The buzzing in my head of a thousand thoughts makes concentrating on completing assignments more difficult than it already is. The temptation to swipe all the papers off my desk and collapse onto my bed has never been so strong, and I need to hold my hands in tight fists to stop myself from doing just that.

"Why do I even need to know the quadratic formula?" I mumble to myself as I stare down at the math questions in front of me. I rub my eyes tiredly. My palms have tiny, stinging half-moon shapes from where my nails dig into them. "It's not like I'll have a future career in math."

Or any future at all, for that matter.

I peel my eyes away from my math homework and instead search on my shelves for my black notebook. The leather bound book in my hands, I flip through the pages, poems from even a couple years ago catching my eye.

The feelings behind the hopeless words I wrote, often late at night (or way too early in the morning), went away for a while. When they were gone, I rarely wrote in this notebook. Now they're back and so are the gloomy thoughts that I only know how to express through metaphors and worrying stanzas.

I finally stop rifling the pages when I land on the last entry from not long ago.

It's like a sudden switch is flipped, draining all colour without trigger, without warning.

All emotions are stripped, how to smile is a memory from another day's morning.

She'd like nothing better than to cry, break down, tears running down her face as she's gasping for air.

But her eyes are left dry; she's left in silent despair.

Maybe she just needs sleep? Not with so many thoughts occupying her mind.

Thoughts that are worrying and deep, where happy ones are hard to find.

It's like she's slowly drowning, but everyone else around she sees breathe.

As the slow ticking time passes, she's counting down the moments until her demons might finally leave.

-E.M.W.

I slide the notebook back in its place on my shelf, the distracted thoughts buzzing in my head only having grown worse. I won't be able to do any math tonight.

The prevailing thought circling my head is one that makes me want to lie with my face down on the floor: What do I even want to do with my life?

Sure, I've considered it before, and what I really want to do is be a writer. I know I'll have Gerard's full support, but what do I do but write depressing poems? They all go forgotten in the pages of notebooks that I'll never share because they're not that good, and I've never been that motivated to get any better. That's not enough.

I'm not enough.

I'm not enough, I'm not enough, I'm not enough. How many times can I think it before something comes along and proves me wrong, or stops me from succumbing to the nagging in my brain? The one that's drawing me to the satisfaction of self destruction like a magnetic force I'm not sure how much longer I'll be able to withstand.

"Eve?"

I don't know how many minutes I've been laying, willing my body to melt into the cold floor, but not even Frank's voice compels me to move.

"Huh?" I speak without moving my mouth to let him know I'm alive, at the very least.

"Quick question," he says, stepping over me, and looking down at me sideways. "What are you doing on the floor?"

"I'm having an existential crisis." My speech is muffled because my face is pressed up against the floor. "Don't worry about it, it happens all the time."

"Gee!" He calls out.

"No, Frankie," I groan. "I'm fine, don't—"

Frank cuts off my protest and goes on. "Eve is having an existential crisis and I'm not mature enough to handle it!"

I sigh, a sinking feeling in my stomach. From where I still lay, I hear Gerard's footsteps approaching as they climb the stairs, and his voice calling out in reply. "And you think I'm mature?"

"Hey, you're the dad here," Frank reasons.

Two other sets of footsteps can be heard following Gerard's and finally, he, Mikey, and Ray all stand in my bedroom alongside Frank. They all look down at me and I'm starting to feel like an idiot, but I usually feel like an idiot anyway so that's not gonna make me get up.

"What's up, Kiddo?" Gee asks, crouching next to me. "Contemplating the universe?"

I roll over onto my back. "Something like that."

Mikey walks over to my desk, observing the papers strewn across it. "Were you really doing math homework on a Friday night?" he asks incredulously.

I sit up, Gee grabbing my hand to pull me up on my feet. "Yes, I wa— well, not really. I tried," I say, going over to my desk in turn and putting away the untouched homework.

"You're still better at math than I was in school," Gee says.

"But you didn't need math, you went to art school," I argue.

"And you're gonna go to math school?"

"Well, no, but I don't know what I'm gonna do. I'm not really good at anything, I'm just kinda okay at a few little things."

"Take that back," Ray says. "We've all heard you sing."

I roll my eyes. "What are you saying?"

