It has been exactly six months today.

My therapist said that it might help to write down what happened to find closure. "Writing has always been your way of dealing with things", he had told me during our session today, "Go back to that." He had smiled at me encouragingly before checking his watch and telling me that our time was up and I had to leave. So I left. Like every Saturday for the last few weeks, I left his office at exactly 4 pm and walked back towards the bus stop where I waited for the bus that would take me back to my boarding school.

I walked back and forth, unable to stand still. I was restless. I have been restless for so long now that I barely remember how it feels not to be restless.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Repetition is soothing. It's controllable, foreseeable, safe.

I got onto the bus, as every week, curled up on one of the seats in the back and closed my eyes. I was tired. I have been tired for so long that I barely remember how it feels not to be tired.

The bus hit a few bumps in the road and a familiar dull pain started spreading from the scar at the left side of my skull base, just above the hairline, all the way to the front, settling down on my head like a too tight helmet.

I was hurting. I've been hurting for so long that I barely remember how it feels not to be hurting. I kept my eyes shut and placed both hands on my temples, rubbing soothing circles into the skin with my fingertips.

Circle. Circle. Circle. Repetition is soothing. It's controllable, foreseeable, safe.

I got off the bus twenty minutes later and walked quickly towards the school grounds, looking neither left nor right on my way. I walked past the black iron gates, across the neatly trimmed lawn, up the stairs and into the building. I wanted to go right back to my dorm to lie down on my bed and stare at the ceiling for 30 minutes before going to dinner.

Because that's what I've been doing every single night since I arrived here about six weeks ago. I lie down and just breathe.

In and out. In and out. In and out. Repetition is soothing. It's controllable, foreseeable, safe.

But then something weird happened. When I was making my way down the marble staircase in the heart of the main building, I saw a crowd gathered at the bottom. I walked down the last couple of steps and saw a small yellow canary hopping around on the ground in the middle of the hall, fluttering and chirping in panic as it tried to get away, one wing hanging down at an odd angle. One of the boys reached out to catch it, but despite its condition, the bird was too fast, chirping and hopping into the direction where I was standing.

Out of instinct, I bent down and opened the palm of my hand - and the bird hopped in.

It settled down there, its little heart pounding frantically, and I cradled it, moving my other hand on top. The tiny bird retreated into the cave I'd created with my hands while I started petting it lightly with my thumb.

The group of boys just stared at me in silence for a few seconds before two of them walked over.

"Thank you so much! It seems Pavarotti likes you", said the Asian who had reached me first.

The other boys left while the two introduced themselves as Wesley and David. David carried a delicate golden cage. They explained to me that the canary - Pavarotti - had broken its wing a few days ago. It had escaped when its caregiver wanted to clean the cage, obviously underestimating the tiny creature's ability to break free despite all obstacles. They told me they were part of the school's acapella group called "The Warblers" and the bird was some sort of mascot, passed on from one new member of the group to the next.

Then, they asked me if I could sing. I said, yes, I could sing a little bit, and they just looked at each other, smiling. "It seems that Pavarotti might have found himself a new caregiver and the Warblers a new member", said David.

They asked me to audition on Monday. Without even thinking about it, I said yes. I was so surprised by my own answer that I must have looked like a complete idiot, because David patted my shoulder and said, "Are you alright? You look almost as scared as Pavarotti. Don't worry, we don't bite."

Carefully, Wesley took Pavarotti from my hands and placed him into the cage. They thanked me once again, said their goodbyes and left.

I didn't move for five whole minutes. When I checked my watch, I saw that it was already dinner time, so I had to skip my daily routine and went to the dining hall right away.

When I returned to my room, I sat down at my desk and started searching the shelf for the book I was supposed to be reading for my English class. My fingers traveled along the various paperbacks, but I couldn't find it, so I started going through the multiple piles on my desk - only to find my journal, this journal, at the very bottom of one of the heaps. I didn't even remember taking it with me when I moved here.

But there it was.

And now I'm sitting here. I'm sitting here and writing, something I thought I wouldn't be doing again so soon, because it makes me think. And I'm thinking. I'm thinking that maybe my therapist had a point when he told me to write about what happened exactly six months ago. Maybe it will help me to move on. Because that's something I haven't been doing at all. Moving.

It has been exactly six months since that night, but it still feels as if it happened just yesterday.

I was so excited. When I close my eyes, I can still see my reflection in the mirror when I checked my outfit for the last time before leaving the house. I thought I was ready for whatever lay ahead. How unbelievably na�ve I was.

Mark and John picked me up at my house, and Mom took a couple of photos of us before we got into the car where Anna, Mark's date, had been waiting. She looked slightly concerned when I sat down in the back next to her. Mark's dad had offered to drive, so John and I had time to talk.

