Something warm, somethinghers.
catalina
. . .
Itear the comforter off the bed, sending the plush duvet cascading to the floor in a muted heap. I move to the drawers, digging through them like a woman possessed.
Open, slam, open, slam.
Each drawer’s ripped out with shaking hands.I don’t even know what the fuck I’m looking for.
Then I feel it, hidden beneath the lining of the nightstand drawer. Exactly where I told myself there’d be nothing left. Where a weaker, wearier version of me once tucked it away like a secret weapon.
I pull the pouch out with trembling fingers, the weight of it seeping into my skin. It feels like guilt. Failure. Like everything I swore I’d never return to.
Don’t do it. Don’t go back.
I loosen the drawstring, spilling the contents into my palm. The bottle of Xanax slides into view, and the eerie sound of the pills rattling sends chills down my spine. It’s still half full.
Still waiting for me.
My throat tightens. I hear my father’s voice—“You’re just being dramatic, Catalina.”
When grief swallowed me whole, when the panic sat on my chest like a demon in the night, he didn’t fucking hold me like a father should. Instead, he handed me pills.
The high it gave me was addictive. That slow, seductive escape. The feeling of being inside your own body but notinit. Lucid, but weightless. Watching yourself from somewhere far away, where nothing could touch you.
The pale white bricks stare up at me now, tiny and unassuming. The color of numbness. The shade of silence. A feeling I know far too well.
I shove the velvet pouch into my purse fast. Maybe if I move quickly enough, it won’t count. Like, if I don’t lookat what I just did, it’ll disappear. But it doesn’t. The shame is already clawing up my spine, wrapping itself around my ribs.
I stumble back a step, my legs weak beneath me, and crash into the edge of the bed. I slide down to the floor, my arms wrapping tightly around my knees. My body curls in on itself, and then the noise comes.
Not out loud. But inside.
Loud. Violent. Suffocating.
My hands tangle in my hair, yanking hard, because I need the pain. I need something tangible to drown out the screaming in my head.
I grab my phone off of the nightstand, I need to fucking talk to someone. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely type. My back’s pressed against the bed frame, my legs curled into my chest.
It’s late. Maybe after midnight, but I don’t care. My heart is pounding out of rhythm, my breath too loud in this silent, suffocating room.
I open the group chat—Bad Bitches—and immediately read the messages I ignored.
Layla
You okay? You kinda ghosted today. We’re worried.
Amelia
I’m serious. Say the fucking word and I’ll commit a felony.
I stare at their texts, fingers hovering over the keyboard. I typeI’m fine, but delete it. Again and again. Then I finally just let it spill.
Catalina
It’s my shitass of a father. He came to Tennessee, unannounced, and literally dragged me out of Carter’s house. I know he said six months, but I wasn’t planning on coming back home. He just took me, just like that.
