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Ugh, people suck, and the worst part is that no matter how much they “love” or “care” they don’t get chronic illness, at least not in the way that makes sense. I could literally give my entire diagnosis, write a report, win a Nobel and I swear people would still look at me, blink, and go, well why don’t you just eat healthy and rest more, take your medicine, then manifest good thoughts?
The amount of times I’ve been told to just do better or get better is insulting—especially from my own twin, who’s convinced I’m “sick” to get more attention.
It steals every piece of joy and it steals the rest that I get in between those moments where I’m able to actually breath. I always heard or grew up hearing that twins could sense each other and that the bond they had was tighter than anything, but all she’s ever done well is sabotage.
“Hey, you good?” Quinn frowns. “You look kind of pale?”
“Is that a question?”
“Well, if Cinderella’s carriage is currently turning back into a pumpkin, isn’t it the prince’s job to help save her from the mice?” His grin is infectious, but I can tell he’s worried, I’m not ready though, not ready to tell.
“Why are the mice bad again?” I laugh.
He smiles and pulls me into his arms across the couch. “They eat their young.”
“Right.” I nod in agreement. “So you just don’t want me to get… bit?”
His teeth cause goosebumps as they scrape down my neck before he presses a kiss to my collarbone. Is it horrible to beg him to bite me? “Maybe it’s jealousy.”
“It’s something.”
“Seriously though, are you okay? I can take you back home, I just—I don’t know, it’s your birthday and I want to be with you. I wish I could do more.”
He has no idea he’s doing everything that nobody has ever done by just existing and actually offering to do something.
I take a deep breath and rest against his chest. I can feel his heart through my palm, his skin is even warm through his shirt. I love it. I love that I could easily tap my fingers to his heartbeat.
I love that he’s funny and serious at the same time.
I love so much.
And then I wonder, if I’m laying with a stranger or a guy I’ve known for two days, sleeping with him, and just existing with him on my birthday, is the love I’ve known or thought I known my entire life, an actual lie?
Shit. Immediately, it hits me. I really am going to start an episode, I can feel it not physically as much as emotionally. I’m getting anxious and depression is creeping in.
I feel the darkness coming.
Tears burn the back of my eyes, why is it always like this? That when my body starts to completely betray me, my mind does too? I feel out of control, I feel like the world isn’t the same, that the sun just set and abandoned me along with everyone else. And then I feel guilty for feeling that way, like my anxiety is somehow a selfish emotion.
I take a few deep breaths.
“Hey.” Quinn pulls me up onto his lap. God, he’s a gorgeous distraction with his straight white toothed smile, small dimples, messy man bun. I can’t, the list will just go on and on if I keep checking him out. His warmth though, it’s not just the way he looks, it’s, wow, it’s the way he looks at me.
I don’t know if I’ve ever had anyone look at me the way he does.
Is this what feeling special is like?
Feeling unique?
Like the most important person in the others world that they can’t for one second look away?
“You’re still beautiful.” He cups my chin with his hand, I suddenly realize how large it is, his thumb brushes across my lower lip. “I just want to take care of you on this day, mainly every day, even though you’re probably still wondering if I’m a serial killer.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m not.”
“See? Though, we do need to have our first fight in order to solidify all assumptions, until then—“ He leans in at the same time a knock sounds at the door.
