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When Tresa confided in me about catching him kissing another girl, allegedly, I dared to hope it was truly over.
Yet, she remains haunted by the possibility of a reconciliation, especially now that Daxton is here tonight, celebrating in the same club. And so, I am tasked with the role of detective, closely monitoring her every move, ensuring she doesn't succumb to the lure of a destructive reunion.
I will keep my watchful eye, alert and ready to intervene if necessary. It's my duty to safeguard Tresa, to protect her from herself.
Her love story exhausts me constantly, and her choices are always unpredictable, often leading her down dangerous paths. It's why I believe I'm here, to be her guardian, to shield her from harm and prevent history from repeating itself. Deep down, I know she's still willing to forgive her ex, to give him yet another chance, for reasons unknown.
I slipped on my noise-blocking headphones. With a sigh, I reached into my worn backpack and pulled out my cherished journal, its pages ready to hold the thoughts that were swirling inside me. Writing and reading have always been my sanctuary, especially when it comes to novels. But lately, the constant vigilance over Tresa has left me drained. It's ironic how the very surveillance I crave freedom from has consumed every ounce of my being. My own story has been cast aside, as if it no longer matters. No one bothers to ask.
Though many may assume my identity lies in being a writer, in truth, I consider myself an avid reader. Immersing myself in the depths of a book brings me more joy than crafting my own tales. I reserve my pen for when inspiration strikes or when captivating moments beckon to be preserved.
Those instances, when whispers of brilliance dance upon the canvas of my mind, are meticulously transcribed in my cherished notebook or journal.
Allow me to introduce myself to all of you who have chosen to delve into my story.
I go by the name Skyelynne Clementine Coleman, but you can just call me Skye. My name is a combination of my great grandmother's name, Lynne, and my mother's name, Clementine. She believed that this unique fusion would create the perfect name for me, as if I were born from the heavens above. However, the truth is quite different. I was actually born out of wedlock, which only fueled my mother's resentment towards me. Yet, she held onto the hope that one day she would find solace in the skies by giving me this name.
My arrival into this world was unexpected, catching everyone by surprise. It was during a time when no one anticipated my mother bringing a child into the world, and unfortunately, it deepened her animosity towards me. She despised me because I was the product of an irresponsible man who left her abandoned. My mother was merely seventeen when she gave birth to me, far too young to grasp the weight of her actions.
She has always confessed to considering abortion when she learned of her pregnancy with me. But it seems that some force beyond our control intervened, thwarting her plans. Perhaps she should have taken preventative measures, such as using condoms, to avoid an unwanted pregnancy.
After all, condoms were invented for precisely this purpose. However, she neglected to utilize any precautions and now carries the burden of remorse.
Not only did the father of her child abandon her, but he also impregnated another woman, making my mother a single parent.
In addition to me, my mother also gave birth to twins. My older brother, born merely one minute ahead of me, insists on being called "big brother" due to this seemingly trivial distinction in our birth times. Personally, I find the whole thing rather absurd.
It seemed as though my mother harbored a disdain for me, solely because I inherited the less desirable traits from my runaway father, unlike my fortunate twin brother. As a result, I can't help but feel that she showers my brother with more affection than she does me. Truthfully, I can't blame her. The affection I seek is found in a different form - the unwavering support and love of my best friend, Tresa. She has become my rock, my sanctuary amidst the complexities of life.
Tresa's parents, in stark contrast to my own, exude warmth and compassion. Though it must be said, their marriage has endured its fair share of turmoil, leading to their eventual separation. Tresa's father was granted custody, forever altering her life.
Yet, even in the face of such adversity, we have remained steadfast pillars of support for one another. There is an unspoken understanding that binds us, connecting our experiences on a deeper level.
However, like any two individuals, we possess our own unique qualities. Tresa thrives in social settings, embracing the thrill of late-night outings and reveling in the company of a multitude of friends. Her extroverted nature is a stark contrast to my introverted tendencies.
I find solace in moments of solitude, often preferring the refuge of my own thoughts.
The luxury of sleep and the escape offered by the pages of a captivating novel are my chosen companions, always there to whisk me away from the burdens of reality.
Despite our differences, it is our unwavering loyalty and understanding that make our friendship flourish.
Lost in the rhythm of my thoughts, I failed to notice the presence that had joined me at the table. A foreign scent tiptoed its way into my senses, one that didn't belong to Tresa. But my gaze remained steadfastly fixed on the words unraveling before me, until I finally committed the last stroke of my pen.
Only then did I allow my eyes to drift upwards, locking with an unexpected sight. Daxton, the enigmatic figure I mentioned at the outset of my tale, had taken a seat across from me. Tresa's on-again, off-again boyfriend, the one she often labels as a jerk and heartbreaker. In deference to her, I've learned to steer clear of mentioning his name.
And yet, there he was, lounging before me, his legs casually crossed as he indulged in sips from a champagne bottle clasped casually in his hand.
The club is ridiculously packed with high school students, all caught up in the whirlwind of drinking and partying. Honestly, I couldn't care less about all of that. What really worries me is the fact that Tresa is practically forcing me to stick around with this crazy bunch.
Out of the blue, he decides to strike up a conversation.
"Every time I see you, you're glued to that journal like it's the last book on Earth," he remarks, his voice laced with a playful challenge.
I barely look up, my pen scratching across the page with a vengeance. "Busy," I mutter, the word a shield against his intrusion.
Who has time for Daxton, anyway? He's the embodiment of bad memories – my best friend's ex, the high school tormentor who made my life a living hell. Tresa, bless her heart, tries to convince me he's just "joking around," but I refuse to listen. We all know the type – the classic bully, laughing with his cronies while systematically dismantling my existence.
And unfortunately, that nightmare is my reality.