John appeared relaxed, but I'd known him long enough to tell that he was anything but. The way he kept re-adjusting his tie every few minutes and the nervous squints into my direction every now and then said it all.

I, on the other hand, was feeling oddly calm. I had been on the verge of backing out only an hour before, but now I felt composed and prepared. I grabbed his hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

We decided to take it easy. Both of us agreed that holding hands or any other PDA were not going to happen. However, we decided to dance together. Not slow, of course not, since we were not a couple, and even if we were, we wouldn't dare to stir the pot like that. A regular dance, without touching. But clearly together.

When we arrived at the location, couples were streaming into the building from every direction. A couple of jocks and their cheerleader dates were right in front of us, boasting loudly about their latest victories, as we slowly made our way towards the entrance. One of them stepped aside to open the doors for all of his friends. After the last couple had entered, his gaze fell on John and I and I could actually see the thoughts that crossed his mind, the emotions so clearly displayed on his face that it looked almost ridiculous. At first, his eyes went wide with shock and his mouth hung open as he drew a sharp breath. After a few seconds, realization kicked in and he furrowed his brow, the color of his face turning from normal to almost purple. He didn't say anything, though. And he didn't move either, which meant that he was still holding the door open. We looked at each other, walked past him and entered the building.

The place was already crowded with people. Mark, Anna, John and I tried to stay together as we made our way through the masses towards the tables, but we were separated on our way. John had grabbed the hem of my jacket because we had agreed not to hold hands, and managed to cling to me until we reached our destination. There was only one free table left in the far corner, which turned out quite convenient for us. That way, it would be easier to disappear if necessary. As calm as I was, that really was the first thought that crossed my mind when we sat down. Mark and Anna joined us a few minutes later with a couple of other friends, and we fell into an easy banter. John and I smiled at each other. So far, so good.

We really had a great time at first. Nothing out of the ordinary happened during the first hour, and when the band started, John and I felt safe enough to risk a first dance together. I still remember the song we danced to. The band covered Whitney Houston's "Dance With Somebody" and it was so bad that we both started laughing, John taking my hand and twirling me while I almost tripped over my own feet. We were so into our ridiculous routine that at first we didn't realize that the couples dancing next to us had gone quiet and moved away, leaving us exposed in the middle of the dancefloor.

I turned around and felt the gaze of the entire room on us. The band was still playing, but it was almost eerily quiet underneath, as if all conversations had been put on hold. John stopped dead in tracks, dropping my hand immediately. We stared at each other and rushed off the dancefloor as fast as possible and back towards our table in the corner, past the hostile faces of my classmates and a couple of teachers.

I fell down onto my chair, breathing heavily, and locked eyes with John. He looked back at me without saying a word, and we both waited in silence for the focus of the crowd to shift, feeling completely and utterly exposed for the first time that night. A small shiver ran down my spine, and I felt the old helplessness and insecurity crawling back and invading my mind. It had started off so well, but in that moment, reality kicked in and pulled me out of reverie about making a change in that school in just one night.

In hindsight, we should have left right then and there, when all the chaperones were still vigilant and aware of the situation. Maybe we would have gotten away unharmed and I wouldn't be sitting here with this constant dull headache that has become my everyday companion.

But we didn't leave.

We didn't dance again, either. We stayed at our table for the rest of the night, trying to keep up the illusion that we couldn't be touched by something like that, both of us knowing that that wasn't true. It had touched our very core and shattered all the illusions that had slowly built up throughout the first hour of the dance. I couldn't help but think that this was like the cold war, with all this aggression seething under the surface, but not yet unleashed. And I got even more scared at the thought of what would happen when it was unleashed. Not if. When.

Mark's Dad was supposed to pick us up at 11 pm, and John and I both had to use the restrooms, so we left the ballroom a bit earlier, leaving Mark and Anna behind to meet them later in the parking lot.

A lot of students had already left, and it was slowly getting quiet. When we left the building, it was still early, so we decided to sit down on a bench and wait for the others. It was still cold at night, and I snuggled into my warm coat, trying to fight the constant shivers that had been traveling through my body more or less the entire night since the dancefloor incident. We sat there in silence, just looking at each other, and I don't know about John, but I was desperately trying to come up with the right words to begin a conversation about what had happened in there, but couldn't find them. So I just stared into the night, lost in thoughts and not paying attention to the surroundings.

I still don't remember much of what happened during the next ten minutes. The doctors explained to me that partial amnesia was often a consequence of damage to the brain, but it's an odd feeling to be deprived of a part of your life that will probably define you forever.

