"He's worried sick."
Those words kept replaying in my head. It kept repeating itself over and over again.
Today's Monday right? I left the house on Saturday night.
Why is he worried sick?
I'm at the bus station sitting, waiting for the bus, but I know my mind wasn't really on alert. The bus could come and leave, and I wouldn't know.
And now my twin thinks I have a problem. Two actually.
One, I keep running away from my problems, and two. I have this theory that with mom dead, we can't live our lives.
His words, not mine.
I sigh again and bring out my phone. My fingers hover on my dad's contact before I take a deep breath and tap it.
It rings and at first I thought he wasn't going to answer the call, but he does at the last ring.
"Hey sweetie." He says, his voice a little
