Young Writers Society

He wondered what they had to celebrate with such uproar. What difference did a new year make? It was just another year of your life crossed out by time and inevitability, bringing you one step closer to your end. And he knew that no matter how many promises, or resolutions they made, none of those smiling people would see a single one of those through by the time the days rolled out and time descended once again on them to cross out another mark. It was fake - all of them and all of it, was fake.

"You are falling behind," he heard his father say. He looked up to find him squinting at his grade sheet from the top of his nose.
"Not really," he said, "I have topped in every subject other than math. In fact -"
"Exactly," his father said, "You are falling behind."
"But - "
"No buts, Will. You need to improve your math. The world does not settle for the second best, do you understand that?"
He nodded dumbly, knowing that was the answer he wanted from him.
"I will try harder next time."
"Good," his father said, folding up the grade sheet, "Now why don't you go upstairs, clean up and start with the book I gifted you on your birthday, I haven't seen you open it since."
Will sighed, "Okay." He waited as his father reoccupied his seat on the sofa and then turned towards him.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked.
Will pointed to the coffee table where his medal sat on his grade sheet, "My medal?"
His father sighed, as if the conversation had exhausted him, "You can have that later. Now go."
Will nodded, and hurried up the stairs without another word.

Sometimes, he genuinely wondered how two souls as different as his parents' found each other. He couldn't seem to find any common ground between them - their worlds were as far apart as the earth and the sky. He did not understand how they managed to knit the two realities together in order for them to exist, fall in love and build a life together.
But he did see it sometimes. He saw it in the way his mother was the only one his father would listen to in times when he just had to have his way, or the way his mother's steps would always become lighter after his father came home from work at night.
Maybe what they had wasn't very obvious in your face, but if you looked closer, you could see that they were happy and content with each other. And at the end of the day, he supposed, that is what really mattered.

And even though it was dark, he could feel the gentle turn of her lips as she nodded in silence.
He watched the houses passing him by through the window. Of course, he knew that it was the other way around; that he was the one moving forward, but he liked to imagine otherwise. The houses the people on the street, even the cars that would sometimes brush close to theirs - the entire world outside his window where every man seemed to be engaged in a race to outrun the other, to see who disappeared first and moved out of the corner of his vision. He would watch them all, and wonder what they were in a hurry for, what they were running after - this world that is constantly on a move.
Before he realized, the scenes shifted one after the other, and his mother had already pulled into their garage. He broke out of his reverie at the car door closing and looked up.

It was strange how many times they found themselves in this same position - sitting across each other, and going about their day as if the silence did not matter. As if it didn't press around them and follow them back into their separate rooms when they retired for the night with a half mumbled good night.

She wondered about it sometimes - the silence. When had it come to define them? When had they lost such control of their lives that they had allowed this silence to take over and dictate their relationship? She tried to pinpoint the day or night when they had finally given up. But looking back, she only remembered late nights and cold dinners and arguments that were excused before they had even been started.

"What do you want, Will? What do you really want?" Her voice was soft with the desperation to see, to understand and make sense of everything that went down between them; her eyes imploring him to answer her, to tell her that they would be alright.
He looked into those dark hazels of her eyes, and swallowed hard. His throat felt like sandpaper and there wasn't enough air in the room to breathe. Still, he stood there and looked at her, ready to go down on his knees if that would get her to stay. But here she was, giving him a chance, asking him what he wanted and he -
"I don't know," he shook his head sadly, "I don't know what I want."
By the time he had looked up, she had already taken a step back and in that moment knew, that he had lost.

He stood there for a minute unable to react or move, with only his chest heaving with heavy breaths. His father stood opposite to him, that same nonchalant statue of his childhood, leveling that same unstirring gaze, as if nothing in the world could break that great big facade of his. He was sick of it.
"I don't know Dad, why don't you tell me? You were the one -"
"You know what Will? You have always been so busy blaming me for everything bad in your life son, that you never stopped for a moment to see where you went wrong. Every time, every time, you come in here and you tell me how I have failed you, but I could turn the table around at you any time. I know that its easy to point a finger and shift all responsibilities, but ask yourself this - what are you running from?"