Page 70 of Never Enough

Eden glances at my phone before whistling. “Ooh. You’ve been blocked, buddy.”

Then I notice a text message from Daphne.

Lab partner

You’re off the hook.

Seeing my shocked face, Eden responds by rolling her eyes. “Look, just leave her alone, okay? She doesn’t need your shit.”

“N-no,” I growl. Eden doesn’t understand how much I love Daphne. I’m a terrible boyfriend, but we’re soulmates, and I need to fix this. I’ve been pushing her away because she represents my younger years. The me who was a nerdy, depressed little boy who just wanted to be popular. Celeste is popular. She’s a cheerleader and friends with my popular sister, and … not the person I want to be with.

The truth is I miss my old life. I miss watching football on the bleachers with hot cocoa warming my palms; I miss reading religiously every Sunday; I miss cooking. Fuck, do I miss cooking.

Loneliness is the only thing I don’t miss. Except I’m still lonely, aren’t I? The only difference is how I’m better at hiding it.

Eden slowly backs away with her palms facing out like she’s also tired of my shit. Since she won’t tell me where Daphne is, I have to just go straight to the source. Even if it’s unlikely she’ll answer my calls.

I swipe to my contacts and hover overLab Partner,hating myself for not being man enough to claim her even in my contacts.

Meanwhile, as the phone rings, the room seems to hold its breath. One ring. Two rings.

Just as it goes to voicemail, a hand grabs my shoulder. I whirl around, heart pounding, to see Celeste standing there.

Shit, just the one person I don’t need.

“N-not now, Celeste,” I snap. “From now o-on, stay away fr-from m-me. W-we are not getting back to-together.” I pause to get it together. “Sp-spread t-the w-word.”

Chapter twenty-seven

Daphne

For the last three days, a musty scent has lingered on my skin. It’s an unwelcome reminder of the life I’ve been neglecting, including showers, which I haven’t been doing because my heartbeat pulses louder in the suffocating silence of my room. Since Alex left me, or I left him—details seem so insignificant now—the world has reduced itself to this dimly lit box.

Consequently, classes are nothing but a blur, and shapes and sounds are something I glide through. It’s all motion without purpose. I’m there yet not present, a ghost haunting the halls of Whitmore University, with hazel eyes that see nothing beyond their own pain. When the final bell chimes, signaling the end of another day spent on autopilot, I retreat to this space where the shadows are familiar and the silence doesn’t expect polite lies.

“Alex called again.” Eden’s voice slices through the gloom as she enters, her auburn hair standing out against the darkness. “He’s worried about you.”

I curl into myself even more, the bed sheets twisted around my legs. Despite this, it’s a cocoon that’s both a comfort and a prison. “I don’t want to talk to him,” I murmur, my voice sounding foreign to my ears, raspy from disuse.

“Three days, Daphne. Three days and no shower. It’s not like you. You need to eat something. Stand under the water. Let it wash away … this.” She gestures vaguely, encompassing the oppressive atmosphere of the room.

Given mother’s recent letter, going anywhere near water right now is not an option.

“No,” I whisper. My fingers trace the patterns on the quilt. The feeling is the only thing holding me together. The resolve in my voice crumbles. “I can’t, Eden. Not today.”

She sighs, a sound heavy with concern, and for a moment, I imagine the weight of my despair resting on her shoulders too. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”

I scoff quietly at the word “health”, my lips playing a bitter smile. “Seems a bit trivial, doesn’t it? When every breath feels like drowning all over again?” How do you explain to someone that the mere act of living is the greatest challenge of all?

“Nothing about this is trivial, Daphne.” There’s steel in her tone now, a firmness that brooks no argument. “Get up. Shower. Eat. If not for Alex or me, do it for yourself.

“Eden.” Her name is a plea, a prayer for understanding. She can’t know, can’t comprehend the ocean I’m sinking in, the waves of memories pulling me under. Memories of Alex’s touch, the secret smiles we shared, the way he’d look at me like I was his anchor, and now I’m adrift in open water, anchorless and alone.

Mother was right. I’m poison, and I can’t be saved.

With a tremor in her voice that cracks the façade of strength, she says, “Please. I can’t watch you disappear into this darkness. I won’t.”

Her words are enough to make me want to move, to try, but my limbs betray me, heavy and unwilling. “Tomorrow,” I lie, a promise I’m not sure I can keep. “I’ll try tomorrow.”

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