Sincerely, Emily ✓

05 • I've Been Called Worse

"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL?"

It was the first thing he said after the big "bomb" dropped, and he was staring at me as if I had a big yellow blob on my head. He was clearly in shock, and he kept opening and closing his mouth like some kind of fish who was trying to breathe.

"You — you — "

"Yes, Oliver. Keep going."

"I'm — but they only — how could — ?"

"Okay," I snapped, irritated at his own confusion. "I'll come back when you have the ability to form proper sentences."

"WAIT!" I had already closed half of the curtains before he spoke again. "I — just give me a second, okay? This is too much to handle, even for an attractive guy like me."

Help me. Even in drastic situations like this, he was still egotistical.

"Look, I'm not up for it right now," I admitted, sighing. "I know what you're going to say. I've heard it all before. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go back to my laptop."

I was already halfway across the room when I felt something hit my head. A crumpled ball of paper.

I didn't know when or how I did it, but the next thing I knew I was by the window ledge again, ready to pounce off and attack. "Did you just hit me with a paper ball?" I hissed. "What are you, twelve?"

"Ten, actually."

I scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder if you are ten."

"Careful, Woods," he said with an amusing tone. "You don't want me to crumple another one of your letters, do you?"

My letters? I looked back to the crumpled paper that was now on the floor. I picked it up and of course, it was the February 13th one. The first letter I'd ever written, where I explained almost everything about the Thing. The one that had somehow slipped off my fingers. The letter that could mean two different things: knowing and not knowing the inevitable.

"Don't. You. Dare." The letters were too precious to be ruined. Even though it held bad memories, I still didn't want to lose them. It was too much to lose.

"Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis."

I paled. "What?"

He rolled his eyes, now back to his old annoying self. It was kind of hard to believe that only fifteen seconds ago, he was in shock and couldn't even shape a single sentence. "That's what your disease is called, right?"

Your disease. Like it belonged to me.

I didn't want to belong to it.

"You read the letters," I responded grimly. "You don't have to ask me."

"True," he answered matter-of-factly. "But sadly, you have bad handwriting."

Smoke and fire were practically shooting out of my nostrils as I glared at him.

He laughed. "I'm kidding! Chill out, Woods. Take a joke for once."

I narrowed my eyes. "Jokes aren't really my thing."

"Explains why you're so grumpy all the time."

I glared at him harder.

"You know," he started, clearly entertained. "If you're going to stare at me like that, it's best to just take a picture. It'll last longer."

"Stop flattering yourself." I began pushing the curtains back.

"Wait!" he called. "Where are you going?"