I stare blankly at my ceiling. It’s covered in posters and colorful stars, and a random song plays softly in the background. I’ve been lying on my bed in this exact position for what feels like forever. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know what else to do, or maybe the colors of the world outside seemed too bright for my eyes — eyes that are only used to beige. Soft.
I hung up the last of my best friend’s missing posters around school today. It’s nothing much, just a photo of her smiling that bright smile I’m not sure I’ll see again, with her mom’s number underneath in case anybody sees her. I would have kept going, but the worker at the stationery shop told me I couldn’t print more, with a blank expression I couldn’t help but find mildly annoying. Couldn’t he understand the importance of what I was doing? How important she was to me?
Then my mom enters my room. She looks at me with the same sympathetic expression everybody gave me after the sudden disappearance of my beloved friend.
“I know it’s hard,” she says, sitting down at the edge of my bed. “But you’re doing your best.”
I give her a flat expression. She hasn’t really been helpful about this whole situation. Neither has my dad, my sibling, or anyone else in my family. I smile, copying the understanding look in her eyes — which probably isn’t even real, by the way.
“I know. Thanks,” I reply, my words short to show that I’ve had enough of this same conversation, just worded differently each time. “I’ll keep doing my best until the police find a clue.”
She nods.
I nod back.
I feel proud of myself today.
And I probably will tomorrow as well.