Page 85

CHAPTER 85

LOSING HER LIGHT

DEX

I see her every day, slowly crumbling under the weight of it all. Margaux isn’t just losing herself—she’s being eaten alive, piece by fragile piece.

It’s in the way she moves, slower than she used to, as if even standing upright is a battle.

It’s in the hollow way she speaks, her voice drained of the warmth and conviction I know she once had.

And I know who’s doing this to her.

Timmy.

That fucking parasite.

Every time I think about him, my blood boils.

He doesn’t just hurt her physically—although the thought of that alone is enough to make me want to put him through a wall—he chips away at her mind, her spirit, her very essence.

He’s the kind of person who thrives on chaos, who drinks the attention of strangers like poison-laced nectar and pretends he’s some kind of hero.

Picking up trash on the beach?

Helping with community service?

It’s all a performance.

A farce.

He’s a good guy to everyone except the person who sees the truth.

The person he’s destroying.

Margaux doesn’t talk about the mental pain much. She hides it behind strained smiles and forced jokes. But I see it in her eyes—the tears she won’t let fall, the way her hands shake when she thinks no one’s looking.

And the physical pain each month? Jesus. It’s gut-wrenching.

Watching her clutch her abdomen, writhing from that debilitating condition that causes her to vomit consistently for up to an entire day, disabling her from living her regular life… it’s a kind of hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

The worst part? I can feel in my gut that stress is making it worse. And that stress has a name—Timmy.

I hate how he dismisses her suffering. How he says her agony is self-inflicted, that it’s ‘all in her head.’

He leaves her alone when she’s at her most vulnerable, when she’s curled up in bed, shaking from the pain and throwing up. And then he comes back, smug and reeking of cigarettes, acting like it’s her fault for needing support in the first place.

“I was bored,” he told her once, as if that justified abandoning her.

The rage I felt hearing that? It was volcanic.

If I had been there, I don’t know what I would’ve done, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.

But the thing that makes me angriest? It’s his dad.

Phil.

The enabler.

The man who fuels this train wreck by handing his son money—no strings attached, no accountability.

Phil keeps Timmy afloat just enough to keep him sinking back into his usual mess—booze, cigarettes, and god knows what else.

And when Margaux needs help? When Timmy’s spiraling so far out of control that he threatens to blow her face off with a firework? Phil either doesn’t reply at all, or he just shrugs. Says she must’ve done something to upset him. She must’ve done something .

How does someone become so goddamn blind to the monster they raised?

And Margaux… she’s drowning. I can see it. She tries to fight it, to claw her way to the surface, but Timmy keeps pulling her under.

I think she knows she’s losing herself. I saw the note she wrote to herself:

Every day I’m with him, it erodes me a little.

And the worst part is, she seems to feel like it’s inevitable. Like there’s no way out.

But there is.

There has to be.

I’ve started keeping an electronic journal, a way to track everything. All the ways Timmy hurts her, all the times he twists the truth, all the evidence of his cruelty. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it yet, but I can’t just stand by and do nothing.

Margaux deserves better. She deserves to live, to thrive, to find joy again.

And if she can’t see that for herself yet, I’ll see it for her. I’ll fight for her, even if it means fighting her own demons alongside her.

Because I love her.

Not in the way Timmy claims to—some warped, possessive, toxic version of love—but truly, deeply. I want her to be happy, even if that happiness doesn’t include me. I just want her to be.

So I’ll wait. I’ll watch. And when the moment comes—when she’s ready to step out of the pit Timmy’s dug for her—I’ll be there.

To help her climb out, to catch her if she falls, to remind her of who she is.

Because she’s not a lost cause. She’s not weak.

And she’s not alone.

Not while I’m still breathing.