For the first time in a long time I'm satisfied with my appearance when I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. I stop and smooth out my Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt (I have a long sleeved black and white striped shirt underneath to hide my arms and wrists), then tuck the front into my black jeans. Next, I touch up my eyeliner before smiling at my reflection and heading downstairs for breakfast.

Laura stands at the counter, sprinkling cinnamon onto a bowl of oatmeal. She looks up when she hears me open the fridge door and take out the orange juice. "Good morning, Evelyn," she says. She looks back down at her breakfast, but her eyes flit back up to me an instant later.

She's not used to seeing me wear my regular clothes, but decides not to say anything, and gets right back to slicing an apple to go with her oatmeal. I decided my therapist was right when she said no one back at home would want me to change for anyone. Remembering what Frank said gave me the final push in believing it. I even considered, if only for a second, wearing my Black Parade jacket to school today to really bring my look over the top. It is Thursday, April 9th, A.K.A., Gerard's birthday. I plan on calling him tonight, but I already texted him a short and sweet message, though he hasn't yet replied. Probably because it hasn't even hit 8 A.M.

After I've had breakfast, I quickly brush my teeth, pack myself a lunch, make sure I have my phone on me, then head out the door. A jacket or hoodie isn't necessary in the weather we've been having recently, and it's only getting warmer out. It'll soon be People-Getting-Suspicious-Of-My-Long-Sleeves season. I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, having no idea and not even wanting to think about what Laura's reaction might be to seeing my scars and healing cuts.

She'd probably try to bring it up gently, like she did when she tried to raise the topic of my eating disorder. I'll shut that conversation down, too, probably be even more defensive. I'd rather melt in the sweltering heat of mid-summer than face her.

At least it's a short walk to school, and before I know it I'm entering through the big front doors and weaving my way between other students. I keep my head down, avoiding anyone's eyes in case they decide to spit insults at me— or hiss them under their breaths—like I was used to at my old school. All because people didn't like that I looked different to them.

When I finally reach my locker, somehow without having bumped square into anybody, I find Ryder leaning against it.

"Is this what you call 'Emo Freak'?" He smirks, stepping aside so I can open my locker.

"I don't know, is it?" I take out my math book and hug it in front of my body, almost like a shield. Like the hundreds of pages of quadratics and trigonometry and what-not will ward off the blows of insults that kids might throw for no reason other than kids are just mean sometimes.

"Nah," Ryder says easily, looking me up and down. "I wouldn't call it freakish at all."

"Honestly?" I ask, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. I avert my gaze to the floor. "People are staring, aren't they?"

"Way, I don't know what kind of shit school you used to go to, but literally no one gives a fuck about what you look like right now," Ryder says bluntly. I'm taken aback. "I mean, you showed up here with hair the colour of ketchup and a nose ring, and you're worried about people judging you for wearing a Pink Floyd shirt and ripped jeans?"

I lower my math book and hold it at my side, suddenly feeling silly. "And eyeliner," I mutter, but he's right: No one is looking at me, or paying any attention to me. Maybe I'm just extremely self-centred and it's taken this long to realize it, or to have some sense knocked into me, or maybe I've just been blinded by near crippling anxiety. It's probably both.

"Come on, Way," Ryder slaps a hand on my shoulder and guides me down the hall. "Let's get to class before the bell so we can have good seats."

I sigh and reply quietly, "That's probably a good idea."

• • •

I don't know why people ever think the guys and I are the type of people you'd find going out, showing up to wild parties, drinking 'til the sun comes up. I guess being in a rock band comes with expectations. When we say we like to stay in and play Dungeons & Dragons, we're not lying.

Lindsey arranged that a bunch of friends come over for my birthday to play, and the only thing that could've made my night any better would have been if Eve was there too. Still, it was nice to hang out with friends I hadn't seen in a while, some of which had never even gotten the pleasure of meeting Evelyn. Even so, the occasion managed to take my mind off of how painfully not there she was and I had a great time.

Mikey seemed distracted though, like he had something more on his mind than our adventure, (which included an elf wizard that got poly-morphed into a sheep that could talk). He's seemed detached recently, stares off into space until someone snaps him back to reality, plays it off as being nothing or an odd bad night's sleep. It's not nothing and I'm worried about my brother.

When the only people left in the living room are him and I, Lindsey, Frank and Jamia, and Ray and Christa, I pull him aside, into the kitchen, to talk. "What's up, Mikes?"

He leans against the counter top coolly. "What do you mean?"

"Don't even try me, I know you better than that." I persist, "What's wrong?"

