Page 43

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MADISON

T he door clicks shut behind me, and I barely make it three steps inside before the weight of everything collapses.

My legs buckle.

My chest caves in on itself.

And then, I’m falling.

I hit the floor hard, my knees crashing against the cold wood, but I barely feel it.

The ache in my body is nothing compared to the ache inside me, to the hollowness that spreads through my chest, to the unbearable tightness in my throat that finally snaps.

A sob wrenches out of me, raw and broken.

Then another.

And another.

Because this time, the pain is different.

This time, it isn’t just regret or guilt or the familiar loneliness I’ve trained myself to carry.

This time, it’s worse.

It’s worse because for a brief, fleeting moment, I let myself believe.

I let myself have him, let myself feel what it was like to be loved by someone who has never seen me as anything less than worthy.

And now, I’ve lost him.

Again.

Maybe for good this time .

The realization knocks the air from my lungs, stealing what little control I have left.

For years, I told myself I was doing the right thing, that keeping my distance from Jaxon meant keeping him safe.

Love, real love, was something I couldn’t be trusted with—not after everything I’ve touched has turned to ruin.

I press my hands to my face, my whole body shaking as the dam bursts wide open.

Every emotion I’ve buried, every piece of hurt I’ve ignored, every second of tonight that I pretended I was handling—it all comes rushing out, drowning me in it.

I don’t hear Lyla at first, not until I feel her arms wrap around me, pulling me in, holding me together while I come completely undone.

"Shh, I got you," she whispers, her voice thick with worry as she strokes my hair.

"I’ve got you, babes."

I don’t have me.

I press my forehead into her shoulder, gripping her sweatshirt like it’s the only thing keeping me from breaking apart entirely.

I don’t even know what I’m saying, if I’m saying anything at all, because everything just hurts.

Jaxon’s voice still echoes in my head.

I can’t keep chasing you.

You have to make the first move.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help.

I still see him standing there, his eyes full of something so raw, so final, that it felt like I was losing something irreplaceable.

Because I was.

I had spent so long convincing myself leaving first would hurt less.

If I kept him at arm’s length, if I never let myself truly have him, I’d never have to feel this exact kind of pain.

And yet, here I am, on the ground, barely breathing through the sobs escaping my chest.

Lyla rubs soothing circles on my back, letting me cry, letting me break.

She doesn’t ask me to explain.

She doesn’t tell me everything will be okay.

She just stays, and somehow, that makes it hurt a little less.

After what feels like forever, my sobs quiet, fading into sharp, uneven breaths.

My body still shakes, my throat raw, my chest aching, but the flood of emotions slows—just enough to let exhaustion take over.

Lyla shifts slightly, still holding me, keeping me anchored.

"Come on," she murmurs, her voice softer now.

"Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?"

I don’t argue.

I don’t have the energy to.

She helps me up, guiding me to the bathroom.

The lights are too bright, and I barely recognize the girl in the mirror—the one with swollen eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, and a devastation so deep, it looks permanent.

Lyla says nothing as she turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature before gently tugging at the hem of my hoodie.

"You good?" she asks softly.

I nod, even though I don’t know if I am.

I don’t know if I ever will be.

She gives me one last look before she steps out, leaving me alone with the sound of the water hitting the tile.

I strip out of my clothes, stepping under the spray, and the second the warmth hits my skin, my legs nearly give out again.

I brace my hands against the cool tiles, bowing my head, my wet hair sticking to my face.

The hot water runs down my back, taking with it the exhaustion, the remnants of everything I felt too much of tonight.

I stand there for a long time, letting the steam fog the mirror, letting the heat burn away the cold that settled deep in my bones.

Then, I do what I do best.

I turn it off.

I shut it all down.

The pain.

The fear.

The truth of Jaxon’s words.

I bury them somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable.

By the time I shut off the water, by the time I slip into the clothes Lyla left for me and climb into bed, I don’t feel anything at all.

The weeks slip by in a haze.

I go to class. I turn in assignments.

I study in the library until my eyes burn, until words blur together on the page, until I can convince myself exhaustion is the reason for the hollowness in my chest.

I avoid Lyla.

I avoid everyone.

I don’t answer texts.

I don’t return calls.

I don’t look at social media.

I especially don’t check anything about Jaxon or football or the draft.

I pretend I don’t see the concerned looks from classmates when I zone out in the middle of lectures.

I ignore the way my clothes feel loose, how my stomach twists in on itself from too many skipped meals, how my body aches from the lack of sleep.

It doesn’t matter.

None of it does.

