Eyes closed. Mouth closed. Heart closed. Everything, so much, all closed. She feels at peace, alone, in her too big bed for a too small room. She likes it. Not sleeping, because when she sleeps, it's all too late, but when she awaits for what's next to come. She likes it when her body stays still above the covers, cooled down by the night air. Yet she likes the warmth her body exhales, heating her covers, her pillows, the thin breeze flying around her. She likes everything on her room right now. Everything, at this specific moment. She's awake yet she sleeps. She hears, she senses, she almost sees the light coming from the window, yet she can't move, can't talk, can't think. She only feels. And all those peaceful sensations, those light shivers, the sheets flying around her, the stars illuminating her presence, the moon eyeing her from afar. She feels all those eyes watching over her, covering her pale body. She likes it. No, she absolutely loves it. Everything. So much.
Yet, she soon feels her mind drifting, every sense disappearing slowly. They drift away, let her be, leaving her alone in the darkness that is her head. Her thoughts come back, and she knows again. She dreams. She sees the day again, sees her parents, mouth smiling, eyes wide, tears falling. She sees the letter, on the table, opened carefully. A location she couldn't recognize, a name she didn't know. Black letters, all written with love and expectation. She sees the words, the sentences, all put together with good conjugation, good poetry, good lies. She sees her hand trembling, she sees her tears soaking the white paper, erasing the signature. She sees her parents again, they hug her tightly. And she sees herself, hugging them back. She sees the disgust in her eyes, the joy forcefully painted on her traits. And her words, her words. Blatant, bleeding, every syllable hurts more and more. It tears her skin apart, cuts her fingers where she touches the letter. And, while she sees herself hugging them with more force and fear, she sees the letter slowly slipping away from her grip, plummeting gracefully, hitting silently the ground. Her tears are heavier. She knows. Because the sound they make when they hit the ground hurts her ears and mind. And it's a serenade of tears that plays in her head. Too loud, way too loud.
She chokes. Her eyes open, her body jerks away from the burning sheets, freezing because of the wind. She bashfully closes her window and breathes. Her senses are back. She's awake. They're awake, too. She sees the wind, hears every molecule, feels every bug crawling down her spine, legs, tickling her naked feet. She puts socks on, clothes on, and even if clothes seem to burn her alive, cutting her, she moves to her desk, ignoring the friction every movement creates. She doesn't want to touch the bed. It scares her. From her desk, she can see little paper clips. Dozens of them, tracing her silhouette. They're gray, shining under the moon's light, or is it under the spotlights right across her room ? She doesn't really know, doesn't really care. She'll have to take all of them back and throw them away, once again. She hates it. She senses so much now. Fear, apprehension, guilt, anger, sadness, hesitation, regret. She senses those omnipresent feelings more than when she goes to sleep. And, as she sees the letter, lovingly folded with a kitsch golden ribbon, she doesn't know what's worse. When she sleeps or when she wakes up. When she sees or when she feels. She doesn't know. She doesn't care, or she can't too much. She hates, no, despises it. This situation, her parents' excitement, her own hatred against her own words.
"Mother, father, I can't..."
Yet she has to. She feels them again, those acid tears burning her eyes, blinding her. She likes them. At least, she can loose one sense thanks to them. And, under the darkness of her room, she knows again. She knows too much yet not enough. Momo knows. Yet, Momo is ignorant. Momo wants to go back to this state, the one where she can't think but can hear, can feel, where everything seems so sweet, so delightful. And the state where, sometimes, she can't even breathe. Momo wants that. Stop her breath.