Chapter 2.

And there goes my hope, scattered across the floor in bits. My hands instinctively reach up to my neck as I pull the lanyard over my head and stare at the picture on it. I smile sadly at the picture, remembering how super-excited I was to finally get an I.D card. My extremely white and rounded cheeks are smiling with my teeth on full display.

So many mixed emotions are running through my veins that I don't know what to feel anymore. I slam the I.D card on her table and turn swiftly in the opposite direction, walking quickly out of the building. I'm pretty sure my colleagues are calling out my name, probably to ask how it went in there with Satan, but I block them all out. The only sound filling my ears is the loud thumping of my heart and the clicking of my heels against the tiled floor.

I can't get upset.

When I get upset, I cry, and when I cry - believe me - I get so ugly. I could turn Medusa to stone.

Deep breaths April... Take deep breaths... This was what my Dad would've said if he was here. He's the only person who knows how to calm me during my panic attacks, even when I start crying and get snot all over his shirt.

Being an adult sucks. But being miles away from your parents sucks even more.

Digging my hands into my pockets, I bring out my cell phone to call my other panic-attack-reliever, Jim.

My best friend.

He's one of the main reasons I was able to survive in this huge city by myself, with him buying me different flavors of ice cream and showing up on my doorstep every time I need him. If you don't have a best friend who buys you ice cream, to eat your heart out when you're depressed, then you better get yourself a new best friend.

The line at the other end of the call rings once then goes straight to voicemail. "Pick up the stupid phone Jim!" I yell into my cell phone, gripping it tightly.

I would've smashed my phone on the concrete floor out of frustration if I still had a job and enough money to buy a new one. Note to self: Never, out of depression or frustration, use your phone as a stress toy, starting from now.

I flag down a taxi, already getting stares from passers-by wondering why I'm screaming at a cellphone. Great! I'm a crazy lady now.

"5154 Aldrich Avenue," I tell the taxi man as I clamber in into the backseat, placing my box of office things on my lap and plugging in my earbuds. Bobbing my head to the sound of the Jonas brothers' song 'Sucker', I peer out the cab's window to look at the city I've gotten so used to, while everything before me passes in an accelerated rush.

The first few years I spent in Minneapolis away from my family were the worst times of my life. I was eighteen. I was just eighteen when I got an admission to Walden University.

I remember myself that day standing at the airport with my family about to see me off to school.

"I can't believe you're leaving us. You grew up too soon," my mom had said that day, in the midst of a flood of tears.

My whole family didn't like the idea of me moving to another state to go to college. I was their little girl who they wanted to check on every weekend to see if I was alright and they didn't have the chance to do that when I'm miles and miles away from them.

"Are you going to Minneapolis because of that boy?" came my Dad's deep voice from beside my Mom.

At the time, my family had known my obsession over my boyfriend. They'd known all about Tony Moriah and how he was going to that same University. I still don't get why they all dislike him. He's my boyfriend and they'll have to learn to deal with it. He's not going to be going any time soon.

"We've talked about this, Dad," I groaned in response.

"I just don't want you making irrational decisions because of some random boy. I'm only looking out for you, Bud." He hugged me close against his huge frame. My Dad might look huge and intimidating on the outside but, on the inside, he's just a big softie who loves puppies and donates half his salary every month to charity.

"You don't have to look out for me anymore. You'll look out for Jack, from now on." I nodded towards my little brother and ruffled his hair.

"I'm totally not going to miss you," Jack said and I laughed at how tough my thirteen-year-old brother was trying to look.

"That's a lie. You know you're bluffing."

"Of course I am! I'm nothing without you. You're my Netflix buddy, remember?"

I grinned in response and moved next to my elder brother who had been watching me very closely since we arrived at the airport. "I swear to God if that boy ever hurts you..."

"We're not doing this again, are we?"

"...I'm going to fly over there to break all bones in his stupid thin body," he finished and I rolled my eyes at him, wrapping my hands around his waist and pressing my cheeks to his chest.

"I hate you," I mumbled.

"I love you too, April," he chuckled, as I stepped back to look at my family. It would be a big fat lie if I said I wasn't going to miss them all.

"It's fine," I choked out. "Everything is going to be fine."

"You don't look fine. You're crying April," Jack said and my hands flew up to my face, hastily wiping the tears away, dragging my traveler's bag in the opposite direction before I could fully break down in tears.

I never saw my family after that, except during the little holidays, until I graduated from college. They came for my graduation and that's when I finally broke the news that I was getting engaged to Tony. My older brother totally lost it and started ranting in words that I'm sure weren't even English.

But now he's cool with it, I mean, why wouldn't he be? He has a family of his own already to worry about. He shouldn't be worrying about who his sister is or isn't marrying.

I'm so lost in my thoughts that I don't hear the cabman calling me and I flinch when I finally hear him yelling "Ms!". I smile apologetically at him and toss him a twenty without asking for my change.

I notice Tony's car isn't in the driveway and all the windows are locked. That's strange. He hasn't been home for three days and, when I called him last night, he told me that work was keeping him busy.

What kind of work is there which wouldn't allow you to come home for three days? It's like I don't even know him anymore.

I push my thoughts of him to the back of my head, not wanting to get more upset after everything that happened today.

The lights of our one-room apartment are flicked on by me, once I arrive upstairs, and my eyes roam the living room, taking in the home we've made over three years. Every corner of this house is filled with memories of us. Memories of us quarreling, fighting and... Wait, that's it? The only memories I have are of us fighting?

Good Lord April. Aren't you one sweet girlfriend?

I make my way to our room and drop my work-box in a corner. Our bedroom is definitely bigger than the living room because our king-sized bed has to fit in it. The bedroom still has so much more space left, though.

You're probably wondering why we bought a king-sized bed when it's just the two of us. Well, I'm a little bit chubby for a twenty-five-year-old so I literally occupy half of the bed on my own. Plus, I'm a very bad sleeper. While most girls sleep like babies and wake up pristine, I sleep with my limbs spread out and drool pouring from my mouth like Niagra falls.

Such a beautiful image, I know.

I take a quick shower and slip into one of Tony's shirts. You know when girls say they love wearing their boyfriend's shirt because they like the way it's big and oversized on them? It's vice versa in my own case. Wearing Tony's shirt feels like I'm being sucked into a tight tube, but I keep wearing it anyway because I believe that, one day, the dude's finally going to grow some muscles. Then his shirts will be oversized.

The buzzing of my phone distracts me from my shirt fantasy and I sprint towards it.

I don't know why, but I don't like when my phone rings and it takes me time to pick up the call. I feel like I'm disrespecting the person on the other end, who is waiting for me to pick up.That's also why I find it annoying when I call people and they don't answer.

In the course of my sprinting, I trip on my own feet and fall heavily against the floor.

Did I forget to mention? I'm one clumsy dumbass who trips over herself all the time. I'm not even surprised that I'm on the floor, wincing in pain, because this happens so frequently that I suspect my mom didn't bother to teach me how to walk when I was younger. I mean, I have to at least blame my clumsiness on someone.

I roll over to my side - to try to get up - when something under the bed catches my eye. Being the inquisitive reporter that I am, I stretch my hand to grab hold of the object.

It's a piece of clothing.

I bring it to my face, the sight before me breaking my heart into a thousand pieces. How did this get here? It's definitely not mine...

A girl's bra. It is literally a girl's bra.

"Are you sure it's not yours?"

"It's so not. It was a small cup size; I use a medium cup... and can't believe I'm having this conversation with you."