trapped yet free.

He closed his eyes. Silence. Silence was always good- he had loved it from the first ever time he had felt it. Silence was not just quietness, calmness, it was a feeling of freedom. The soothing feeling that nobody was judging him. That he was truly alone, with himself and the world inside his head.

He thought about her. Her alluring smile, the way her lips turned upwards and her eyes crinkled and her dimples formed and her laugh, that beautiful sound, the tuneful melody of her joy.

He opened his eyes.

No.

He didn’t like that memory.

Again, he closed his eyes, savouring the relief that swept over him once he was in his own brain again. He loved it. He loved the brief escapes into his mind, reliving his memories, leaving the cruel world around him for the world inside his head.

He thought about the nightmare of his childhood, the person who was so deceiving and kind yet so terrifying, his hand coming towards his cheek as he cried out in pain-

No.

He didn’t like that memory either. He felt the stinging of the hand on his cheek, the burning sensation that he would never forget scorched into him, like a scar that stubbornly refused to fade.

He suddenly jerked back to reality. He heard a faint voice calling out to him, telling him to come back, to not be dragged into the chasm which he called memories, to come back.

Because they needed him.

But he needed the memories more.

They were like drugs, making him hallucinate, making him temporarily happy. He was obsessed. He was obsessed with going back, even though it was bad. The memories of her, the one, the reason he was even going back in the first place, was fresh in his mind. Everything he loved about her was fresh in his mind.

He selected a certain memory. That day was nostalgic, almost cheesy, like it was out of a movie. He felt the joy that he had felt all those years ago when he held her hand, the tingling through his hands and arms and to his heart.

He stopped time the moment she laughed.

He looked at her face in wonder.

Beautiful. How wondrous and captivating and glorious.

Nobody could capture happiness like her.

He almost cried.

He opened his eyes. That voice again. Telling him to come back. To stop killing himself. But he couldn’t. He didn’t understand how it was killing him. If anything, it made him feel alive. He was captured by the beauty of her smile. He craved the happiness that they had felt once upon a time. They were like a fairytale and she was like a painting, flawed yet to perfect that her imperfections counted for nothing. He glanced at the flower in her hand. A daffodil. That he had picked.

He went to that memory, and smiled at her smile. Her expression of delight and surprise. He wondered if she ever smiled like that again.

He knew that he never did.

He somehow forced himself to return to another memory. He was back on the basketball court, one of the places he loved the most. The place where he forgot everything and was really truly happy. The ball was in his hands, and he was dribbling, faster and faster and faster, when suddenly a person jumped on him from behind him-

He felt the impact of his head on the floor and heard the groan that escaped his lips when he felt the pain. He could feel the blood on his forehead, dripping onto his eyelid and cheek, the blood that wouldn’t stop coming, the feeling that this was it, he was going to die. For once in his life, he was scared. It did not hurt until much later. He felt the pain of the next few weeks once more. He felt the bruise on his forehead and instinctively touched the place where he was hurt, and again felt resentment at the person who had tackled him.

He remembered a match against another team. A match which she came to watch, her big brown eyes gleaming with surprise and delight every time he got the ball. The wide smiles they exchanged every time he shot. He shot just for her. Just to see the happiness on her face, again and again and again.

Her happiness was the only reason he did it. It made him feel proud of himself.

After she left, he never played basketball again.

He wanted to go back. He actually considered it. He considered feeling the exhilaration after another three-pointer, another win. He missed the feeling of being needed by people.

Even though all they were doing was playing games.

But no. Basketball was useless, now that she was gone. There was no point doing anything if he didn’t have anything to do it for.

He heard that voice again. He was cross. He did not want a stupid, ignorant voice ruining his peaceful time. He could feel himself slipping into the chasm, deeper and deeper and deeper. He could feel his humanity slipping away. He could feel himself falling apart, turning into somebody that nobody would ever recognise again. He was already beginning to forget what the real world looked like. He could feel himself turning into a ghost.

But he loved it. He loved not having to think about himself all the time. He loved forgetting himself now to go back to when he was happy, carefree, safe.

When life felt like it was worth it.

He sifted through the photo album that he called his memories, diving into the ones that he clearly remembered, feeling the emotions that he so desperately yearned for. He wanted to go back. He knew it was a dangerous trap, He knew that emotions were very very bad and that he definitely should not be fooled by them. But he could not stop going back. He could not forget the feeling of happiness.