Page 42 of Fake Game

I thought leaving my apartment behind meant leaving my pain.

I didn’t count on my ghosts following me.

Dammit.

My knees come up to my chest, and I rest my forehead against them.

I hate it. Hate that it’s still affecting me. Hate that it’s ruling my life. Hate that I’m still so weak.

Once it feels like my body has successfully turned into a burnt prune, I shut off the shower and cocoon a giant, soft green towel around my body.

My emotional battery is at nineteen percent—definitely in the red.

I lose another two percent of said battery life just applying my moisturizer.

My hand rests on the doorknob and my heartbeat begins to pound in my ears as I slowly twist it open. I only let it crack an inch before peering out. When I confirm there is no Hulk taking up residence in the bedroom, I take a step out and make my way to the bed.

I sit on the edge for a few minutes in nothing but my towel, staring at the ground as a light buzzing runs through my brain, the remnants of the nightmare still wreaking havoc on my nervous system.

Why am I such a mess?

Begrudgingly, I switch on a lamp and try to find my phone.

“Dammit.”

I must’ve left it in the living room.

My head throbs and I contemplate throwing in the towel—figuratively and literally. Instead, I muster up the little energy I have left and poke my head out into the apartment.

All hope fizzles out when I spot a light coming from the kitchen.

I’d really hoped he’d given up and gone to bed.

Maybe, if I walk quietly enough, he won’t hear me.

Gripping my towel tighter, I take a tentative step into the hallway. Jackson’s back is to me, fiddling with something on the stove. Well, I’m eighty percent sure it is him. Without my contacts in, he looks like a misshapen blob from this far. One of the downfalls of being near-sighted.

I tiptoe my way to the couch and squint, trying (and failing) to make out shapes in the dim light—praying that my phone is somewhere easy to grab.

My jaw clenches as a sweep of the coffee table reveals nothing.

I begin stuffing my hands between the couch cushions, but there is nothing except crumbs and kernels.

Where the hell is it?

I get on my knees, pressing my body flush against the floor as I stretch my arm under the couch as far as it can go without my shoulder dislocating.

“Looking for this, Sparkles?”

I freeze, hoping that if I don’t move, I’ll just disappear into the ground.

There’s a light thud, and I raise my head to see my phone bounce on the couch cushion beside me. The sparkly wrist charm dangles like a taunt.

“Thanks.”

I sit up to look at Jackson, but he’s already walking back to the kitchen. A river bubbles deep in my stomach at his retreating form, urging me to follow.

“What are you doing?”

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