What color is your crash?

I hate this. It’s the feeling I get when I know I’m about to cry but I don’t want to. It’s the feeling of being phenomenally… sick.

I spent most of the day lying in bed telling my story to Francis, my cousin who oh-so-conveniently dropped by to visit.

The day started out fine, actually. We were eating his homemade cake in my room until he brought B into the conversation. I had been determined not to think about it. It had worked for me before: living on as if nothing happened, then soon it’d somehow disappear. But this is Francis I’m talking to—my twin, my other half. Nothing is unsaid between us. So I rant. I told him everything from initial worries to learning the news to my still-fuming rage at B for being mad at me for doing nothing.

When I finished I glanced at him staring at the ceiling. We were just…there, for a few minutes. Finally he turned to me, shrugged, and said, “The truth can hurt—get used to it.”

My world crumbled to the ground. I felt my wings break and I fell hard on the ground of reality. It’s a sucky feeling and I found myself, though I didn’t want to, sobbing on my covers, my pillows, and my Francis.



What color is your crash?

My color is Black.