I try to breathe, but my lungs won’t cooperate.
Clenching my jaw against the anger that begins to crawl under my skin, not just at him but at myself, for believing, for wanting, for thinking someone like her could ever truly choose me.
Turning on the faucet, I feel the cold water hit the porcelain. The sound should drown out my thoughts, but it doesn’t.
They come one after another—the doubt, the insecurity, the pain.
You’re not enough.
You’re a freak.
Why would she choose someone like you?
She deserves better. Everyone does.
My hands grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles blanch. The glass trembles in its frame, and my reflection blurs through streaks of condensation.
“Stop,” I whisper, the tears beginning to well. “Just fucking stop.”
But the thoughts never stop, a consistent reminder every single day of what I am.
A fucking monster.
Everything I’ve buried for years claws its way to the surface—the loneliness, the scars, the way people look at me and then look away.
The weight of it hits all at once as I let out a guttural scream before I shove my hand through my hair, pulling hard as I pace the small space, breathing hard, trying not to drown in my thoughts.
Trying so desperately not to let myself go back into that dark place again.
My breath comes in quick pulses, and without a second thought, I smash my hand through the mirror, glass shards falling into the sink.
I lower myself to the floor, watching the blood trickle from my knuckles.
Reaching up, I grab my phone off the counter.
I scroll until I find Maverick’s number. My finger hesitates for half a second before I press call.
It rings once, twice.
“Yo, what’s up, man?” His voice is loud, bright, the sound of life still happening somewhere else.
I can’t get the words out right away as I press my phone harder to my ear. “Y-You home?”
“Yeah. Everything okay?”
I glance at my bloody knuckles and the tremor in my hand, reminding me of the dark thoughts that constantly dwell in my mind.
“No,” I whisper. “It’s not.”
There’s silence on the other end, then the sound of a door closing, voices fading. “Talk to me, bro. What happened?”
I swallow hard, my throat burning. “I just… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he says softly now. “Okay. I’m coming over.”
The line clicks.
Dropping my phone to the floor, I lean down and rest my head between my knees. My sobs fill the room as the tears fall freely, landing on the aged oak floors.
