I clutch a fold of my hoodie, absently twirling it between my fingers in search of comfort. “I’m fine. Justtired.”
The moment the last word leaves my mouth, I want to scold myself. I fucking hate it. It’s something only weak people use as an excuse, and I’m anything but weak. If my father heard me say it, I know he’d be angry.
I can’t allow myself to use that excuse again—at least not in front of others.
Fortunately, she takes the hint and doesn’t pry further. Both of us dive into our tasks, and before long, my anxiety melts away while we attend to the fur babies, as it always does when I’m with them.
My leg trembles violently, a relentless rhythm against the sudden stab of pain that I barely acknowledge. Warm, wet liquid trails down my fingers, and I don’t need to look down to know what I’ve done.
I keep promising myself that I’ll stop this nasty habit of tearing the skin around my nails, yet I fail each time. As a child, it wasn’t serious; I mostly feared my mom would notice and punish me for ruining my skin. She always said that appearance is the most important thing for a lady and that I should care about it more than anything else.
And I did. I cared more than anything, ultimately achieving what she wanted. But now she’s gone, and I can’t seem to get a grip on myself.
I gave Eli another week, debating whether I was truly overreacting or if I had really done something to upset him. I tried to recall what I might have said, or if it was simply the way I rolled my eyes—a gesture that has become almost second nature—but nothing came to mind. Sometimes my brain blocks certain memories, especially when it comes to arguments. I can forget where or why they started in the first place.
My thoughts are devouring me. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, and can’t focus on work. Negative reflections and paranoia gnaw at my mind, leaving me unsure of where to go or what to do.
The need to channel my mental struggle into something physical has failed miserably; my fingers are bleeding, yet I don’t feel any relief. Usually, this distraction works well enough, but now it’s not helping at all.
The irony is that I’m terrified of losingthis, but when I examine it more deeply, I realize I don’t even knowwhatI’m afraid of losing. Grace and the others have joked about him being a ‘half-boyfriend,’ as they put it, and despite my attempts to convince myself otherwise, it’s a fitting description of Eli.
So what am I scared to lose? Probably the feeling of comfort. The feeling that diminishes with each passing day.
But that’s only because I haven’t done enough to keep things afloat. I’ve never been good at relationships, and I’ve made more mistakes than I can admit. Maybe now I need to push harder to find happiness.
I pivot and walk to my closet, sliding the door open to retrieve a pair of gloves to protect my hands from the mess I’ve made. After putting them on, I whirl around and march out of the house, impatience humming beneath my skin, pushing me to move faster.
I just need to see him.
Anxiety seepsfrom my body as my eyes fixate on the front door of Eli’s house. Tremors ripple through me, and the voices in my head clash, each trying to overpower the other. How can this feel like too much and yet like the bare minimum at the same time?
On one hand, I feel like an obsessed psychopath, not giving this man the time or space to think about whatever we have. On the other hand, I’m fighting for our relationship, wanting to make amends if I’ve messed things up.
And no, the second thought doesn’t sound weird at all when I say it out loud.
I knock, bracing myself for a difficult conversation. I don’t want to be pessimistic, but after being ignored for weeks, I doubt this will go smoothly. Still, I’m determined to do my best.
The door swings open in seconds, sending a pleasant thrill through my body. It feels like he’s been expecting me.
As soon as our eyes connect, his neutral expression darkens, shifting from somber to what seems like annoyance. A wave of pain crashes into my gut, causing a tremor in my upper lip.
“Venetia,” he says, his voice colder than ice. “What do I owe this visit to?”
I frown, unable to help it, as I swallow hard and twirl my fingers. “I don’t understand, Eli,” I mumble, straightening up and clearing my throat. I need to maintain my composure. At least fucking try to. “You’re not going to invite me in?”
His nostrils flare, exposing the anger threatening to break free. Yet, despite this, he nods and steps aside, allowing me entry.
I waste no time—desperate for him not to change his mind—as I go inside, immediately cringing at the decor. I’ve never liked the look of his house—all brown wood and questionable paintings that I’m certain he doesn’t understand. Here, I feel nothing but a strong urge to turn away, to close my eyes and block out the sight.
But I didn’t come here to think about that. So, after he closes the door and turns to face me, I decide to cut straight to the chase. “Why are you ignoring me, Eli?” It feels utterly humiliating to ask this, and I can’t shake off the worry that I’m fucking everything up again.
With his hands in his pockets, he leans against the wall and exhales a long, drawn-out breath. His eyes avoid mine, as if he can’t stand the sight of me. “I don’t understand how you can be so brave coming here and asking me questions like that.”
My lip quivers once more, but this time the tremor is stronger. “W-what?”
He detaches from the wall and raises a hand toward me. “You made a fool of me, Venetia. You invited me to a party where I clearly didn’t belong, and then your dear friend practically laughed in my fucking face!”
Confusion completely takes over me, and despite the flurry of questions swirling on the tip of my tongue, I struggle to decide which one to ask first. He makes no sense. “What do you mean, Eli? I wanted you there. I told you—” I trail off when, suddenly, a spark of awareness cuts through the haze of uncertainty. “Whichfriendare you talking about?”
