“Your father is friends with Cain, right?”
His eyes narrow on me. “What are you accusing me of?”
“Are you sending me anonymous texts?”
“You’re beyond hope, Winters,” he mutters, knocking back the whisky in his glass.
“And you’re pissed that I chose Alex.”
“Delusional,” he snorts, but I’m distracted by the unmistakable sound of a helicopter flying over.
God, no. Why now?
Whatever I wanted to say back gets stuck in my throat, blocking my airway.
I vaguely hear declarations of “Oh my god, she’s really going to do it. She’s going to lose it” and “Shawn, you’re a dead man, mate.”
It rattles my bones, that awful, jarring sound.
I stumble back through the ring of students watching us, trying to drag air into my lungs. My heart is beating so fast that it feels like it might give out, like it can’t keep this rhythm for a minute longer.
Someone is filming. Someone asks me if I’m okay.
I stagger out the door and collapse against the wall outside. They’re right about me. I am losing it. This place is my downfall. These people are my downfall.
I just want my dad.
I’VE HARDLY LEFTmy room in two days. I’ve hardly moved a muscle. I haven’t really eaten anything, either, except the four stale biscuits I found in my tote bag.
Instead, I’ve discoveredscrolling.
Turns out, I can get off my high horse, because I’m not above getting addicted to short form content, after all.
I don’t know how long I watch people making slime, falling over, cooking on weirdly big outdoor grills, making depressing, low calorie versions of my favorite foods.Craving a cinnamon roll? Add a teaspoon of cinnamon into cottage cheese, it tastes the exact same, the cheery blonde on my screen says to me.
Jesus Christ, life is bleak.
I’m halfway through watching a man trim a horse hoof when Colette calls, interrupting my fun.
I hit decline, opting instead to search Alex’s name on various social media platforms to see if he’s gone outside in short-shorts recently. Humble enough to scour the internet, too proud to say,Hey, Alex, I need a picture of your thigh tattoos for scientific purposes.
But when I search, it’s me that comes up. My least favorite photo of myself, climbing out of the pool at that stupid swimming meet in Manchester.
At least the videos of my spectacular meltdown in the Cortinar halls have vanished.
I zoom in on the picture again, into the backs of my thighs. I’m convinced I don’t really look like that.SurelyI don’t look like that.
The caption of the post says it better than I could.
Alex Corbeau-Green and this thing???? make it make sense.
I hate them. I hate everyone. My tears are angry, sliding down my cheeks that I’m sure must have valleys carved into them by now.
I forward it to Colette.
Ophelia
Help me to not look like this, please.
