There's a party 'round the corner

I've tried on sixteen outfits and I've descended into a new level of crazy. This must be the eighth circle of hell. Walking back to my closet as I pull the pale blue cashmere sweater over my head, I blow one of my curls out of my face. I look ridiculous. My honey-blonde hair is a tangled nest of unruly waves , and my pale skin is flushed an extremely unappealing shade of tomato.

What am I doing. This shouldn't even be an issue for me. Why has something as dumb as having to see an old friend got me in such a state. I chuck the sweater onto the ever-growing clothing graveyard that's started slowly accumulating on my bedroom floor. Why do I even care about this?

"What on the face of God's green earth is going on with you, Kiera?" Great, now I'm talking to myself. I groan out loud and fling my half-clothed body onto the ever-growing pile of unacceptable outfits that should never see the light of day. Fixing my eyes on the ceiling I trace the familiar crack in the plaster, I shouldn't be this affected by something so trivial. Most days I don't remember my father's face but for some reason I can't forget about Dastan Haider. How absolutely inconvenient. That's the thing about being insane, it never works in your favor.

For the last three years the universe, fairies, whatever Higher power that exists out there has been determined to ruin my life. The only upside has been that I barely remember what that life was supposed to look like. I know I wasn't always like this, this hollowed out husk of a person. I used to have interests, and hobbies, and friends. Now all I know is that if I can get through the day without forgetting to turn up at work or missing meetings or dates, it'd be a miracle. A part of me knows that it isn't my fault, the other part of me hates myself for being weak and crazy, a burden to all the people that care about me. That's the bigger part.

I lost so much more than just my family in that accident. No. Not an accident. I can at least be honest about it in my head. What happened to my family wasn't an accident. They were murdered. The police say it was a routine burglary but I know better. I don't remember why it is I think there was more going on but I know the pieces I have don't fit together. There's always been something missing. Sort of like that feeling of filing in a crossword puzzle and realizing there actually isn't a right answer.

"I thought you said you were fine." Emma's voice snaps me out of my daze. I roll my head to the side and level her with my most sardonic look.

"I am fine,"

"The trail of clothes I followed in here would say otherwise," she scoffs. I don't respond. Instead, I fling my arm over my face and make a sound that I'm sure doesn't constitute as entirely human. "Do you want some chocolate?"

"Can I have two pieces?" I sound like a kid, but I can't help it. Chocolate makes everything better. It's the perfect answer to every question.

"You can have a whole bar," she promises, and then reaches out her hand and hauls me to my feet. "You wanna tell me what happened to your clothes?" I glance at her and she's got her eyebrow raised in what looks suspiciously like amusement.

"I'd prefer not to," I tell her, "But on a totally unrelated note, why didn't you ever tell me that my entire closet looks like it was picked out by a hyperactive twelve-year-old?"

She snorts, "Totally unrelated, huh?" I'm searching through the mess of clothes for a shirt and she leans over the side of my bed and plucks an old hoodie off the ground. "This have anything to do with the return of he-who-must-not-named?"

I pull on the hoodie as she tosses it to me "Jeez, drama queen, he isn't Voldemort."

We make our way into the kitchen and Emma hands me a chocolate bar from the cupboard. I don't waste any time ripping open the bright blue wrapper and chomping off a big bite, "You're the one acting like him coming back is a sign of the apocalypse." She sounds so done with me.

"It might as well be," I say around a mouthful of sweet, chocolate goodness, "Dastan comes with a lot of baggage, you know this." That's not entirely true. Dastan's never really done anything wrong and even after I ended our relationship he never tried to fight it or force the situation. Aside from the initial argument, in which he informed me that I was being unreasonable and destructive and I'd regret it later; he pretty much respected my decision to walk away from what we could've been. Maybe I just don't want him to know he was right, that I do regret it.

"And by that, you mean you don't want him to think that you still feel something for him and that you wish you hadn't been a total diva and broken up with him after the… uh- the accident." Sometimes it amazes me how well she knows me, other times it's infuriating that I can't hide things from her.

"Thanks for that, Doctor Phil." I deadpan. She sighs at me and turns to look at the stove top before looking back at me with narrowed eyes.

"Have you eaten at all today?" I shake my head in the negative, suddenly very interested in my chocolate bar. It's not like I intentionally starved myself, it's just that sometimes I forget that I've got to do basic things like eat, or get out of bed, or you know actually live. She makes her way to the fridge and I'm overcome with a sense of dread.

"That was not an invitation for you to cook," I step in front of the refrigerator door to stop her. Since I'm a lot taller she doesn't even attempt to get around me.

"Well, if I don't feed you, you sure as hell aren't feeding yourself." She huffs in a manner fit for an exasperated mother of three. I bite back a smile, she'd probably tackle me if I laughed at her right now. Small as she is, she can be extremely terrifying sometimes.

"Don't you think I'm suffering enough already?" I throw my hands up in an overly dramatic gesture. I'm not sure if it's even possible but I swear her eyes narrow even more.

"You're awful," she groans, "Why exactly are we friends again?" she asks and I bark out a laugh.

"Because the magical friendship fairy was in a good mood the day your best friend was chosen." I stick my tongue out at her and she rolls her eyes and shoves my face away. "How about Chinese?" I ask.

"No," she shake her head and makes a face, "We had Chinese last time. How about pizza?"

"Too greasy," I disagree, "I'm not feeling it today."

"Italian!" We say at the same time.

When the food arrives Emma and I snuggle up on the couch with our pasta, under a mountain of blankets, and turn on the current season of Game of Thrones we've been watching. We usually set aside Friday nights to catch up on all the episodes we can until we crash on the couch, completely exhausted from the long week and what's probably way too much fast food and candy for two humans to consume. We spend the night chatting about the trivial aspects of our lives. I tell her about my lunch with Haider and fill her in on the details I left out on my panic over Dastan, and all of the stories I've been investigating and writing. She tells me about how stressful her job is and how training these new interns feels like she has to deal with a bunch of kids. Which makes sense, you know, if kids wore bifocals and basically spoke in binary code. She didn't appreciate that comment. Apparently, not all IT people wear bifocals. I've yet to see proof. We also, keep a running commentary on the show that gets progressively more comical as the night progresses. It's the most normal I've felt all week.

"I've found a new lead in the case," Emma informs me during a bathroom break between episodes. She gives me a hopeful look. The same one she gives me every time we find something new. Hope that this time we'll find an answer that fixes everything. It usually never works out that way but I can't help the hope that fills my chest at the prospect.

Hope is dangerous, it fills you up. Makes you think everything's getting better, only to laugh in your face when you're inevitably left holding the pieces of your broken heart together and pretending you're okay.