I’ve always been told that I’m the spitting image of my mother. I used to be proud of that, but now it just makes me uncomfortable. People don’t look me in the eyes, it makes them remember her. Especially my father. Since her death, he hasn’t looked me in the eyes. Not once.

I’ve always felt that I should be the one recieving pity. I’ve always felt different, I know I’m different. She didn’t care. She always stroked my head when she knew I was hallucinating, tried talking to me as I was having conversations with my other self. But now she’s gone, and though he tries, my father can’t replace her. I am utterly isolated.

But yet I realize, that I should not be the one pitied. I have come to accept this reality, whereas my father has not. Living with only a likeness of her will never comfort him, it will only hurt him more.

So I don’t complain as we exit the train and make our way towards the academy. I don’t want to leave my father, he’s all I have. But avoiding his problems is his only escape.