Page 72 of These Tears

And which ones I responded to.

That thought brings back the outrage from the rational part of me.

I take a long gulp of water, its coolness dousing the flames licking through my body.

‘I can make this so much worse, Leah.’

The sentence is smeared in blood and sweat across the crumbling walls of my sense, looping back no matter how hard I try to quiet it.

I make my gaze wander, pretending interest in the dragged wheelie bags, the low burble of conversation. Families. Couples. People who still belong to the ordinary world. I can’t see a single opportunity to wrench myself out of his grasp.

And I won’t be making the same mistake with the lavatory again.

A different kind of cold creeps in. My shoulders pull inwards, breath shortening as every possible exit closes in my head before I can even imagine it.

I know this feeling of helplessness. It has lived with me for a long while since I let Ron destroy me, and my parents unload all the blame on me.

After Elias withdrew from the programme.

Bollocks, I can’t seem to do anything right.

Pressure builds in my chest, bubbling harder, turning acidic as anxiety climbs my throat and settles behind my eyes.

I’m not a crier. I’ve never been one. But in the last few hours I’ve broken down more times than I did when I walked away from Ron.

The chair creaks when Elias shifts his weight.

The movement snaps me out of my head as I look up. His brows are drawn together, eyes piercing through me in assessment. His munching slows until it stops altogether.

‘What now?’ he asks between chews.

‘What?’ I shoot back.

‘I told you not to draw attention,’ he says quietly, eyes dropping to the napkin as he wipes his mouth.

‘How am I drawing it, exactly?’

‘Stop,’ he says sharply, ‘crying.’

It feels like a hand closing around my throat. I swallow – along with the pressure – forcing everything down until the perfumed air burns my lungs.

‘That’s a good girl.’

That breaks something loose in me.

‘Stop with that shit,’ I bite back, low enough that only he can feel the sting.

His mouth curves into that soft, private smile he used to give me. Across the little table, it almost looks harmless. It reminds me of the man who smiled while we read together. A man who spoke in the language of philosophers while we discussed all things worldly.

Then his eyes flick briefly down to my mouth, and the memory of the lavatory crawls straight back into my mind.

‘You’ve never been called a good girl before?’ He watches me again with that same predaceous look as earlier. ‘How about a bad one?’

Smothering my outrage, I offer him nothing.

He leans closer as he speaks, voice deliberately louder when he rearranges himself in the chair. His scent hits me all at once.

‘I’m curious—’