Page 159 of Becoming Us

Not probably.

You don’t.

The Titans Under Scrutiny: Global Authorities Launch Probe into High-Stakes Market Manipulation

Among those named in the widening investigation is Federico Rossi, the elusive Argentinian financier, who rose from obscurity to build a billion-dollar empire. Long celebrated for his rags-to-riches ascent and high-profile marriage to international icon Andrea Ríos, Rossi—who passed away earlier this year—now casts a shadow over his family’s legacy as authorities question whether the fortune he left behind was amassed through deception and unethical?—

I locked the door behind me. Or maybe I just closed it—I couldn’t tell anymore. The music thumped loudly on the other side, but I couldn’t take it. Couldn’t pretend. Not tonight.

I just wanted to get the fuck out of this place.

Can’t, though. Can’t kick them out.

My nose wouldn’t stop dripping, constant and annoying, like the bitter taste clinging to the back of my throat. Another nosebleed tonight. They always left me feeling wrecked, like I was a waste of space who didn’t even deserve to be here.

I’m so fucking done with this. I fucking hate it.

I walked into the bathroom, my bare feet soft and uncertain on the floor. The tiles felt cold, but also not real—like my skin wasn’t registering it properly. The two orange bottles werestacked neatly by the sink. Sometimes I could swear they were looking at me.

I can’t deal with this on my own.

I’m weak.

I’m broken.

Who the hell is ever going to love me like this?

What a waste of a person.

I swayed, my balance off with everything coursing through my bloodstream. The mirror shimmered a little, or maybe my vision did.

I’m done. This needs to be done.

I uncapped the first bottle. Only a few pills left.

Huh. Can’t even do this right.

I reached for the second bottle. Filled to the brim. That’s better. Enough.

Funny, right? Finally enough.

Meeting my eyes in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. My gaze dragged across my own reflection, unfocused.

That’s not me. It doesn’t look like me. It doesn’t feel like me.

My hands trembled as I tipped the pills back—no idea how many, but enough. I almost walked away, then grabbed the other bottle and swallowed those, too, for good measure.

The bed dipped under my weight. Light filtered through the blinds, hazy and soft, as if the room had sunk underwater. Maybe it was morning now.

My eyes felt so heavy, just like the rest of my body.

Should I write a note?

Why?

For who?

Nobody fucking cares.