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I hold up a bunch of cards, each with a polaroid taped inside. Birthday, Christmas, Valentine’s. I press them into his hands, letting him rifle through them. I watch his face as his eyes dart across the photos, mouth curling into a smile.

The next thing I pull out makes me laugh out loud, because I still can’t believe I kept it. I’ve had it too long to get rid of it now. I pinch the silver foil between my thumb and forefinger and show it to him.

“Is that—you didn’t!” he squeaks, slapping a hand over his mouth.

“The day I took your virginity. Don’t worry, I tossed the condom.” I give him a lopsided smile, throwing the wrapper back in the box.

Bellamy goes quiet, tracing his finger over a picture of us one Christmas. We have massive smiles in the photo, but the one on his face has fallen away. His brows pinch together, teeth working at the inside of his mouth.

Painfully slowly, he lifts the cards and sets them back into the box, pulling his hands away and rubbing his chest as the air thickens with silence.

I freeze, waiting for him to say something, anything. Eventually he clears his throat, lifting his head. And I know that somehow, I’ve fucked up again. That blazing gold hits me all the way to my core.

“Where are my clothes?”

My shoulders drop. “Bellamy,” I plead. Just give me a chance. Please just give me a fucking chance.

“Where are they?” He slides off the stool, stomps over to the couch and tears off the comforter, tossing the cushions aside.

“They’re in the dryer. I haven’t put it on yet.” I washed them for him. No one wants to smell like booze when they have a hangover. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

He spins on his heel, grabbing his phone off the coffee table. Swooping down to collect his chucks, he starts toward the door.

I manage to get in front of him before he makes it. “You can’t walk home in that,” I protest, looking at my ratty old shirt and boxers.

“I can do whatever I want,” he bites, crouching to stuff his feet into his shoes and lacing them up quickly. He tries to push past me.

“Why are you being like this? I’m trying to apologize to you.” My voice is thick with emotion. He has to see that I’m sorry, right?

He tips his face to look at me, pain etched into his features. “It doesn’t just make it all go away, Sunday. You hurt me, you didn’t believe that I…” He shakes his head. “Whatever we had…it’s still broken.”

“Then let me fix it. Please.”

I realize a moment too late that my fingers are pressing into the flesh just above his elbow, preventing him from leaving. I release him, horrified that I don’t even remember grabbing him. He stares at the indents of my fingerprints, the white pressure marks blooming back into color.

“I can’t,” he breathes. “I need…I need space.” His final words sink into me as I step back and let him leave. He thunders down the stairs, leaving me to wallow.

Chapter Twenty-One

Sunday

Maybe it was unprofessional of me to beg a colleague to give me Bellamy’s address, maybe even illegal. Maybe I gave Lara my most bestest puppy-dog eyes because I really just wanted to send Bellamy a care package—one of those ones with tea and candles and fuzzy socks. Yes, I am a dog with a bone, thank you for noticing.

In the weeks that follow that shitshow of a night, I try my best not to probe, not to ask Bellamy too many questions. But the more time goes on, the more distance that grows between us, the more aggravated I seem to get. I feel like I want to fucking peel my face off. It reminds me of the first time I took pre-workout. Itching started at my hairline and spread through my entire body until I wanted to rub a cheese grater all over my skin for relief.

It’s a sensation that’s been rumbling low since that night at the abandoned hospital, but now it’s building into a fever I just can’t seem to break. No amount of lifting heavy shit or pounding the pavement can settle it.

Even worse than that is the creeping blackness at the corner of my vision, disappearing each time I turn to look at it.

I turn the memory of that night at the abandoned hospital over and over in my mind. I know it was just the light playing tricks on me, and the floor must have been more uneven than I thought. Maybe I just need to lay off the weed. I’ve been smoking it every night for years; it’s the only way I can settle enough to get to sleep.

People make the mistake of thinking that because I’m generally a quiet person, my head isn’t full of shit all the time. It gets worse at night. Every stupid decision I’ve ever made comes back to haunt me. Especially ones involving blonde-haired boys in pastel stripes.

Despite my resolution to lay off it, I find myself curled up in my window seat, flicking my Zippo and sparking up anyway. I suck on the blunt, the end of it flaring bright as I pull the herby smoke into my mouth. I inhale it, letting it sit in my lungs until I can’t hold it anymore. The smoke leaves my nostrils and mouth in thin ribbons, curling and following the air flow out of the cracked window. Some of my anxiety goes with it, but only some. The rest coils up in my chest and stays there, weighing heavy.

Will it always be like this? Will Bellamy only ever see me as someone who hurt him? Does he even think about all the good times we had before that? About our friendship? We were always there for each other. We’d clicked as soon as we met and I protected him with everything I had, until we both grew up enough for it to naturally turn into something more. The day I walked into that dorm room and found him lining up crystals on the windowsill was the day I realized I’d never wanted anything more in all my life.

And what did I do with that?