Hi. I'm just practicing being creative...soo yep. :p

Oh. Btw, I can't make titles. So anyways, hi?

The Hobby

1; You never notice how attached you are to the feeling of being accompanied, until that person, even if you never spoke, leaves you in a familiar room - except this time it's empty. The air is thick and suffocating. Tears sting at your eyes and ruin your face. Suddenly, it's hard to breathe. The emptiness goes for your throat, tries to strangle you. The one factor that decides your survival is your own strength.

Loneliness strikes when you're vulnerable. It gets you at your weakest point, when all your fake faces are gone and you're left raw and exposed.

The sky is as gray as my mood. I stare out the small window of my tiny apartment while leaning on the couch, cracking my back. The space had always been small, but now it felt even more enclosed, and lonely. The only sounds that echoed throughout the few walls were made by myself. Every action was expected - I caused it. The cracking of my fingers and toes. Simple things, like opening the fridge door.

Now the phone wasn't ringing anymore, which was lucky. The past few weeks had been hell with it rattling nonstop. As more and more people discovered the news, they stopped calling me back, because I wasn't the person they wanted to talk to - it was my father. For a girl my age, I was surprised I didn't have any friends.

Glancing out the cheap glass yet again, I watched the city smog drift a small path to nowhere. How much longer was I going to allow myself to stay here? I never wanted to live in the scummy, downtown part of the city. My dreams were filled with sunshine, blue skies, and long endless fields. Whether or not that was realistic wasn't the problem. I was my own problem. Be your own solution, not your own problem. Now where had I heard that before? It was inspiring, at least a little.

Later today, I make a few phone calls. I schedule my leave for next week, and start packing my bags already - I'm in a rush to leave this place filled with now-unpleasant memories. The echo of my father's laugh that I think is real. The shuffling of footsteps down the halls. It's getting hard to tell the difference between memories and reality, living here.

The air in the room is as dense as the smog outside.

When I step out of the taxi, the freshness knocks me out of my own head. The difference is surreal. Stone pathways lead to every building and more. Most of the structures are in good shape, but show age at the corners. A freshwater stream runs alongside a large farm, which is filled to its capacity with aging crops. I think about touching the water, but decide not to look like an annoying city tourist.

The name honestly drew me to the place, Forget-Me-Not Valley. But the surroundings were the reason for staying. A man in a rush to greet me hobbles over.

"Where are your things?" the friendly man, nearly bursting out of his bright red suit, asks me rhetorically. I want to laugh and be social, but it doesn't happen. I lift my miniscule handbag, a subtle indication to back off. He mumbles something and continues showing me the way to the farmhouse. This far away from town, the land is much cheaper. As all realtors say, it's location, location, location.

We pass friendly "villagers" wherever we turn. I can't remember any of there names, my brain isn't processing. There is a thick patch of overhanging tree branches, and the man, I think his name is Tom, shows me how to part the foliage. "Thanks, Tom." My mouth speaks the words with no meaning. He frowns a little, "You're welcome, Claire. And my name is Thomas." I nod, feeling my cheeks sting with an oncoming flush.

I think for too long, and he walks forward before I can apologize. Being socially awkward wasn't an original trait of mine - but after my father left, it shut me down, and I wasn't strong enough to recover.

The branches scratched at me, the cuts and wounds opening without my recognition. I froze. There was my new home - standing tall, furnished, and strong. It was surrounded by acres of land; dry ready to be plowed dirt, lakes, stones and lumber. Thomas talked to me but my ears heard nothing. The theme music I imagine tunes him out, and I'm surprised. Music is something I haven't listened to in months. I hear the word, "Goodbye." And I repeat it back to Tom. I'm left alone, staring and feeling the texture of the ground with the balls of my feet. When I walk over to the door, keys are sitting in the keyhole, waiting for me to claim them.

The front door opens slowly with a loud creak, and I step inside. It's air conditioned inside, protecting me from the summer heat. My bed is calling to me. Despite the bright lights outside, it is seven o'clock, and back in the city I would be sleeping by now, thanks to the time zone difference.

My dreams are filled with my father - alive, joking, hard-working, loving. As long as I'm asleep, the hole in my heart looks full to me.