There used to be a time were a Saturday afternoon meant a day filled with shopping spree's, beach lounging or simply hanging out with my friends. Now, a Saturday afternoon just gave me an excuse to stay in the house without having to worry about any school-assignments or having to communicate with anyone more than necessarily. I could just lock myself up in the solidity of my room and lie down in my bed continuing my perfect streak of being absolutely useless. Sometimes I'd slightly open the curtains to let some much needed rays of sun shine in, or even put on some music in the background.

But those days were rare. Those days I'd wake up and forget what had happened and I would unconsciously treat myself to some normalcy. At least until I passed his room or see his face along to endless pictures by the staircase wall. Once the memories all flooded back in, I'd go back into the darkness in a flash. I'd even punish myself for forgetting in first place, for being so damn selfish and not remember, not mourn the death of my brother for a certain amount of time. No matter how short or how long it lasted.

Today I didn't put the music on, nor did I open the curtains. But I did something so much greater than that. Something I never thought I'd ever do on my own again. Not right now at least. I treated myself to have a normal breakfast with my family. Those were possibly even more rare. The moments I'd actually spend some time with them. I'm not even talking about engaging in any form of conversation with them that consisted more that 4 words. It's weird because I always thought, if something as terrible as this ever happened to me, I'd be inseparable from them. Just like al those other families that were suddenly stricken with tragedy, we'd grow closer to each other and we'd seek for support in our shared loss. While my parents and my brother did seem to have followed that formula, it was soon clear that I didn't.

I changed.

I usually skipped breakfast and dinner, or any other meal for that matter. Opting instead to grab a bite on my way out, or to simply wait until it was brought up to my room by my father.

He never disappointed me.

I didn't expect any less.

Something about sitting at a table, were the chair opposed to me was vacant felt gut-wrenchingly wrong. The comfort and intimacy once that it represented lost on me, on us, completely. Knowing that, that chair will never be filled again by the one person that steadily occupied it from the moment we moved in.

Today, when I entered the kitchen and took a seat at the table, I could see the astonishment on my fathers face as he quickly grabbed an extra plate of his homemade pancakes and drenched them with extra syrup.

Just the way I loved them.

I could feel the support of Glen as he gently squeezed my hand while our prayers. I could hear the relief in my mothers voice as she said grace, just like every other day. And when I looked up and across the table, I could sense his soothing presence.

But now I'm back in my room. Back to my solitude. Back to my reality. I'm sitting on my bed, cross-legged and focused on trying to control my breathing. Trying to find my inner-peace, trying to find some of the old me in the mess that I've been for the last 5 months. Because I know that I need to if I want to open this box. The same box that's been on mind the moment that I held it in my hands. The box that will either save me from myself, or fuck me up even more. But I know this is it. I know it's time. It's time to open this box and try to turn this dreaded and worn page of my life.

I gently take the box, when I'm finally serene enough to still my trembling hands. I trace the form of it, from corner to corner, one last time before I ultimately find the strength to gently rip it open. I let out a long shaky breath, that I've unconsciously been holding in and take the time to steady myself again.

When I finally reach my hands into the box, my eyes close on cue. Letting my touch lead me through this process, not trusting my sight at this crucial moment. And as I let my fingers slide over the continence, and trust my now even hands to take it out of the package, I can feel myself breathe again.

And when I finally find the courage to open my eyes and take in the sight in front of me, I can see her again. I can sense her again. And for the first time since that night, I can feel the silent tears roll over my face that I've held in for so long.

And maybe, just maybe … I can finally be Spencer again.