K.
Iscoff at his cold message. I haven’t heard from him since he texted me when we went to VYCE. Whatever, I have bigger fucking problems.
It’s been three days since she found out about the rent on Bell’s Books, and Catalina hasn’t left her room once. She hasn’t eaten, and she even surprisingly hasn’t bitched at me for eating her expensive yogurt or using her purple hair towel by accident.
It’s been silent, for three whole fucking days.
I’ve knocked and left food outside her door. Fuck, I even made that matcha bullshit she likes—with oat milk, lavendersyrup and everything—even though it made my kitchen smell like a Whole Foods exploded.
Nothing.
The only sound coming from her room is the occasional creak of the mattress when she shifts, and even that’s rare. She’s disappeared behind that door, and it’s fucking killing me.
I scrub a hand down my face as I lean against the hallway wall, holding a plate of untouched breakfast that’s still warm. Her favorite—cinnamon French toast and eggs cooked the way she likes ’em, crispy on the edges. I added some whipped cream and strawberries too, hoping maybe that would pull her out of bed.
It fucking didn’t.
I press my back to the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting outside her door like some lovesick idiot, staring at the plate, listening to nothing.
No music. No shuffling. Just the soft hum of pain, too loud to say out loud.
God, I fucking hate this. I hate seeing her like this.
I hate that she heard that number on a lease and sees it as a weight too heavy to carry. I hate that an idea finally landed in her lap, and the price tag made her feel like she wasn’t enough. I especially hate that I can’t fix it, not without making her feel like she owes me something.
What I really fucking hate is that the woman who filled my house with color, chaos, and glitter bombs now won’t even open the door.
I lean my head back and close my eyes.
“Baby,” I whisper, voice low enough I don’t know if she hears me, “I know you’re hurting, but starving yourself and hiding from the world ain’t the way.”
There’s no answer, just more silence growing between us.
I exhale through my nose, tapping the side of the plate with my thumb.
“You’re the loudest person I know,” I say softly, “and this house is real fucking quiet without you.”
Still nothing.
I hesitate, then rest the plate beside her door, pushing myself to my feet. I start to walk away, but something stops me cold. Her voice, small, broken, muffled through the wooden door.
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
My hand clenches into a fist at my side. I turn, stepping back toward her door, and press my palm flat to it like it’s the only way to reach her.
“You don’t have to fix it,” I say, steady and sure. “You just have to let me in.”
The soft clickof the lock feels like thunder in my chest.
I hesitate, fingers curling around the gold door knob, heart pounding like a fucking drum. She’s letting me in—not just into the room, but into the mess, into the part of her that usually stays locked up tighter than this goddamn door.
I push it open slowly.
The room is dark, with curtains still drawn. The glow from her laptop screen casts a pale light across the bed; it’s semi-closed and forgotten beside her. She’s curled up under a mountain of blankets, knees to her chest, her hair atangled mess that would usually make her scream. Mascara is smudged under her eyes, a telltale streak on her pillow, as if she cried herself out and still doesn’t feel better.
Her eyes meet mine across the room, and it makes my fucking heart break.
She looks... tired. Quietly ruined in a way I’ve never seen her before. She’s been in the same oversized hoodie for three days, hasn’t showered, and looks exhausted. The demons she’s fighting quietly, a glimpse of it came to light, eating her alive.
