“Henry doesn’t need saving, Matilda. But he does need someone who won’t walk away when it gets dark in his head. And I think you’re the only one who could ever do that for him.”
“I wasn’t the one that walked away!” I bark, hot tears falling as I swipe at them.
“He never walked away. I don’t think he could ever walk away from you. He broke and can’t put himself back together on his own.”
Too many emotions run through me. The conversation spins my head and I need space to breathe. Jasmine must see it because she stands and moves two steps to be beside me; she gently places a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry if I’ve made things worse. I just thought you should know everything before you make any decisions.” I can’trespond. I can’t form words. The soft click of my front door being shut is the last sound I hear before the room goes silent.
Forty Eight
Henry
After Rachel crashed my monthly meeting with the residential team, I haven’t been able to show my face at work. It’s only been two days, but I know my workload is already mounting up. Any more time off and it will be chaos when I return. This is the problem with being a control freak—I’ve tried to oversee too much for too long, and when I’m not in, no one knows what the fuck to do without me.
My phone has been pinging like mad, but I can’t look at it. I can’t focus on anything while my head is fucked like this. I’m too numb to function. The panic attacks were pretty constant yesterday. Heart pounding, the feeling of a dumpster truck on my chest, and my limbs weighed down by ten-tonne weights. All the normal symptoms, but a million times worse. Even exercise or an ice shower did nothing to shake the feelings, so today I’m a walking shell instead of a human. The stubble that’s grown on my face itches where I haven’t bothered to shave.
A therapist many years ago told me that journalling could help with my spiralling thoughts. I never took to the ideabecause I try to block out the noise, not focus on it even more by giving it life. However, yesterday I tried to write something down.
It started with the normal self-loathing, but soon turned into pages upon pages of letters I had tried to write to Matilda in the hopes of explaining myself. They all felt like excuses, so they all found their home in the bin.
I want so badly to pick up the goddamn phone and call her, plead and beg her to forgive me. To let me hold her, to let me love her like I know she deserves. But every time I pick up the phone my words dry up, my limbs go numb, and realisation dawns that there is no way she can ever forgive me for what I did. I know the moment we have the conversation that what we have will be over, and the selfish arsehole in me believes that until that point, there is still hope. Time is running out though—I know I need to see her, to explain, to bare my soul to her and show her my demons. Otherwise, I will lose the love of my life—if I haven’t already. It’s nothing more than I deserve. People like me don’t deserve someone so bright like her. She is sunshine personified.
A sharp knock at my door freezes all my spiralling, and I puff out a large exhale. Jasmine said she was coming round after work. I wanted to be on my own tonight in all honesty, but I know she worries about me when I’m like this, and I would do the same for her.
She knocks again, this time more forcefully.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” I bark, slight irritation in my voice. I swing the door open and my damn heart nearly stops. Because standing before me is Matilda, my sunshine. Her bruises are fading and I can see the brownish yellowing of her skin that makes my blood run cold. Her eyes are locked on mine with an expression I can’t read. Her golden yellow curls are shorter—she’s cut her hair to just above her shoulders—and my breathcatches in my throat at how fucking beautiful she is. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, one arm on the door and one on the door frame, looking like a fucking deer caught in headlights, but it must have been long enough for Matilda’s expression to shift to confusion.
“Did you lose your memory after the accident? Hit your head a bit too hard maybe?” she says, knocking me out of my trance.
“W—what?”
“Well, you seem to have forgotten how to speak on the phone—and in person also, it seems.”
“Matilda—”
“Not here.” She gestures for us to go inside. “May I?”
“Of course.” I finally make my limbs move and allow her to come in. She glides past me in a yellow blouse and tight light-blue jeans, smelling like fucking summer. Her lightness feels at odds with the doom and gloom that has been my home since arriving back here, and it’s taking me a beat to wrap my head around what’s going on.
I follow her into my open-plan living room and see the mess I’ve left around for the first time. I’m instantly hit with shame that Matilda is seeing this side of me.
“Wow, did you have a party in here?” she comments, heightening my embarrassment. I grab dirty cups and bowls off the breakfast bar and clunk them in the sink.
“Do you want a, eh, drink?” I’m fumbling. This is definitely not how I imagined this encounter happening.
She doesn’t respond, just stares at me.
“We need to talk.” Her stare is something I’ve never seen before in her, almost like detachment or acceptance—I’m not sure. Panic is once again rearing its ugly head.
“Matilda, I know there is so much I need to say to you. There’s so much I’m sorry for—” But before I can carry on, she stops me.
“You broke my heart, Henry…” Physical pain lashes through my chest at her now pained expression. “Not because you left me in that ambulance, but because you left me in the silence after. I can understand fear. I can understand pain. But what I can’t understand is why you didn’t trust me enough to share it with me.” Her eyes are becoming glassy, and everything in my world crashes into place.
“I trust you with my life, Matilda. I just don’t trust myself.” I hesitate, wanting to step closer, to erase this space between us, but her expression stops me in my tracks.
“I told myself not to fall for you,” she breathes, half a laugh, half a heartbreak.