The last thing I remember before everything went black was somebody screaming my name and a strange copper smell invading the air around me combined with a feeling of wet warmth on my skin. I now know that it was the smell of my own blood running over my face and nose on its way to the ground.

I woke up in the hospital two weeks later.

Mom was sitting in a chair next to my bed, holding my hand, her face puffy and red as if she'd been crying for days, and the first thing I thought was that I must have been the cause. Again.

I blinked and looked around the room, my eyes only slowly adapting to the light. I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was a croaking sound. Mom jumped up from her chair, squeezing my hand tightly and calling my name several times. A couple of minutes later, my room was crowded with people. The doctor asked me a couple of simple questions to test my brain functions and evaluate the scope of the damage to my memory while a nurse kept working to change the bandage around my head. Dad and Cooper had arrived as well, both looking at me with the same expression of hurt and relief on their faces, and I couldn't help but think how much they looked alike.

It's all in a haze now, those endless days in the hospital. I learned that the person that had assaulted us had broken three of my ribs, my right wrist and my nose before kicking against the base of my skull until the bone gave way. They had hit John with some kind of bat or stick on the head, but he was lucky. He had passed out right on the spot and gotten away with only a mild concussion and two broken fingers that they had stepped on when they ran off into the night. They had only let go of us because Mark and Anna had arrived with a couple of our friends, and they had been afraid of getting caught. Nobody had seen their faces.

The worst part is not that they had assaulted us, though.

The worst part is the knowledge that they wouldn't have stopped if they hadn't been interrupted.

They would have gone on and on, and eventually, they would have left us out there in the dark to die.

Mom showed me the newspaper article that had made the front page of the Lima Gazette on April 11th. The headline said:

Fortunately, no names had been published, and the police had refused to comment on the details of the ongoing investigation.

I still have the article, and I'll keep it in this journal as a reminder of that day.

When I was released from hospital four weeks later, Mom, Dad and Cooper picked me up and took me home. It was weird to see all of them together like that, Dad and Cooper carrying my bags and Mom helping me into the house. Now that I have the time to think about it, it felt as if some kind of dam had been broken due to the events of that night, forcing all the separate parts of our family back together. When I look back at those days now, I'd say that we have never been as close as we were then.

Cooper had been transfered to home detention, still wearing an ankle monitor, but free to move in a specific radius around our house, and he had already gone back to a slightly subdued version of his old bouncy self. To be honest, he kept bugging the crap out of me with his constant attempts to cheer me up, but I was too happy to have him with me again to actually complain.
Because he was always there.

He was the one who helped me with all those parts of my daily routine that I wasn't able to perform without assistance, such as washing my hair without soaking the bandages, which actually proved to be quite a challenge.

He was the one who took care of me at night, when I woke up from my never-ending nightmares, screaming and trembling and crying. Each time I opened my eyes, I already felt his arms around me in a tight, but gentle embrace, pulling me back to reality and grounding me there. He practically slept in my bed each night during those first weeks at home.

And he was the one who made me smile for the first time since that night when he sat down at the piano one day and delivered the most beautiful rendition of "Bridge Over Troubled Water" with an intensity that made my knees go weak and my toes curl and my whole body tingle. It made me feel alive and cared for and loved in a way that it took my breath away. Afterwards, he told me that he had auditioned for the Performing Arts programme at UCLA, and had been accepted.

I was so happy for him that I almost started crying.

Because although I was far from being fine myself, I knew that at least he would be. And for the first time since that night, I thought that maybe one day, I'd be fine again, too.

I started therapy sessions the fourth week after I got home.

Before, I hadn't been able to talk about the incident to anyone. Both Mark and John had tried to talk to me repeatedly, and Mom and Coop had sat with me for hours and hours, but I just couldn't find the words to tell them.

I tried. I really tried. I opened my mouth, but nothing would come out. Unlike John, who had vented his frustration and pain in front of his whole family the day he woke up in hospital, I was bottling everything up, sitting on my bed for days without saying a single word and staring at the ceiling.

I think that's when I realized for the first time how soothing repetition can be. Although I wasn't going back to school for the last weeks before summer break, I started getting up at 7 am sharp every morning. I got into the shower, had Cooper help me with my hair, put on my sports clothes, and at exactly 8 am, I left the house and started running. I took the same route every single day, never allowing myself to stray. After a week, I had my whole day scheduled in a tight frame, which I clung to like a lifeline. I'd start getting anxious whenever something threatened to interrupt my schedule even in the tiniest way, and in my third week at home, I actually broke down crying when Mom told me we'd have to skip lunch to pick dad up from the airport.

