“Don’t be so hard on yourself, mija. Can’t you see what a smart, beautiful woman you are? Set your mind to it, and you’ll accomplish it. I’m always in your corner, cheering you on.”
The words feel like a knife against the raw parts of my heart. Tears slip quietly down my cheeks, soaking into the stretched collar of Carter’s sweatshirt that still clings to my skin. I roll onto my side, my gaze landing on the notebook abandoned on my nightstand. The number I wrote down—three thousand dollars—stares back at me inangry, ugly ink, underlined so many times it practically tore through the page.
It’s not Linda’s fault. It’s not even unfair.
It’s me. I’m the fucking problem.
Reality hits me like a freight train all over again. Three thousand dollars a month. Money I don’t have. Money I pissed away when I could’ve been smart and saved. Years of drunken nights, designer shopping sprees, and pouring my grief into anything that would numb the screaming silence my mother left behind.
A sharp, hollow laugh escapes me as I keep staring up at the ceiling. I clench my jaw until my teeth hurt, willing the lump in my throat to stay down, trying to beat back the familiar spiral clawing its way up my chest.
I feel like a fucking failure.
A broke, directionless twenty-four year old who doesn’t even know how to fix her own fucking life. As if the universe hasn’t shunned me enough, today is my birthday.
Another year reminding me that I haven’t accomplished anything.
The buzz of my phone on the nightstand shatters the heavy silence. I flinch, swiping blindly until the screen blares to life. Group chat notifications flash across the screen, cutting through the fog clouding my head.
Amelia
Happy birthday to my favorite gremlin, I love youuuuu.
Layla
Another year of being hotter and slightly more chaotic. We love to fucking see it. Now get out of bed, and go ride some dick.
A tiny breath of a laugh pushes past my lips. It lands softly in my chest, a fleeting reminder that maybe I’m not as alone as I feel. Of course, they remembered, they always do.
The ones who sat with me in hospital waiting rooms, who pulled me out of bars when I was too broken to leave on my own, and who refused to walk away even when I shoved them with every ounce of rage and grief I had.
I send them back a few heart emojis and snap a quick selfie with my bird’s nest hair and exaggerated duck lips, just to prove I’m still breathing. But as I swipe back through my notifications, the familiar emptiness returns.
No missed calls. No new texts. Nothing from the one person I secretly, stupidly, still wish would care.
Of course, he couldn’t message me a happy birthday.
My chest caves in a little more. I throw the blanket off with a frustrated groan; the weight of it feels like it’s suffocating me.
I sit on the edge of the bed, scrubbing my hands down my face, anger and sadness swirling so fast I can barely tell them apart. It’s pathetic how much power he still holds over me. It’s pathetic that some wounded part of me still hopes, aches, for something different.
God, my daddy issues are fucking Olympic level.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, taking a long, shaky breath.
Fine. If he won’t be proud of me, I’ll find a way to be proud of myself.
I fly downthe stairs like an absolute ape, my bare feet thundering against the wood, not giving a single fuck about how much noise I’m making. I’m pissed, and it’s not even eight in the goddamn morning. I storm into the kitchen, fully ready to rage at the first person who crosses me—and of course, it has to be Carter.
He sits at the kitchen island, looking perfect as usual. Freshly showered, damp strands of dark brown hair pushed back, a white Henley clings to his broad back, as his muscles strain through the thin fabric.
God, I hate how he looks this good just existing.
He turns slightly, his blue eyes finding mine, and his entire face shifts. Gone is the teasing, cocky cowboy. In its place is something softer, like he can see right through the storm raging inside of me.
“Come here, baby,” he says quietly, voice rough with sleep but so damn gentle it makes something in my chest crack.
I hesitate, blinking at him, not trusting myself to speak. I still look like shit, but Carter looks at me like I’m the only thing he sees.
