1 Chapter 1

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one

w o r d s . t h a t . r e a c h . y o u

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I always know that I won't live long.

I've even made sure of it.

Because in 250 days, I'll kill myself.

I've come to this conclusion 115 days ago, when I turned 17. There isn't even a particular reason for it, except for the fact that being alive is so tiring.

It's tiring to wake up when I don't want to wake up.

It's tiring to eat when I don't feel like eating.

It's even more tiring to hear and see and interact with people. That's the thing about people: I've never been really interested in them. Old people, young people, males, females. They're just living organisms who go about with their lives. Unfortunately, most of them feel like they're required to build relationship with one another.

Unfortunately, I'm not wired that way. Not ever since I've begun to remember and form memories.

I choose 18 as the right age to die because at 18, I'm no longer considered a child by the law. When I die as an adult, my parents won't be as burdened by the fact that they raised a 'defective' child. In an ideal world, they shouldn't feel burdened; after all, my defects are my own making and not their fault.

I write those words on a piece of paper; I always bring a notebook with me in case moments like this happen.

I re-read the note and put it on the book that I'm about to return to the school's library. It's a thing that I do: I scribble notes and slip them inside books. A small part of me scream that what I'm doing can be considered littering, but the impulse to do it is stronger than my moral compass.

Walking to the school library, I try to block my ears from the sound of students talking and laughing. They always laugh, even though most of what they say aren't funny. I don't understand how a mediocre joke make people smile. I do laugh and I do smile, but it will take more than a sub-par anecdote most teenagers can come up with.

I sigh when I see a big group of the loudest, most rambunctious students in my school. Our private school system has us gathered in one classroom with the same classmates for a whole year. There are about four classes with around thirty student in each classroom, and most of the time, the students are the closest with their respective classmates.

I don't really bother remembering my classmate's names, but I vaguely remember their faces. I remember that guy's face the most, though. How can I not? I've been in the same class with him since we were in grade 9. It's so rare for students to be placed in the same classes for three years in a row, but here we are.

His hair is light brown and a little too long by the school's standard. He's often called to the teacher's room to get lectured, but most of the time, he manages to get back to the class with his hair still intact. I guess that's his superpower: he can talk his way out of anything, including the school's strict rules.

His friends are as loud and as prone to laughing as he is. Sometimes, when I pass them, they will call my name and speak to me. I don't like it.

I look down on the floor as I walk past them. I can see that guy noticing me, and the shape of his smile changes a little bit. It's the smile he makes whenever he's about to greet someone.

I bow my head even lower and pick up my pace.

That guy's gaze is on the back of my head. I can feel it. I always feel it whenever I walk past him. But I never look back to check or confirm.

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The school's librarian hasn't noticed that I've been putting little notes in the books I returned. Maybe this is why I put those notes: I want to test the librarian if he does his job right.

He checks the dates on the very back of the book and grunts in approval. He returns my library card and almost immediately, his attention goes back to his phone. For someone who spend most of his time in the library, he doesn't seem very interested in books.

I browse the library's respectable collection. Our school is pretty expensive, being privately owned and sponsored by some of the richest members of this town's society, and that's how they can afford all of these beautiful bounded books. I wince; remembering the school fees always makes my stomach churn. When I die, the money that my parents spend on me to bring me to this prestigious school will go to a waste. But at least I know that my death will come together with a huge insurance sum. I've calculated the amount and 'death by an accident' will pay two times what my parents have paid for my tuition.

I stop at the very back of the shelves, where they put the old classics. It's not that I'm a snob reader; I've just devoured all of the recently published books and I'm out of options.

There's about thirty minutes of free period before the next class start. I think I can read a chapter or two of Charles Dickens before I go back to class.

Somehow, as I open the book, my mind goes back to that guy. How can a person be so easy to smile? Does he steal other people's smiles so that his capacity expand?

I write the thought in my notebook, rip the paper, and proceed to slip it inside the library book.

And that's when I hear his voice rings next to me.

"Found you!"

I look up. I see that guy. That smiley guy who points at me and smiles his biggest smile.

"I've been looking at you for a long time!" he says. There's my previously borrowed book on his hand, and a paper that looks like it was ripped from my notebook on his other hand.

-after all, my defects are my own making and not their fault.

Against my will, heat rises on my cheeks. After all, it's not everyday I see my writing being noticed by someone else. Especially when it's done in my presence.

"You wrote this, right?" that guy speaks. I don't see his eyes, and I try not to focus on his mouth.

He gives me time to answer, but apparently, he's not a very patient man. He walks towards me without warning and without hesitation, and then takes the Charles Dickens book that I'm holding.

He retrieves the piece of paper from the book and put it under his gaze. I don't even look at his face, but I can already feel the air around him breaks into a smile.

"It's so beautiful. Your words are so beautiful."

His light brown hair bounces as he moves. Everything about him moves when he's happy, which is 99% of the time. It's exhausting to be around him.

"I've never known that you write such killer lyrics, Lucine."

That's another thing that he does. He speaks my name all the time. Since I rarely interact with my classmates, I doubt that anyone beside him even remember it. But not him. Not the guy who has been stuck with me since the 9th grade.

Sometimes, I can't help but remember his name. Those are the times when I hate myself for caring, for remembering. A girl who will die when she turns 18 does not need to have the unnecessary memory of a guy's name.

"I need to show this to my bandmates. They will love it," he waves the papers. "You need to come with me to the music room, Lucine."

And then, I feel the slightest touch of his finger on my shoulder.

I flinch and inadvertently look up to him. His eyes are clear gray. His skin is tanned. His lips still form that smile, and his teeth are a little crooked.

A word sneaks into my mind.

Orion.

Despite my lack of response, Orion's smile never wavers. "Come on, Lucine."

And despite myself, I follow him as he walk out of the library.

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Maybe that's why I write those thoughts and leave it inside books.

So that one day, they can be discovered.

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