I started seeing Dr. Rosenkranz the day after.

I now understand why Mom and Dad made me go, but at that time, I felt completely and utterly betrayed. I had just found a pretty good way to cope with what had happened, and they decided to take it away from me. That just wasn't fair, was it?

For the first two weeks, I went to my sessions and never said a single word. Dr. Rosenkranz and I would both sit there and look at each other until my time was up, and I'd leave without even saying goodbye.

Then, in the third week of therapy, Mom forced me to go to the mall with her. We just walked around the stores for a while before settling down in a tiny coffee place. I was antsy again because the whole trip had already messed up my self-imposed schedule so badly that I was on the verge of tears when the door opened and Blue Eyes walked in.

Gorgeous as ever, he was carrying at least ten different bags from various designer labels and chatting animatedly with a slightly corpulent African-American girl.

I just stared at him open-mouthed. It was the first time I had heard his voice, and its unique beauty hit me like a freight train. In that moment, I completely forgot about my schedule and took him in with all my senses.

And for the first time in weeks, I opened myself to the world outside. I hadn't even been aware that I had shut everything off until I consciously inhaled the strong scent of coffee for what felt like the first time ever, listened to the buzz of the voices around me and watched Blue Eyes interact with his friend. Everything had been in a haze for so long, colorless and subdued, but in that very moment, reality came rushing back at me with an overwhelming force, tugging me out of my dark hole and pushing me into the light again.

Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to move on. I wanted to find my old courage and just live, without the constant fear and hurt that had immobilized me for so long. I wanted to get rid of the nightmares and the feeling of utter helplessness that defined my entire life these days. I wanted to break out of the prison I had created for myself and I hadn't even been aware of until then.

And all because of him. Always, always him.

In that moment, I knew I wouldn't be able to talk to him until I had regained at least some sort of control over my life and I was aware that I might not get another chance to get to know him by the time I was ready.

But I really and truly didn't care, because as crazy as it sounded, he had already left such a huge dent in my life that I knew he'd always be a part of me, even if we never truly met. From the first time I had laid eyes on him, he had changed me for good, without even knowing. He had called me out, forced me to finally look at myself. He had defined me more than anyone else, and despite everything that happened to me, I knew I'd be forever grateful for that

I finished my coffee and smiled for the second time since I had been released from hospital.

The next day, I started talking to Dr. Rosenkranz.

Then, one night after dinner, Mom and Dad sat down with me and asked me if I wanted to go back to my old school after the summer break. I immediately told them that I didn't. I had already talked to Dr. Rosenkranz about that and battled with myself for weeks because it somehow felt like running, but in the end, he made me realize that sometimes, you have to put your own well-being before everything else. Changing schools would bring me the peace I needed to heal, and I just had to close my eyes and imagine myself in a different place to know that he was right. I would be able to leave all my baggage behind and start fresh.

During the following weeks, Mom and Dad put on an enormous effort to find a new school for me.

Dad talked to John's father, who recommended Dalton Academy for Boys, the boarding school in Westerville that John's brother Jeff is attending, and after a visit there, we unanimously decided that this would be the right place for me.

And that's how I came here. I'll have to repeat my freshman year, though, because I missed too many classes after the incident to be able to start as a sophomore.

Dalton is beautiful. It's grand and old, with the scent of old books and oil paintings hanging in the air of the vast corridors.

And it's as far away from real life as one can possibly get.

They have a strict anti-bullying policy which is being enforced, and I have already befriended another openly gay student. There are even a few couples. And nobody, nobody cares.

It's heaven and hell at the same time.

It's heaven because it allows me to rest and heal.

But it's also my very own beautiful prison.

I've been here for six weeks now and I feel like a precious bird in a golden cage, cared for and loved, but also very well guarded and locked up behind beautiful golden bars. I'm allowed to look out of the window, but I'm not allowed to fly. But even if I were, I know I wouldn't be able to. Not yet.

Maybe that's why Pavarotti hopped into my hand today. I am like him.

I'm a bird with a broken wing, too.

But I now know that it won't immobilize me. It didn't stop Pavarotti from breaking free of his cage, and it won't stop me. I still think repetition is soothing, but I can feel that I'm slowly breaking out. I'm starting to move again. I did it earlier today when I picked up Pavarotti, I'm doing it right now, and I'll do it again tomorrow when I'll start working on my audition song for the Warblers.

And I'll heal. Time will make me heal. And maybe one day, I'll be able to fly again. I'll be courageous enough to step out of this cage into the real world. And when I'm there, I'll hold my head up high and be who I want to be and go wherever I want to go.

And maybe someone will be by my side and hold my hand on the way.