Page 53 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Patrick is probably talking about me in the press, but I can’t add that to my list of troubles. I feel this pressure building in the back of my skull and in my sinuses.
The condo is dark when I step inside. I won’t have an audience for the epic emotional breakdown that’s about to happen. My lungs feel tight. The sadness and panic I’ve been avoiding claw at the insides of my chest. I need to let it out.
I drop my tote bag, kick off my heels, and run straight to my bedroom, closing the door a second before I burst into sobs. I bury my face in the pillow, screaming, and let it all out.
My tears aren’t dainty or cinematic. They’re messy. Violent. Full-body sobs wrack my chest and leave my throat raw. This is how I fall apart.
Fast, hard, andalwaysbehind closed doors.
I’ve always cried like this. Too much. Too easily. It’s not a weakness, exactly. It’s release. A ritual. It’s like my body stores up everything I won’t say, then forces it out in one awful wave.
I cry until I’m shaking, until my mascara’s on the pillow more than my face and my lungs hurt from the effort. I cry like I’m trying to wring out my heart.
Then, my crying slows. I lie still, blinking up at the ceiling with eyes that feel scraped raw. The worst part isn’t the crying. It’s the emptiness that follows. I’ve emptied myself out and there’s nothing left to feel.
I hate how familiar this is. The swollen eyes, the damp pillowcase, the hollow ache behind my ribs. I’ve done this enough times to know it fixes nothing. It just quiets the noise for a while.
Dragging myself upright, I see that mascara has streaked down my face. My throat burns, and I’m already bracing for the guilt that always comes next. I should be stronger. Ishouldbe more in control. But sometimes this is the only way I can breathe again.
I am desperately thirsty, so I get up, wipe the remnants of my mascara off, and head for the kitchen. Unfortunately, I glimpse myself in the hallway mirror. Messy hair, disheveled dress, barefoot, lipstick partly rubbed off from nervously chewing my bottom lip. Panic flickers through me. If Hunter walks in now, he’ll see the version of me I never show. The version that’s not perfectly put together.
I bolt to the bathroom, swipe on red lipstick with shaking hands, twist my hair into a half-tidy knot, and yank on an oversized hoodie over my dress. Half-hearted armor for when I’m too tired to put on the real thing.
As I sip a glass of water, I sit in the kitchen and calm down by degrees. My mind slips away from the painful breakdown and settles on Hunter instead.
Defending me, sheltering me with his body, growling at my ex? A knot of twisted emotion forms in my chest at the thought of Hunter doing these thingsfor me. I’m one part miffed, one part grateful, and one part turned on.
It’s Hunter, though. He has always been a complete asshole where I’ve been concerned. For him to act like Patrick had attacked his real fiancée was… I don’t know, unexpected I guess.
I wander into the living room and sit on the couch, lost in thought.
It’s silly that I’m even thinking about this. I tell myself what I’m feeling is just heat. Just hormones and proximity and that stupid smirk he gets when he’s trying to get a rise out of me.
But the way he looks at me sometimes, like he sees straight through the armor I wear, like he’s just waiting for me to crack, makes something shift in my chest. A tiny fracture. Small, but dangerous.
Being truly seen, beyond the image I’ve carefully constructed, is destabilizing. And I can’t afford to crack. Not again. Not for someone who could break me in ways Patrick never did; Patrick never really knew me well enough to destroy the real me.
The front door clicks open. Hunter’s heavy stride crosses the living room. Grocery bags thump on the counter. I force myself to stay calm and walk into the kitchen like I haven’t been having a minor breakdown for the last hour.
He pulls out a stack of prepared meal containers and a tub of protein powder with mechanical efficiency. No wasted motion. No conversation. Just the quiet thud of Tupperware hitting the counter. Without looking up, he murmurs, “Nice outfit, Ace.”
He means my dress, still wrinkled from the drive back. The zipper is halfway down, one sleeve sliding off my shoulder, and I am pretty sure there is mascara under my eye. He’s always smug, always pushing. And that nickname hits a nerve I hate having.
“Maybe you should worry less about my clothes and more about the headlines you keep generating.”
He finally looks at me. His brow lifts. That slow, crooked smile spreads across his face like he is enjoying this way too much.
“I thought you enjoyed fixing my messes.”
My skin goes hot. I cross my arms and let it rip.
“You mean the brawl you started after warmups? Or the stick you shattered mid-shift that almost hit a water boy? Or maybe when you walked out of a press event with a sponsor wall behind you like you were storming off a reality show?” I sputter. “By the way, Huxley, I hate that nickname. It doesn’t even make sense now that I’m not on the school paper.”
He shuts the refrigerator. His expression changes. Not cocky now. Just quiet.
“I didn’t know Ace bothered you.”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve told you like a thousand times!” I gesture wildly, my face heating. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but now I’ve already overreacted.
