty bubbles up inside of me, telling me that this was the last picture I ever took with him. It had been five or six years since I had given up on finding him, and I was pretty sure I was over it, but when I see the drops of wetness falling onto the album, I realize that I'm crying and that it still really hurts.

Why did he leave me?

I've never cried over him before. I was so convinced that I could get him back, that he wasn't gone, that I refused to let myself cry. I used to tell myself that there was no use in crying when there was still hope. When I finally gave up my small sliver of hope, it had been years since his 'disappearance' and I wasn't sad anymore, what I felt was more like numbness and maybe a little anger. But now that I had started crying, I couldn't control it at all.

What happened to me..?

The tears were literally pouring out of my eyes and I managed to close the album and protect the pictures from my tears before my vision blurred completely. I sat with my knees pulled up and my face in my hands and cried, really truly cried, for the first time in twelve years.

I used to be so happy.

The tears were dripping onto the floor now and I knew that my hands and eyes were probably smeared with the minimal makeup that I usually wore. My breaths were coming in sharp, raspy gasps and I felt like I wasn't getting enough oxygen. My hands balled into fists and I curled in on myself as much as possible. I screamed as the tears continued to fall.

"It's not fair!"

A/N: I'm not sure if I'll be continuing this story… Since I have a lot of time lately, I'll probably write more but I don't know if I'll upload it. So I guess tell me if you'd be interested in reading more?

Reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated!