There was a wonderful memory that comes back to me like déjà vu, lingering in my brain for a brief period before choosing to reset my mind to lonely yet brighter days.

It's the memories—both good and bad—that repeat over and over in my head, recreating every second and minute of my time with Elise, my mother, and my father. When that happens, it sometimes worries me, and other times I simply ponder about it, wishing I could go back in time and make things right.

I try to envision how different my life would be if my mother hadn't taught me how to paint. What would I do differently today if I did things differently then? Would I still be interested in art?

"How are you feeling?" Ms. Wilson asks. There were fine lines—wrinkles—in the crease of her eyes when she smiles. I consider how people just smile, whether it's a fake or genuine one. I suppose it's true that you can tell if someone is genuinely smiling by looking into their eyes, and sometimes I get jealous when people get to do that. They get to smile genuinely and feel so happy.

"I'm doing great," I told her truthfully. No signs of lies there. No hints of hidden feelings. Just me, trying to lay my raw emotions out in front of her like an open book.

"How are you keeping up?" Ms. Wilson asks, intertwining her fingers and resting her hands on the table, maintaining her professional aura.

I furrow my eyebrows, "What do you mean? At school or at home?" I asked her.

"With your life," she says it so simply. "With your hobbies. With your friends."

To begin with, I haven't spent a lot of time with Savannah. I haven't seen her in weeks, and when I do run into her in the hallway, and our eyes would meet, she quickly looks away as if she doesn't see me. She has never acknowledged my existence, and I haven't either when it comes to her.

Call me petty or whatever, but that's how I function. That's how I live life.

My relationship with Aaren appears to be sailing smoothly. However, there are many things about him that I have yet to learn. I'm not sure why, but I get a sense of euphoria when it comes to getting to know him. It's as if my body is urging me to pursue him and become a part of his life.

Carve a hole and make myself fit, and that's that.

"I started sketching," I find myself talking about a sketch I did in my room a few days ago. It was a peaceful moment—one that I'm sure I'll remember fondly for the rest of my life.

I raise my head to look Ms. Wilson in the eyes. I could feel my lips tugging into a smile, and I could feel how pleasant it felt to smile at her, simply thinking about the progress that I have made.

"And how did it go?" Ms. Wilson adjusts her sitting posture slightly, retaining the professional aura she's attempting to project toward me while simultaneously trying to project the notion of me, allowing myself to be at ease and safe with her and with whatever I try to spill.

"It was really...." I try to think of a word to describe it as I ignore the voice inside my head, "It felt magical."

To be honest, words can't express how I felt when I finally picked up a pencil after years of not doing so. It felt as if I had stepped out of the dark and discovered my source of light. It was also as though I had stepped into another universe—a new world with new, promised beginnings.

"I guess it felt magical because I forgot what it felt like," My brain wanders back to that exact moment as I continue, "I forgot the feelings it brought me whenever I paint or sketch. It was an insurmountable feeling of happiness that I thought I'll never be able to feel again."

Ms. Wilson nods her head as she scribbles something down on her small notepad in front of her, "And do you see yourself finally doing it again?"

I meet her eyes again, and I felt the smile on my face fading. I shift my gaze downward. I stare at my fidgeting fingers, unable to find myself answering her question because I also ask myself that.

I find myself asking myself whether this is just temporary—simply just a blip on the radar. I ask myself whether this is merely a trick of the light. I ask myself whether what I'm doing right now is genuinely helping me in finding answers to all of my questions and what-ifs. I also wonder whether I push myself or feel compelled to accomplish things just because I need to finally get myself out there—to finally appreciate the beauty of the actual world despite its harsh truths.

"I would also want to know that," I say in a soft tone. "I want to know, but how would I know? What will make me sure of things?"

"That is something you need to discover on your own. Maybe then, you'll be able to answer those questions you have about yourself," Ms. Wilson says. "But let me offer you a piece of advice. You can either take it or leave it here."

I tilt my head up once again to look at her.

"Try changing the way you understand the world. Not everything and everyone is there to harm you. You simply have a hunch that they do, but the final judgment is all up to you."

When I left her office after our thirty-minute conversation, I went straight to my locker to return a few notebooks that I didn't need today. Savannah was standing beside me, gazing as soon as I closed my locker door.

When I first saw her, I let a tiny shriek out of my system and placed a hand on my chest, attempting to feel my heartbeat.

"Hey," I tell her, and for the first time, it sounded awkward. "You scared me. What's up?"

"We need to talk," Savannah says. Her face matched the tone of her voice—serious.

My brows knitted as I look at her. I shift my eyes over her face, looking for any hints of a joke written on it.

Savannah casts a glance over her shoulder, then over mine. Her grasp on my wrist was a little too tight as she says, "Let's go somewhere private."

I let her drag me in the opposite direction from where I was supposed to head to. I could tell something wasn't right, but I couldn't put my finger on it. It's either something's wrong with her or something's wrong with me.