Page 35 of American Beauty

It doesn’t add up. None of it does.

My heart slams against my chest, loud and frantic. My stomach lurches. I barely make it to the toilet before I’m sick.

I stay there, hunched and shaking, long after the nausea fades. The silence wraps around me like a straitjacket, pressing in, stealing what little breath I have left.

I am not okay.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this kind of not okay before.

When I crawl back to my feet, I rinse out my mouth and lean against the counter, water dripping from my chin.

I make it back into the office somehow, each step heavier than the last. I drop into my chair, hands trembling as I lift my phone again.

Her contact photo blinks back at me—Magnolia in that straw hat from the day we spent at Bondi, windblown and laughing, cheeks flushed with sun and happiness.

My thumb hovers over the screen, like it might bring her back. Like I can hold on to her just a little longer.

But she’s gone.

And I don’t know how to breathe without her.

Chapter 9

Magnolia Steel

Violet stayed the night.She made me drink too much wine, ordered greasy takeout we barely touched, and didn’t let me cry alone. I woke up to the sound of her snoring on my couch, with her makeup smudged and her arm draped over her eyes as though she’s shielding herself from the weight of my heartbreak.

Or a hangover.

But she was there. She stayed. And somehow, that matters more than anything else.

But now?

Now I’m driving to work with a head full of fog and a heart ripped in two.

The drive is a blur—stoplights and street signs bleeding together in streaks of red and green. My hands clutch the steering wheel with a desperation, knuckles stiff with nails biting into my palms as if I grip hard enough, I can hold the pieces of myself together.

I should’ve called in sick. Taken the day. Hell, maybe the week. But I couldn’t spend another second in that apartment, surrounded by silence and the echo of a future I’d started building around a man who doesn’t want me.

I didn’t even mean enough for him to end things via FaceTime. He only considered me worthy of a few distant lines on a screen—clinical, detached, as if I never mattered at all.

The words loop in my head on repeat. I’ve never hated a sentence so much in my life. I’ve never hurt like this.

I pull into the Soul Sync parking lot. The engine hums beneath me, and the morning sun blares against the windshield like some smug bastard, too bright, too cheerful. I release a shaky breath and drag trembling fingers through my hair.

I glance into the rearview mirror. My eyes are swollen, my smile is a lie, but it’s all I have left to give.

You’re fine.

You look like hell, but you’re fine.

You have to be.

Squaring my shoulders, I reach for the door handle. Time to walk into work and pretend my world didn’t just fall apart.

People smile and greet me as I pass, but their voices sound distant, like echoes from another world. The usual morning buzz—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, casual laughter—blurs against the pounding in my ears. Every step toward my office drags heavier than the last. By the time I close the door behind me, the walls feel too tight, the air too thin, and exhaustion seeps deep into my bones.

I sink into my chair, dropping my bag onto the floor beside me, and stare at my desk. It’s covered in neat stacks of design proposals and client portfolios—proof that life moves on, with or without me.

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