Page 133 of Anything But Lonely

It’s not my head.

It’s the door.

Someone is pounding on my door.

I told Jack not to come.

I grab my pillow, pressing it down over my head to try to block the noise.

It doesn’t work.

Why is he still knocking?

He has a key.

Anger rises, hot and uncomfortable.

I almost don’t recognize it.

These past couple of days, I’ve been too tired to be angry. Too tired to be anything.

Just me and the ceiling. Me and the sheets. Me and the darkness.

But now my pulse is racing, my hands are shaking, and I’m remembering what it feels like to want something.

Even if what I want is for him to leave.

It takes a few tries to stand up from the bed, my body aching after being in the same position for so long, as I open my bedroom door.

My apartment is a complete mess. It usually doesn’t get this bad after a day or two.

Except this doesn’t look like two days.

I stand there, staring at the evidence of my disappearance, like I’m looking at someone else’s home. The dishes in the sink have crusted over. Clothes are scattered across the floor, some clean, some definitely not. The trash can is overflowing, and unopened mail spills out from beneath the front door.

The curtains are still drawn, keeping the apartment trapped in a permanent gray haze.

On the counter, the flowers I bought have wilted, their petals scattered around the vase.

I blink at them.

It’s only been two days, I tell myself. Maybe three.

The stale air. The scattered empty water bottles on the floor. The blanket still holding the shape of my body. The way everything looks untouched, like the world kept moving while I stayed here, frozen.

My stomach twists as the pounding on the door registers again, my name coming from the other side.

I look down at my clothes. I’m in nothing but an old white camisole and a pair of underwear. I have one sock on, the other probably lost somewhere in my bed.

“Emerson!”

It’s Mateo.

Mateo’s here.

Before I can even think about what he’s going to think when he sees me, I open the door, the strain in his voice enough to have me acting on impulse.

The second the door swings open, his expression changes.