Missing someone is not romantic.
It took me a long, long time to realize that.
When I was younger, I always wanted something really tragic to happen to me. This was a result of movies and novels that featured wounded souls and people losing all hope right before someone would swoop in and save them. Sometimes the hero was a man who tended to all the tortured chaos in the main characters head. Sometimes the knight in shining armor was a friend who promised to be there now matter what. I thought if I broke an arm or went through a traumatic event, suddenly people would really care for me.
Once I created my own tragedies, it took a long time for me to realize that no one can save someone else. You have to save yourself... and what a wake up call that was for me.
The thing about missing someone is when you hear and see how other people grin and bear it, you start to believe it's not so bad. You start to think, and eventually you discover, that everyone has their own story; everyone has their own little tales of their woes and you think it's romantically tragic. You want your own woes. You want something to tell that will make people look at you a little differently... like you're a brave solider who deserves to be happy.
The trick is, if it's not sad enough, or in their eyes, important enough, they'll lose interest.
See that's not the problem.
Because by the time all your friends and family lose interest, you don't want their advice and looks of awe anymore... you just want someone to hold your hand or listen or hold you.
It's not for attention anymore... it's become a feeling so strong you think it'll swallow you whole.
When he left, I had fits every night in my room.
I dug my fingernails just enough into my skin that little bubbles of blood created patterns on the surface of me.
I screamed with no sound and I swallowed my tears every time I thought I heard a creak outside my door.
Numerous times I tried to confide in my mother, I would call her up to my room and make her hold my hands, and I would say, "Mom, I'm so sad."
She would look at me like she might cry and she'd said, "Oh Lydia, I know."
I would cry and shake and lie down, waiting for her to stroke my hair or rub my back, but when I would open my eyes to see where she was, she would always be gone.
The night Allie got home from France, I planned the speech in my head, looking forward to confiding in someone. Someone would finally know everything going on in my head, they'd know it was hard for me to smile and they'd hold my hand when I looked pale at the sound of his name being spoken. When she got to my house, she was so happy. She glowed as she talked about the sights and sounds and how the Eiffel Tower shined at night, and my heart ached and I just... I couldn't tell her.
I made up some idea about a double date and while she pouted about not wanting to go, I started up the car and told myself that I'd be okay... now that Allison was back, I'd be happier, I'd be able to handle my emotions and get myself back together.
I fooled myself for awhile, the fake happiness convinced me I was not a lost cause. I got the strut back in my step. I twirled in flower print dresses and ran in kitten heels every time my friends needed me.
I was dizzy with hope and I could feel the confidence seeping out of my pores again. I was okay, I really believed I was until I heard whispers and conversations and death at that motel. I could feel the cracks in my exterior expanding as I watched Stiles step into a circle of gasoline to save his best friend's life. Death surrounds life and every moment felt like it could change to red if not for luck that seemed to follow Scott McCall wherever he went.
The thought of any of my friends dying, of losing one more person, shook me to the core and invaded every moment I was awake. I thought of the numerous ways one can die, regardless of supernatural strength and sheer dumb luck. The likelihood of me getting to graduation seemed to weaken every moment I lived in Beacon Hills. If not from the claws deep scratch of a wolf, then surely there was a high chance I might be hit by a speeding car or choke on my dinner. At night, I began to beg whatever higher power that I would die first, "please don't let me die last please I won't be able to breathe if one more person walks away or gets mauled in front of me please."
I thought my plea was answered when I found myself choking, trying to breathe as my pretty little English teacher tried to cut off my air supply. In my panic, I tried to take it back. "I know I said I didn't want to die last, but in a perfect world I'd prefer if no one died, especially me. I do not want to die in a school classroom while Stiles bangs on the door. I want a quiet death while I lay sleeping in my old age, I do not want this harsh pull around my throat to send me away. Please. Make it STOP." And it did.