I keep telling myself if I go through the motions, if I stay busy enough, eventually, the weight pressing against my ribs will let up.

Eventually, I won’t think about him every time I close my eyes.

Eventually, I won’t see the pain in his face when he told me he couldn’t chase me anymore.

Eventually.

But eventually never comes.

After another long day of classes and hiding in the library, trying to bury myself in coursework I can’t even process, I finally drag myself home.

I don’t expect to find them waiting for me.

Carter and Lyla sit on the couch, their eyes immediately locking onto me the second I step inside.

I freeze in the doorway.

Carter leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his jaw tight.

Lyla sits beside him, legs crossed, her usual teasing smirk nowhere to be found.

Instead, she just watches me, quiet and uncharacteristically serious.

I know what this is before either of them even say a word.

An intervention.

A warm, loving, well-intentioned intervention.

And I hate it.

I let out a heavy breath, shoving my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, exhaustion seeping into my bones.

"Really?" I mumble, toeing off my shoes.

"This is what we’re doing?"

Lyla stands first, her arms crossing over her chest. "What you’re doing isn’t working, girlfriend."

I force a humorless laugh.

"I’m fine."

Carter lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head.

"Bullshit."

My eyes snap to him, but before I can argue, he’s already pushing off the couch, standing to his full height, frustration etched across every inch of his face.

"You’re not fine," he says, voice steady but heated.

"You look like a ghost of yourself. You’re barely eating, barely sleeping, and you’re avoiding everyone who actually gives a damn about you."

I shake my head, jaw clenched.

"I don’t need this right now."

"Yeah?" He takes a step closer, his voice rising.

"Well, I don’t really care what you think you need, because I know what you don’t. You don’t need to pretend like everything’s fine when it’s not."

I swallow hard, my nails digging into my palms inside my pockets.

Carter watches me, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what he expects me to tell him.

So, I say the same thing I’ve been telling myself every day since Jaxon walked away.

"I’m handling it."

His laugh is sharp—not amused, but furious.

"You’re not handling it. You’re drowning, Madison."

I flinch.

Lyla is still watching me, her expression soft, but her eyes are screaming listen to him .

Carter scrubs a hand down his face before locking eyes with me again, his expression no longer just frustrated, but pained.

"Do you even realize you’re not the only one spiraling?" he asks, his voice quieter now, but somehow, it feels worse than when he was yelling.

My stomach twists.

"He’s just as bad as you," Carter says, shaking his head.

"Probably worse."

I blink, my pulse spiking.

Carter lets out a bitter laugh.

"You think you’re the only one suffering? Jaxon is wrecked, Madison. The guy gave up everything—risked his future, his career, his entire damn life—just because you called and said you needed him."

I stiffen, and Carter’s eyes narrow.

"And what? You think that was just a drunken phone call?"

I scoff, wrapping my arms tightly around myself.

"That’s exactly what it was."

Carter snaps.

"You’re so full of shit," he seethes.

"I’ve seen you drunk, Madison, plenty of times. And you know what I know about drunk you?"

I stay silent, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Carter steps closer, eyes burning into mine.

"Drunk you doesn’t lie. Drunk you doesn’t throw up walls, doesn’t put on a fake front to keep people from getting too close. Drunk you is honest."

My throat closes.

"You said you needed him," Carter continues, shaking his head, his voice raw.

"And he believed you. Because you did need him. You just couldn’t admit it when you sobered up."

I hate that he’s right.

I hate that it feels like the air has been sucked out of my lungs, that I want to argue, that I want to tell him he’s wrong—but I can’t.

Carter stares at me for another long second, waiting for me to say something, but I don’t.

I can’t.

With a bitter shake of his head, he mutters, "Unbelievable." Then, he turns and storms toward the door .

"Carter—" Lyla calls after him, but he’s already yanking it open.

Before he steps out, he pauses, glancing back at me one last time.

"You want to pretend like this doesn’t affect you? Fine," he says, his voice low, dripping with frustration.

"But at least own up to the fact that it affects him."

And with that, he’s gone.

The door slams shut behind him, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, shattered.

Lyla lets out a slow exhale, rubbing her temples before stepping toward me.

I flinch at the movement, taking a step back.

I don’t want to talk.

I don’t want to feel.

I just want to disappear.

Lyla sees it, I know she does, but instead of pushing, she just sighs, her voice softer now.

"Come on, girl. Let’s get you to bed."

I don’t argue.

I don’t fight.

I just let her lead me to my room, tuck me under my covers, and turn off the light.

She doesn’t say anything else.

Because she knows, just like I do?—

There’s nothing left to say.