Back! I really wanted to get this out to you all on Monday, but time ended up forsaking me for other glorious events. Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy!

So, I'm curious. What type of monster/supernatural entity do you think Roxas is? Go ahead and guess, I'd like to see if anyone gets it right (one of you can't, you know who you are XD).

Good luck and I hope everyone's week goes well! I'm going to need all the luck I can get.

"It's like . . . every time I picture a face it's that one face. Over and over . . . just one face. When I was younger it wasn't a big deal, but now? Now things are real, now I can't take back what I did. Don't you get how frustrating that is? Wouldn't you hate to be constantly reminded of what you can't have?" ~Roxas

. . .

What You Do in the Dark

. . .

~Contact~

The next two weeks were hard for me.

After Roxas' indirect rejection I was left cradling my cracked heart as my Mom drove me home. Dad had a few choice words to say about me skipping out on my medicine. I was swiftly grounded and placed under figurative house arrest. If it hadn't been for Mom he probably would have kept me out of school during that time too, but they both decided my social development weighed higher than the dangers Roxas represented.

Something was always off whenever Roxas was concerned. Back then I didn't know much, only that his name was generally whispered in either a worried or forced tone whenever my parents were together. For Mom, Roxas was someone to help. For Dad, Roxas was someone to approach only as a last resort. I always wonder how things would have been if they had just told me the truth about what Roxas was at the start.

But I guess that's asking too much. They weren't any closer to discovering the truth in our connection than I am now . . . and these connections are only the surface of the mystery. I have to dig deeper.

But where to start? And . . . when Roxas finds me . . . how long will he wait to act?

Two rough weeks. One whole year in a five-year-old's head. At least, that's what it felt like for me.

Being grounded wasn't the problem. Contrary to what most people thought, I actually got in trouble a lot. In many ways, my relationship with my father was strained since birth. I'm not sure what it was, what fundamental difference kept us from enjoying each other's company. Even after Mom . . . disappeared, it's not like that tension went away. Subtle, hidden maybe, but never gone.

No. I was used to being in trouble. What made me feel more worse than anything was Roxas' stares.

It was different from when he had ignored me. He wrote, "don't talk to me", but that didn't stop me from taking a glance every once and a while. Every time he would catch me doing it, and he would stare back and I'd feel . . . sick.

In his eyes there wasn't any sign of anger, emotion. But my body would react. I couldn't move. The longer he stared the heavier I felt. The extra weight would start at my fingers then crawl up into my hand. I would struggle to move it, try to look at it to see what was blocking my fingers, but his stare kept my eyes in place. The heavy feelings would settle in my throat and my heart beat would rise. Beating harshly, fast, against my chest. The pounding made me twitch in place, pressuring my lungs.

All this . . . just from one glance. Fifteen seconds, thirty at best, and then I would have trouble breathing.

But it never got to that point. Just before my breath would slip away he'd blink then turn his head down, mouth settling back into a familiar frown. I'd gasp and cough dramatically (bringing in a few stares, I was known for breathing loudly when I was scared).

This happened once, sometimes twice a day. Each time I was able to stare a little longer, withstand his gaze for a few extra seconds before I'd hyperventilate. He'd always look away before I could lose it, and then after five seconds of me catching my breath the questions would rear their ugly heads.

Why does he keep staring? What did I do wrong? He told me not to talk to him. What do I do?

I withstood the barrage of ideas and confusion until I felt like I would burst. One day I just decided to move. My legs were moving at the speed of a lonely garden gnome, but with every intake of breath it became easier. With my eyes on the ground, I made my way around our disgruntled playground. The soil was moist during this time, rich with nutrients from the morning Spring rains. I noticed insects and worms twisting about in the dirt, trying to calm my nerves.

Don't look up. Don't look at his face yet. I let out a small whine in the back of my throat. He was staring at me now, I could feel it. The closer I got to him the less insects I found. The wet ground was drier by his bench. I shuddered, touching the edge of the table and sitting across from him.

The heaviness wasn't as strong as it was before, but it still settled around me. Lingering dots of black and grey danced in the corner of my vision. I exhaled slowly, rubbing my arm.

I was so nervous. I had spent days talking to him before, trying to nudge a reaction out of him until he shoved that all away with four words. I had thought I would be ready, but instead of saying what I wanted to say I was cowering in his presence instead. The shame hurt more than the heaviness.

I shook my head, preparing to stand when cold fingers brushed against my wrist. I couldn't stop from looking up and my eyes immediately zero in on his. He was standing next to me, his eyebrows slightly turned down. His bottom lip quivers just for an instant, and then his facial expression returns to its empty base. "Are you going to run away?" he asked.

The air from his mouth crashed against my ear and I felt a shiver go down my spine. I shifted away from him, staring at him from a distance. He blinked once, taking a step back. He opened his mouth and did the impossible again. "You're scared."

I frowned, crossing my arms. His voice was . . . different. Something about it didn't seem right, and for a split second I forgot about the sick feelings that came with his stares. "I'm not scared. You're the one whose scared."

He cocked his head to the side, a very thin smile on his lips. It looked fake, like he was trying too hard to show a certain side of himself. "I'm never scared." The confidence in that sentence, the absolute faith in it, shocked me. After a few seconds I realized what was bothering me.

His face is blank. But his voice . . . His voice . . . It's not happy or sad. It's just . . . really nice to listen to. I swallowed, blushing. I couldn't say that to him. "If you're not scared, why were you staring at me?"

"Cause you did." He shrugged.

I frowned. "You said we couldn't talk."

He blinked once. "No I didn't."

"You did!"

"No."

I pouted, turning away and sighing with relief as my body relaxed a little, no longer tied by his eyes. "You're a liar."

"Well, you're mean."

I turned to protest but when I saw his face the complaint died on my lips. His eyebrows were raised slightly and he was frowning. But that wasn't what stopped me. A single tear rolled down his cheek, dripping from his chin. He blinked and wiped it away, along with any other lingering emotions before I could name them. When he spoke only the words stung, not his tone. "I wasn't ready. You left before I was ready."

What's does that mean? I tapped the table with my restless fingers. "Then . . . can we be friends now?"

"I'm not supposed to have friends."

I gasped and my eyes widened. It didn't make any sense to me, but what mattered was the sadness leaking out of his response. A question nearly made it past my mouth before my gaze stopped near his hands. He gripped the table tightly, nails crushing deeply into the wood, creating an eerie scratching sound so horrid that I had to cover my own ears.

While I jumped back he turned so that his back faced me. His posture was rigid and when he spoke I could barely hear him. "I need you to go now."

"But . . . you can't just . . . " I tried to force myself to say more but my voice kept cracking. Instead, I grabbed his hand. His palms were sweaty and cold, sending a single shiver up my arm before the feeling in my hand was sucked out completely. My body slumped forward as my head crashed lightly against his shoulder. I could still breathe, thankfully, but it was harder than before. Meanwhile my heart pounded rapidly in my chest. Too close, too close, it seemed to scream. "R-Roxas?"

He stood still against me for a long moment. Then in one fluid motion he shoved me away from him and off the bench. I flew from the seat, staring at the sky with heavy lids threatening to shut the world out. The weight was back. I couldn't get up. I blinked and my vision blurred as he stared down at me. Soft, apathetic words filtered in and out of my ears, settling just before I passed out.

"I didn't write the letter."