Page 23 of Fragile

“Fuuuuuuuck.” I wake upwith my head pounding, the remnants of last night hanging on like a bad smell. My mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, and my eyes squint against the light filtering through the curtains. I didn’t even drink anything last night, but the combination of stress and a comedown have made me feel worse than any alcoholic hangover.

I already know it's going to be a rough day. Dragging my tired body out of bed, my muscles protest, especially the ones on my side where I took the hits on the field. Lifting my shirt, I gently graze my fingers over the skin that is turning purple near my ribs. “Great,” I mutter to myself. Painkillers are a must. Reaching for the Tylenol pot, my fingers skim the side, pushing it off my nightstand and dropping to the floor. “Dammit,” I hiss, grimacing as I lean down to pick it up and unscrew the lid. For a moment, I stare at the amphetamines inside rather than the painkillers, twirling the container in my hand, hearing the pills rattle inside, reminding me of how little it helped last night.

I quickly stuff the pot into my duffel bag, wanting to forget all about last night, and reach for the other box of actual Tylenol this time.

Standing in the middle of my room, I try to distance my thoughts from yesterday, but it’s useless. The memory of Dad's yelling from last night crashes over me like a wave. His voice, sharp and bitter, echoes in my ears. The humiliation of Seb and Hudson having to intervene, the look of pity from Quinn that hits worse than my dad’s words ever could. I glance at my phone on the nightstand, the screen cracked from when I threw it against the wall in frustration before the game. A reminder of how things are spiraling out of control.

I decide I don’t need a shower right now, so I stay in bed for a while, trying to muster up the energy to face the day. My stomach churns, both from the comedown and the guilt gnawing at me, and probably hunger, since I’ve normally eaten three times by this point.

Grimacing, I grab my phone and try to read through an injury prevention assignment we’re working on in my sports physio class. When this was given to us, I felt excited because I spend my life working with trainers and physios preventing injury on the field. I had a good idea of what I wanted to do, how I was going to execute the assignment, but now, staring at my notes, it all feels pointless.

Last year, I decided my degree would be in sports physio. My dad has no idea, but Seb’s dad told us how important it was to set our future selves up for anything beyond football, and it resonated with me. It was easy to combine with football and, more importantly, it felt natural to me. I was good at it. My grades were always highest in these classes, so it made sense. Now, though? I feel the intense need to give it all up, and I’m well aware that’s just my current headspace.

Closing the app, I heave out a frustrated sigh at the fact I can barely concentrate.

Eventually, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water will wash away my sour mood. It helps a little, but not much. I pull on some sweats and a hoodie, figuring I'll just hide out in my room for the rest of the day.

My phone buzzes with messages from my friends, asking if I'm okay. I send back quick, half-hearted replies of “I'm fine. Just need a day to chill.” I know they don't buy it, but I don't have the energy to explain.

Hours pass in a blur of mindless scrolling and napping. The sunlight shifts across my room, and I stay put, trapped in my own little bubble of self-loathing. My stomach growls, but the thought of facing the dining hall keeps me holed up. I snack on some stale chips from my desk instead.

Around dinnertime, my phone buzzes again.

Hudson

Yo, you alive?

I stare at the screen and debate if I should reply. Before I can make up my mind, another message comes through.

Hudson

C’mon man, you can't hide forever. Party tonight. You need this.

I roll my eyes, but maybe he’s right? Do I need to just party and forget about things? I sigh and type back.

Miles

Idk man. Not feeling it.

Hudson

I’m not taking no for an answer. Be ready by 8. I’ll pick you up. And I’ll bring burgers, I know you’ve been in your room all day and not eaten.

I groan and toss my phone aside, flopping back on my bed. Part of me wants to stay hidden away, but another part knows that I can't keep avoiding reality forever.

At 7:45, I force myself to get up and change. I go for my usual party gear: jeans, a clean t-shirt, and a hoodie. My reflection in the mirror looks like crap, but it'll have to do. Just as I'm lacing up my sneakers, I hear a knock on the door.

“Hey, Miles!” Hudson calls out from the hallway. I grab my phone and wallet, then take a deep breath before opening my door.

“There he is! Thought you were gonna bail on me,” he says, thrusting a paper bag from Lakeside into my hands. The smell of meat and melted cheese greets me like the best thing I’ve ever smelt.

“Almost did,” I admit as I follow him outside.

“Well, I'm glad you didn't. You need this, dude. Besides, everyone is busy tonight on dates, even Quinn.”

My skin bristles at that little snippet of information. “Quinn’s on a date?”

“Yeah, and no one I picked was good enough. She went with Indie’s choice. Can you believe that?”

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