Margins

by meliz875

"But sometimes you still write. Notes left on a pillow. Scribbles on the back of a napkin, or the letters you spell when deft fingers dance across bare flesh. A language that assures me I'm needed, that I'm loved." Bella rediscovers herself in an unexpected way. A series of vignettes that tie together to tell a single story. Written for TheTypeWronger.

4. Chapter 4

This isn't me missing you. This is me missing the me I used to be.

This isn't me.

Months went by.

The ache was no longer sharp, but remained constant. The longing never went away. It constricted a heart that so desperately wanted a reason to beat.

There were days I couldn't get out of bed. Instead, I turned my back to the door. Turned my back on my father's despondent voice, muffled by the wood separating us. Pressing my face into my pillow, I allowed the cotton to absorb the shame in what I was doing.

What he had caused me to do.

What I was allowing myself to do.

I wasn't a person who turned my back on the people I loved. On the people who loved me.

But fact bled into fiction. The truth of what was before me and the lies he left behind created a blurry, abstract rendition of her. There was no method. A thousand puzzle pieces, yet none seemed to fit.

I couldn't find her. I couldn't find that person

I couldn't find me.