My True Passion Is...

If I broke a few speed limits, then surely my mother would understand.

Before, it was all so simple. Whenever I was stressed, tired of reality, or just couldn’t be bothered to focus, my stories were my shelter. Now, even when I was stepping into the parking lot of the hospital, nothing but cold hard truth was there to greet me.

I tripped over my own feet and hit the pavement, the smell of the car’s overactive exhaust burning my nostrils. After a few moments, I forced myself to my feet, locked the car, and ran towards the entrance.

The hospital wasn’t the biggest around, but it was modestly sized. The waiting room was barren, with lines of chairs and only a few bodies to fill them. Most of them looked bored, scrolling on their phones or staring out the darkened windows.

How lucky they were.

Luckily, the desk was right across from the door, with two hallways next to each side leading out into the wings, and a door in the corner that seemed to lead to a staircase. I booked it over and nearly rammed into it, as if the reception was just an obstacle in the way of seeing my father.

“Please—I…” I stammered and reached into my pockets. With a shaky hand, I rustled around for my school ID. “My father, Wilson Castro—I’m here, er, visiting…or at least, my mother. Where are they!?”

The nurse frowned and began to type on the computer in front of her. “Wilson. W-I-L-S-O-N, correct?”

“Yes!” I winced at how loud I was. Once I managed to find it, I showed it to her, and she nodded.

“If you’re family, then it should be fine to visit,” she said. “Your mother should still be here. Second floor, room 205.”

As I shoved my ID away, she smiled at me. “Don’t worry—as far as I’m aware, your father’s okay. His condition was more stable than we thought initially.”

“I…okay, thank you.” I kept my head down, trying to get away from the reception as fast as possible before I completely lost it. On the way up the stairs, I stopped by the vending machine and grabbed a muffin, just in case.

The hallway was just as sterile and suffocating as it looked on TV. I’d never been to a hospital unless it was for a doctor’s appointment, and even then, it was all in a different part of the building. The walls and tiles were white, filled with gurneys and steeped in the smell of rubbing alcohol. I almost felt sick by proxy of the atmosphere of illness.

I’d found the room, but with no sign of my mother outside of it, I took a deep breath and let myself in. There were multiple beds, but with all of them empty, it was obvious where my father was. The far left corner of the room had an active heart monitor and an IV, both of which were strapped to his wrist. Other than that, though, he looked fine—

Shit. No, no, wait.

Was that a cast on his arm?

“Are—Are you okay?”

Goddamn stupid question. Stupid me, stupid, stupid…how could I possibly not notice my dad being taken to the hospital? Breaking his arm? Being sick for who knows how long? Was I that drowned in my fantasies that I couldn’t see the reality?

He was sick—and I barely paid it a thought. I figured everything would be fine, but, but—

Mom.

Mom was there, sitting in a chair pulled up right next to the bed. Her face was pulled tight, and she stared at me in silence. As if she didn’t know what to say.

My dad was asleep at the moment, so I said nothing and held the wrapped muffin out to her. She took it and tore the plastic open slowly before taking a bite. As she ate, I went to get a seat, placing it next to her.

For a while, only silence invaded the all too big room. The two of us focused on the gentle breathing of my father. I picked at my nails—my mouth tasted bitter from the nervous nausea that took root in my stomach. How could I not realize? How could…

Head down, I could barely bring myself to look at my mother. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. I was too focused on…something else, but, but—that’s no excuse.”

“It’s alright,” she said. She put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer, to the point where my head rested on her shoulder. “I know you were busy with your…online things. That’s why I left the message.”

“Right…”

I clenched my teeth. Though she tried to hide it, I could detect the hint of displeasure. I couldn’t bring myself to completely lie about what I was doing, but if it bothered her so much, why didn’t she say anything? Why didn’t anyone ever ask? Even if they did, would I have given an honest answer?

A response without ridicule was all I wanted. Deep down, maybe I thought that was never meant to be. If we never said a word, if we continued in this silence and disappointment…

What was I supposed to do? Apologize for not noticing? Try to explain every nook and cranny of my self until my mom broke from concern?

All the while, she kept. Talking.

“Honestly, I was worried, but I’m glad he’s alright.” She looked over at my father—my dad. “I just never know how to approach you when you say you’re going to be busy. For all I know, you’re playing games and—and doing…”

“….Doing?”

“…Things men your age do,” she said. “Like…”

Oh, that was it. I don’t know why that little comment set me off, but it’s as if the last little twig holding up the tower collapsed at that aside. Was she joking!? I couldn’t even tell.

“I’m not doing that!” I yelled, but even angry, I knew to quickly lower my voice. “I’m not. I—the reason I never tell you what I’m doing is because you won’t get it.”

“What? What won’t I get?” She pursed her lips and fully turned to me. While there was a flash of concern on her face, I could tell from the twinge in her voice that she was irritated. “That you’re making up reasons to avoid your family and mess around on that computer?”

“It’s not messing around!”

Ah, hell, I can’t keep it in anymore. My shoulders felt tense enough to snap under the weight of my pent-up misery, my words escaping my throat before I could dare to control it. “It’s not—do you know why I don’t tell you? It’s because I know that you won’t take it seriously. Because I know that you don’t understand, that I waste my time doing—this and that and—“

I clutched my head, wanting so badly to scream and have that convey everything I needed it to.

“It’s writing!” I threw my arms up into the air. The light of the ceiling was cupped into my hands—she was going to hear me, see me at last. “I write—on the internet. With other people. We tell stories, we create worlds, I’ve made this whole story with someone I love not only for her, but because I love what stories can tell. To you, and others…”

I closed my eyes. “My stories have told me so much. Putting my writing and creativity out there let me learn more about others, helped me make friends, and made me realize what I love most about it. And I just…couldn’t tell you! Because I knew you’d think it’s useless, that I’m wasting my time, but damn it, it’s my passion! This is…”

It felt as though there was a lump in my throat that held back the one thing I wanted to say most. That one, little thought that’d been weighing in my mind since dropsgum and I became regular roleplay partners.

My mom, meanwhile, had gone from ‘parental irritation’ to something else that I hadn’t seen from her. Maybe she’d snap at me, or cry, or…something or other. Either way, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to say this ever again.

But she wasn’t the first to speak.

“…You’re just like Gabriela,” my father said. Like he rose from the dead, the two of us turned to him. Sometime during my rant, he had woken up, propped up his pillow, and worked up the energy to speak.

Whatever tension and determination had built up inside me melted in an instant. I was at his side, and in a rare moment you’ll see as often as a total eclipse, my mother and I pulled him into a gentle hug.

Our conversation never quite finished, but…did it really need to? There was always tomorrow. I’d expressed how I felt the best I could, and if either of them could understand, that was all I wanted.

All I wanted was for them to feel my unsaid thoughts. The truth that I couldn’t admit today.

My father smiled. “She had the same argument with some of my brothers. Oh, maybe I should call and see if she wants to visit. She writes for a lot of those publishing houses.”

My mother, once she pulled away, buried her face in her hands. Once she was able to show her face again, I saw the streaks of mascara and rubbed off concealer mixed with tears on her hands. She, too, somehow smiled. “I can’t say I understand where this is coming from. But…if it’s something you care about, then we should talk about it. I want to know what you care about, mijo.”

“…I.”

I knew, I was smiling too.

“Thank you. Thank you…”