feelings for her expressed in three simple, meaningful words.
Cassie sleepily smiled. "Me too," she responded, then closed her taupe eye shadowed eyes.
This, I instinctively knew, was happiness. In its purest form.
Chapter 6
The days following passed as rapidly as a swift summer breeze; I slowly shifted back into my what was once normal routine, which typically consisted of travelling into town - sometimes alone, if I was in the mood, or with Cassie, whose company brightened up any shopping trip - or communicating with my holidaying friends, to whom I still hadn't found the vital courage to admit the recent events.
Besides, none of my friends - all of whom I'd made during my attendance at Applebury High - didn't have the same amiable aura unlike Tara, who I regularly called or text every so often. It was a huge shame that my memorable friendships that I'd formed whilst at primary hadn't lasted during secondary; one of the hardest, most painful lessons I'd had to learn about life was that friends couldn't always stick together as promised and that drifting apart was sometimes inevitable. I reckoned that if Tara managed to attend the same school as me, our whole gang of reliable pals would have still been going strong - though she gave off the impression of being oblivious to the fact, Tara had been the glue of the group and all of us fell apart once she left.
So much for not making regrets, huh?
When I was ready to drop from spending money that my pocket money (yes, really, Mum and Dad still insisted on a basic allowance once a week - and I was old enough to get a basic job!) could barely afford on lavish clothes that I couldn't imagine myself wearing until I was at least 20 (one of my hopes was that irresistibly adorable panda brooches - ones that would define me as a laughing stock at school - would be making spectacular waves in Vogue by then) or staying up extra late chatting to Cassie, I would stay in my bedroom, the windows wide open to let in some much-wanted air, and just write about how I feel deep down.
Having been a prisoner to my erratic emotions for way too long, one day I threw up my hands in frustration - also at the aspect of being forced to complete my homework, whose papers were starting to turn a rustic yellow - and decided to put all of my thoughts, good and bad, down onto a nice lilac-shaded piece of paper.
And to my utter surprise, I was intrigued by the way expressing my feelings onto paper felt. Everything, from unquenchable horror to hard-to-fight sadness to generally being lost in my own mind, made sense in a, if not a little cluttered, way.
Maybe then I could genuinely believe that my English teacher, Mr Norris, thought that I had a spontaneous talent in writing, instead of previously regarding him as a loony nutcase who had nothing better to do than boring-as-hell books as a part-time job. Maybe.
One cool-as-a-crisp morning, I escaped the house, mostly due to the tropical fruit-smelling candle that Mum had lit in the onion-stinking kitchen, which, according to my sensitive nose, smelt a whole lot worse, and took a peaceful walk into the city park, sombrely alone in my thoughts.
Until Tara's high-pitched voice awakened me from my vegetative state - and almost deafened my ear muff-free ears.
"Ow, Tara, you don't have to talk so loudly!" I exclaimed, her words still ringing through my mind.
"Sorry," Tara sheepishly replied. "I called your name at least three times, but you didn't respond at all."
A playful smirk offering a subtle hint on my coral-glossed lips, I said, "Never mind. Anyway, what are you doing here?"
"Me? What am I doing in this lovely park on a gloriously bright summer day?" Tara mockingly fluttered her hands for air, a Hollywood-perfected expression of horror portrayed on her pretty, breath-taking face. "Oh, nothing," she said, returning back to her
Cassie sleepily smiled. "Me too," she responded, then closed her taupe eye shadowed eyes.
This, I instinctively knew, was happiness. In its purest form.
Chapter 6
The days following passed as rapidly as a swift summer breeze; I slowly shifted back into my what was once normal routine, which typically consisted of travelling into town - sometimes alone, if I was in the mood, or with Cassie, whose company brightened up any shopping trip - or communicating with my holidaying friends, to whom I still hadn't found the vital courage to admit the recent events.
Besides, none of my friends - all of whom I'd made during my attendance at Applebury High - didn't have the same amiable aura unlike Tara, who I regularly called or text every so often. It was a huge shame that my memorable friendships that I'd formed whilst at primary hadn't lasted during secondary; one of the hardest, most painful lessons I'd had to learn about life was that friends couldn't always stick together as promised and that drifting apart was sometimes inevitable. I reckoned that if Tara managed to attend the same school as me, our whole gang of reliable pals would have still been going strong - though she gave off the impression of being oblivious to the fact, Tara had been the glue of the group and all of us fell apart once she left.
So much for not making regrets, huh?
When I was ready to drop from spending money that my pocket money (yes, really, Mum and Dad still insisted on a basic allowance once a week - and I was old enough to get a basic job!) could barely afford on lavish clothes that I couldn't imagine myself wearing until I was at least 20 (one of my hopes was that irresistibly adorable panda brooches - ones that would define me as a laughing stock at school - would be making spectacular waves in Vogue by then) or staying up extra late chatting to Cassie, I would stay in my bedroom, the windows wide open to let in some much-wanted air, and just write about how I feel deep down.
Having been a prisoner to my erratic emotions for way too long, one day I threw up my hands in frustration - also at the aspect of being forced to complete my homework, whose papers were starting to turn a rustic yellow - and decided to put all of my thoughts, good and bad, down onto a nice lilac-shaded piece of paper.
And to my utter surprise, I was intrigued by the way expressing my feelings onto paper felt. Everything, from unquenchable horror to hard-to-fight sadness to generally being lost in my own mind, made sense in a, if not a little cluttered, way.
Maybe then I could genuinely believe that my English teacher, Mr Norris, thought that I had a spontaneous talent in writing, instead of previously regarding him as a loony nutcase who had nothing better to do than boring-as-hell books as a part-time job. Maybe.
One cool-as-a-crisp morning, I escaped the house, mostly due to the tropical fruit-smelling candle that Mum had lit in the onion-stinking kitchen, which, according to my sensitive nose, smelt a whole lot worse, and took a peaceful walk into the city park, sombrely alone in my thoughts.
Until Tara's high-pitched voice awakened me from my vegetative state - and almost deafened my ear muff-free ears.
"Ow, Tara, you don't have to talk so loudly!" I exclaimed, her words still ringing through my mind.
"Sorry," Tara sheepishly replied. "I called your name at least three times, but you didn't respond at all."
A playful smirk offering a subtle hint on my coral-glossed lips, I said, "Never mind. Anyway, what are you doing here?"
"Me? What am I doing in this lovely park on a gloriously bright summer day?" Tara mockingly fluttered her hands for air, a Hollywood-perfected expression of horror portrayed on her pretty, breath-taking face. "Oh, nothing," she said, returning back to her
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