"He's saying you are good at something," Frank chimes in. "You're good at lots of things." The others nod in agreement, but I have a hard time believing what he's saying is true. I'm average, at best, and I have no reason to believe otherwise. My own girlfriend fawning over my voice won't even convince me, because I fawn over everything she does, too.

The way she can rattle off the elements of the period table amazes me. Heck, I even stare in admiration when she braids her hair.

"Uh-huh." I put my hands on my hips. "What else am I good at, then?"

Gee starts, "You're getting pretty good on that ukulele."

"I barely ever practice."

He looks down, defeated, and I feel bad because these are the guys who bought me that instrument in the first place. I should be more grateful. I should really pick it up more often, maybe get Em to bring her's over and we could play together. Just as I'm ready to say, "I told you so!" Mikey comes up with something else to say.

"How many notebooks have you filled?"

"What?" I question even though I know exactly what he's on about.

"C'mon, you have so many notebooks." He gestures around my room from my shelves to my desk to my nightstand. "You must have filled a dozen of them by now."

"That doesn't mean I'm any good at writing," I mutter.

"I didn't say anything about writing," he says back. I feel my face heat up.

"She's a writer, Gee. Your daughter's a writer!" Ray cheers, coming in strong with that support.

"I'm not gonna say that I really wanna read your writing, Evie," Gee says. "But I'm heavily implying that I really wanna read your writing."

"You don't even know what I write," I point out.

"Well, then, what do you write?"

"Fanfic about you guys," I say with a straight face.

Frank bursts out laughing in the way that he does when he folds in half, clutching his stomach.

Gee chuckles nervously. "Very funny, Eve. Quit joking around, what do you really write about?"

I ignore him and start towards the living room. "C'mon, gang, let's go watch The Addams Family."

"Wait, Eve, you are joking, right?" Gee calls after me.

"Are you coming or not?"

"Right?" The other guys all laugh at his desperation as they follow me downstairs. We all join Lindsey in the living room, who's settled comfortably in one of the armchairs. Her hands rest on her baby bump. She's set out a couple snack bowls for us all to munch on during the movie.

The four of us settle on the couch, me between Mikey and Ray, leaving no room for Gee. When he skips off the last stair and into the living room, he sits in the other arm chair next to Lindsey. "Do you know that Evelyn's a writer?" he asks her.

"Of course," she says, then adds nonchalantly, "She writes MCR fan-fiction, right?"

The four of us squished on the couch don't even try to contain our laughter. I catch Lindsey's eye and she winks letting me know that she heard our conversation from down here. She was just playing along, and masterfully, might I add.

"At least you're being creative," Gee mumbles.

"D-dad," I gasp. My eyes are stinging with tears of laughter. "I was j-joking!"

His face turns red and that nervous chuckle returns. "I knew that."

"No, you didn't!" I point an accusatory finger in his direction. "You really thought— I don't need fanfic when I actually live with you guys! Oh, I'll have to tell Em about this."

I remember the days when I really did curl up in bed with my bedroom lights turned off, a blanket over my head and my little phone screen blaring light in my eyes until the early hours of the morning. I drank up every word, even when I didn't know about whom they were written. Even when the author was anonymous, a random username in place of their name.

"Okay, fine, but that's on you. You were really convincing!" he defends.

"I'll take that compliment, and an Oscar."

"Alright, Kid, don't get ahead of yourself."

"No," Frank interjects. "I think she deserves an Oscar. You should've seen your face!" He starts laughing all over again.

As always, Frank's laugh is contagious, and we've all but forgotten about the movie we're supposed to be watching by the time Ray asks me, "Hey, Eve, you mentioning Emerald reminds me: Are you two lovebirds doing anything for Valentines day?" The room falls silent as everyone is suddenly very interested in my love life.

"Well, Frodude, how about you don't call us lovebirds."

"I'll stop calling you lovebirds when you think of something more original than 'Frodude'."

"Fair enough."

"So is that a yes or a no on Valentine's Day?" Mikey asks.

"It's a yes." Before the group can bombard me with questions or perhaps even attempt to embarrass me, I add, "But she won't tell me where she's taking me."

Out of the corner of my eye I catch Gee and Lindsey glance at each other. It's all I need to deduce that they know something I don't.

• • •