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“Shhh . . . it’s okay. It was only a dream.” My mum cried and tried to hug me, but I gently pushed her arms back.
“No, I’m fine,” I assured her and told her to leave me alone.
I lay awake for the rest of the night trying to get the image out of my head, but I couldn’t.
Day four continued just as it started. My mum ignored me all day, which I thought I would want but it turned out I was sort of . . . lonely. I began to miss Tessa. I kept finding myself looking next to me to talk to her, to wait for her to say something that was sure to make me smile. I wanted to call her, my finger traced over that green button over one hundred times, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I can’t give her what she wants, and that isn’t going to be good enough for her. It’s better this way. I spent the afternoon looking up how much it would cost me to move my shit back here to England. This is where I’m going to end up anyway, so I might as well get it over with.
We would never work, Tessa and me. I always knew we wouldn’t last. We couldn’t. It wasn’t possible for us to be together always. She’s too damn good for me and I know it. Everyone knows it. I see the way people turn to stare at us everywhere we go, and I know they’re wondering why that beautiful girl is with me.
I had been staring at my phone while downing a half bottle of whiskey for hours before I turned off the light and fell asleep. I thought I heard the buzzing of my phone on the nightstand, but I was too drunk to sit up and answer. The nightmare came again; this time Tessa’s nightgown was soaked in blood and she cried for me to go away, to leave her there on that couch.
Day five I woke up to a flashing red light on my phone indicating that yet again I’d missed her call, only this time it wasn’t intentional. Day five was when I stared at her name on the screen before looking at picture after picture of her. When did I take so many? I hadn’t realized how many pictures I had snapped without her paying any mind.
While looking through the pictures, I kept remembering the way her voice sounds. I never liked American accents—they bore me and they’re annoying—but Tessa’s voice is perfect. Her accent is perfect, and I could listen to her speak all day, every single day. Will I ever hear her voice again?
This one’s my favorite, I thought at least ten times while looking through the photos. I finally settled on a picture of her lying on her stomach on the bed, her legs crossed in the air and her hair down, tucked behind her ear. She had her chin resting on one of her hands and her lips slightly parted as she took in the words in front of her on the screen of her e-reader. I snapped the picture the moment she caught me staring, the exact moment that a smile, the most beautiful smile, appeared on her face. She looked so happy to be looking at me in this picture. Does . . . well, did she always look at me that way?
That day, day five, was when the weight appeared on my chest. A constant reminder of what I’d done, and most likely lost. I should have called her that day while staring at her pictures. Did she stare at my pictures? She only has one to this day, and ironically I found myself wishing I’d have allowed her to take more. Day five was when I threw my phone against the wall in hopes of smashing it, but only cracked the screen. Day five was when I desperately wished she would call me. If she called me, then it would be okay, everything would be okay. We’d both apologize and I’d go home. If she was the one to call me, then I wouldn’t feel guilty for coming back into her life. I wondered if she was feeling the same way I was. Was every day getting harder for her? Did every second without me make it harder for her to breathe?
I began to lose my appetite that day. I just wasn’t hungry. I missed her cooking, even the simple meals that she would make for me. Hell, I missed watching her eat. I missed every goddamn thing about that infuriating girl with kind eyes. Day five was when I finally broke down. I cried like a bitch and didn’t even feel bad about it. I cried and cried. I couldn’t stop. I tried desperately, but she wouldn’t leave my mind. She wouldn’t leave me alone; she kept appearing, she kept saying she loved me, and she kept hugging me, and when I realized it was my imagination, I cried again.
Day six I woke with swollen and bloodshot eyes. I couldn’t believe the way I’d broken down the previous night. The weight on my chest had magnified, and I could barely see straight. Why was I such a fuckup? Why did I continue to treat her like shit? She’s the first person who has ever been able to see me, inside of me, the real me, and I treated her like shit. I blamed her for everything, when in reality it was me. It was always me—even when I didn’t seem to be doing anything wrong, I was. I was rude to her when she tried to talk to me about things. I yelled at her when she called me out on my bullshit. And I lied to her repeatedly. She has forgiven me for everything, always. I could always count on that, and maybe that’s why I treated her the way I did, because I knew I could. I smashed my phone under my boot on day six. I went half the day without eating. My mum offered me oatmeal, but when I tried to force myself to eat it, it nearly came back up. I hadn’t showered since day three, and I was a fucking wreck. I tried to listen as my mum told me the few things she needed me to get from the store, but I couldn’t hear her. All I could think of was Tessa and her need to go to Conner’s at least five days a week.
Tessa once told me I ruined her. Now, as I sit here trying to focus, trying to just catch my breath, I know that she was wrong. She ruined me. She got inside me and fucked me up. I had spent years building those walls—my entire life, really—and here she came in and tore them down, leaving me with nothing but rubble.