Mikey sighs, his cool and collected facade crumbles when he drops his gaze to the kitchen tiles, my suspicion immediately being proven to be correct. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"'Course you can, but why?" I ask, my eyebrows knit in concern.

"I- uh- I don't wanna be alone," he admits, rubbing his forearm. "I feel like everyone has someone but me and going back to an empty apartment just makes it worse."

"Oh." My face falls. I don't know what to do but step forward and hug him, don't know what to say because I had no idea he was feeling that way. I finally settle on telling him, "You can stay here for as long as you want."

He pulls away. "I'll probably just take the couch for a couple days."

"Or you could take Eve's room," I suggest.

He blinks. "I haven't even been up there since she left. I don't know if she'd want me staying in there."

"Yeah," I say, looking down. I'm not even sure if I want him staying in there. Of course I want him to be comfortable, and the room is out of use and it'd probably be unfair to banish him to the couch, but something about someone living in my daughter's old room when I still expect to see her in there when I walk by doesn't sit well with me.

"Maybe I should ask her."

As if on cue, my phone begins ringing from my jean pocket, and when I take it out I see that it's Eve. Immediately, my heart leaps. "Eve's calling!" I exclaim, the pick up the call.

I have to hold it about a foot away from my ear when she yells into the phone, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!"

"Thank you, Darling!" I say, smiling widely. Mikey takes his phone out, busying himself by scrolling through social media, though I know he's probably listening to my side of the conversation.

"Did you get the package?" Eve asks.

"The package?" I look around the kitchen, all over the counters, scrambling to find the pile of mail I brought in this morning. "Hold on, Evie, I'm looking for it." Finally, I locate a rectangular shaped package buried under bills and other envelopes. "Found it! What is it?"

"Well, you have to open it to find out, but do it when you're alone, okay? I only want you to see it."

"Should I be scared?" I ask, turning it over in my hands.

Eve thinks for a moment. "I don't think so. A lot of it is old so don't be worried about that, the stuff at the very end is newer."

"I think you just gave away what it is," I say.

"Probably." I can imagine her shrugging it off. "I guess you were gonna find out anyway... Did you do anything for your birthday today?"

I lean against the counter as I recount what I guess could be considered as my party arranged by Lindsey, though the term "get together" feels more appropriate. Although I can't see her, I know she's hanging on to my every word as I describe in detail our game of D&D, and how amazing the birthday cake Linds made for me was. I miss the concentrated look on Eve's face she displays when people talk to her, the way she shows she's listening by nodding along. If I close my eyes I can picture it and it's almost like she's standing right here in the kitchen with me.

When I finish my rambling and stop to catch my breath, she says, "That sounds rad, I wish I could've been there."

"Me too, Evie," I say.

In this short moment of silence when neither of us are speaking, I look up to see Mikey still standing across the kitchen. He catches my eye and mouths, "Can I talk to her?"

I ask her, "Hey, you wanna talk to Mikey? He's right here."

"No," she says sarcastically, then her tone changes to excitement, "Give him the phone!"

• • •

With Mikey asleep in Eve's room, Lindsey asleep next to me, and the dim light of my phone, I carefully tear open the package Eve sent me to find exactly what I was expecting: one of the many black notebooks she had in her room. On her nightstand, on her desk, on her shelf. Flipping through it briefly, I find the earliest poems to be written while she was in the hospital. A chill crawls its way down my spine when I remember that hellish time. Mostly hellish for her, but heartbreaking for me. Nevertheless, I open the book and begin reading:

"Just Snap Out Of It"

Wouldn't it be easier to just snap out of it if the signals we were receiving weren't so mixed?

If one minute the people we look up to weren't preaching body positivity online in a quick post, their mantra, "Just love yourself!"

And the next, on the cover of some magazine under layers of photoshop editing, endorsing those "ten simple tips and tricks."

"Lose seven pounds in a week, it's worth the hospital visits!"

Do you have a flat tummy?

Is every food that touches your lips healthy?

And most importantly, are you beach-body-ready?

And they wonder why we hate ourselves.

Every meal we refuse; every pound we lose; every diet culture induced, repressed disorder fuelled, zero-calorie sweetener we choose, is a sick and twisted victory.

Though, business savvy.

Someone is making money off the self loathing they create.

We give and they take, and they take and they take until we're all nothing but carbon copies of empty-eyed models on the runway.

That motto, "Just love yourself," sounds like static.

There can be no self to love if we can't just snap out of it.

E.M.W

• • •

I don't know how to casually drop those poems in... what if I insert one at the top every time it's Gerard's POV? or is that a stupid idea? enlighten me.