Page 85 of Glass Jawed
“Should I come?” she’d asked, her voice thick with worry from across the country. “I swear I’ll hop on the next flight. Just say the word.”
I had smiled at the ceiling. The kind of smile that feels like a stitch unraveling. I barely smile anymore. And it’s only Kashvi that itdoeshappen with.
“No, Kash. I’m okay. Honestly. If you fly over, I’ll just feel guilty for making you suffer through my bullshit.”
“Yourbullshit?” she scoffed. “This wasn’tyourbullshit. It’s Lucifer’s bullshit. A steaming pile of it. With garnish.”
I had chuckled at that. First almost-laugh in days. Even if it had the emotional stamina of a dying plant.
“Still,” I’d muttered. “You’ve got work. And a life. I’ll manage.”
“Let me know when you’re notmanaging,” she’d said, steel beneath her concern. “Or I’ll send Liam over to drag you to the airport with a one-way ticket to Vancouver.”
Honestly? I believe she would.
I love that about her.
And maybe she’s right. Because I’m not really managing.
I’m just...functioning. Barely.
My last semester is wrapping up. A blur of final papers, group projects, and the nauseating silence of a routine no longer punctuated by good morning kisses or random texts.
My stupid self is still looking up with anticipation every time the café doors open in the mornings.
I need to movethe fuckon.
Thankfully, two job offers came through—one from a publishing startup here in Toronto, and another from a boutique consulting firm in Vancouver.
Kash, predictably, is team Vancouver.
She won’t say it out loud, but I know she thinks this city’s too poisoned for me now.
Toohaunted.
I haven’t decided yet.
Mostly because I’m going to India in a month. Six weeks of heat, mangoes, relatives I’ll pretend to remember, and a big fat wedding for my cousin, Ishika.
Six weeks of distraction.
Six weeks of pretending this never happened.
And yet...
Nothing feels real anymore.
Or safe.
Therapy’s been helping, yes—but in the way a fan helps in a wildfire. It gives me small moments of peace before the panic scorches its way back in. The uncertainty... the not knowing... it’s eating me alive.
A total of three nights have ended with unrelenting panic attacks since the implosion. The kind that has a phantom hand gripping your lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
I don’t even know what I want from him anymore.
Answers?
Justice?
