Page 21 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol in a week.

Which doesn’t mean I’m okay . If anything, my insides feel like they’re simmering—raw, jittery, frayed around the edges. But for the first time in a year, maybe longer... my mind is clear .

Crystal fucking clear.

It’s strange, really—how sobriety isn’t just about the absence of alcohol. It’s the absence of fog. Of static. Of justifications that used to make it easier to breathe.

And it terrifies me.

Because clarity? Clarity is brutal .

Clarity leaves no room for excuses, no corners to hide in.

No broken-man narrative to wrap around my mess— my selfishness —and call it retribution.

For the first time in what feels like a year, I’m not floating through the days. Not numbing. Not deflecting. Just... sitting. In the wreckage.

And looking around.

I’ve been doing that a lot this past week while I’ve been off from work. Watching my own life like it belongs to someone else. Like some documentary on bad decisions and emotional cowardice. Starring me. Written by me. Directed by... anger.

And yet, through all of it—through the shattered trust and the self-inflicted ruin—I keep coming back to her .

Not to what happened.

But to her .

To the way she’d hum while brushing her long, dark hair.

To the way her face lit up when she talked about Hindi indie songs she thought I’d hate but secretly saved to my playlist.

To her body angled toward mine in sleep like she forgot where she ended and I began.

To the laugh that slipped out of her when I mispronounced ’golgappa’ and tried to argue that I had my own pronunciation rights.

I can’t stop replaying the little things. Not the mind-altering sex. Not the extravagant dates. Just... her.

The her that moved through my life like she belonged there. Like she’d always been there.

And the more I sit with it—the more I strip myself bare of all the armor and ego and resentment —I realize I was never pretending with her.

Not since that first date.

Not when I kissed her for the first time and felt my fragmented pieces click into place.

Not when I stared at her across my kitchen and thought, I hope I don’t ruin this.

And somehow I still did.

But that doesn’t erase what it was. What she was. What she still is.

And the fact that it took losing her to realize it makes me feel like the worst kind of cliché.

But it doesn’t make it untrue.

God! I hope it doesn’t.

I miss her. I miss her in ways I don’t have metaphors for.

I miss her when I accidentally knock her plushy slippers when putting on my shoes.

When I’m getting dressed after showering and never— ever —fail to put the Cooper bracelet back on.

When I pick up my phone and see her name is still on top of my favorite contacts.

Fuck. When I breathe , I miss her. Everything about her.

How her hand curls under her chin when she sleeps on her stomach. I love it when she does that. I love her voice in the mornings—all low and raspy—calling me an idiot for not charging my phone. I love how she was so unapologetically herself that she dragged the real me out. I love—

I still at my train of thought.

Is that what this is?

Not guilt. Not longing. Not mere nostalgia.

But... love?

Fuck.

It’s love, isn’t it?

The kind that makes you feel like your body isn’t big enough to contain what’s inside it.

The kind that makes you want to fix yourself—not just for her, but because she made you want to be someone worth loving.

Christ. I’m so fucking stupid.

I’m in love with Aarohi Talwar.

And now she’s gone.

And I have no one to tell but myself. I no longer have the right to say it to her.

I know it’s not some half-assed, I-like-who-I-am-around-her kind of affection. It’s the I-love-how-she-smells-on-lazy-mornings kind of love.

God, I’m so fucking in love with her.

But it’s not just Aarohi I fell for, is it?

It’s Rohi .

The quiet-eyed, sharp-tongued woman who kept it real even when I was handing her a pretty lie. The woman who laughed at my bad jokes, who chewed me out for leaving dishes in the sink, who looked me in the eye and gave a shit even when I thought didn’t.

And now? Now, I’ve probably drained every last drop of feelings she had for me. Like mine drained for Tim.

Fuck! This isn’t happening.

Because it doesn’t matter how real I eventually became with her—when the foundation was a lie, every truth after it starts to look fake, too.

I let that happen.

I made that happen.

Trust that barely had a chance to build—I took it and fucking stomped on it.

So yeah. I may have come to terms with my feelings. But she probably can’t even stand to hear my name.

Still, I want to become who I really am. Who I was with her for the few blessed months.

Not the asshole who schemed a fake relationship for revenge.

Not the boy who lost his shit the night Tim left.

Not the man who let fear masquerade as logic .

I want to be me . The one who found himself in the way she looked at him. Who started laughing again because she laughed first.

But who is that version of me? Where is that version of me?

The year after Tim—it’s like a fog. I was functioning. Fucking. Working. Smiling in pictures. But none of it felt... anchored . I was hollow. And I didn’t even realize it until I wasn’t anymore.

Until Rohi.

With her, I didn’t feel lost.

I felt... returned .

And even now—without her—I still feel tethered. Like the time I spent with her gave me some blueprint for who I used to be. Who I want to be again. Not for her. Not just for her.

But because of her.

But then I went and Chrissy’d the whole fucking thing. And that version was blown to bits in her eyes.

Jesus Christ . I brought a girl to my bed. I let her touch me. Why? Because it would give me some pathetic upper hand? Because causing pain would numb mine?

It didn’t.

It detonated everything.

So now I’m here. Sitting on a padded chair in front of a psychotherapist. Reeling from the painful narration of my brainless decisions.

I’m one-week sober. Clear-headed—albeit jumpy. And disturbingly unsure of why I ruined everything.

But painfully aware of how much I’ve lost—and how little I deserve to ask for it back.

But maybe I don’t need to ask.

Maybe I just need to... be. For now.

Become who I should’ve been when I’m not hiding behind bitterness and burn scars.

Then maybe, by some miracle, I’ll be granted the privilege of her presence. And she’ll see that even though I’m not lost anymore, I’ve begun to find myself.

Because she found me first.

“Lucian?” My therapist, Alan, jolts me back into my chair.

“Shit. Sorry.” I offer an awkward smile, trying to shake the fog.

He nods, unfazed. “It’s alright. I asked if you’ve given more thought to the why of things since the last session. We know what prompted you to do what you did. But we don’t know why yet.”

“You tell me,” I huff, defensive. “Because I’m selfish. I lack empathy. Logic. Emotional fucking intelligence. Take your pick.”

He sighs but holds my gaze. Calm. Measured. “Self-flagellation won’t get you to your why, Lucian. And self- pity ? That only puts a convenient excuse over your decisions.”

I let that sit in the air for a second.

It’s not that I don’t understand what I’m doing. It’s that saying it out loud—to someone outside the walls of my empty apartment—makes it real . And I need real.

I want to say I was selfish. That I was misguided . That I chose to lack empathy. That I drowned in avoidance .

I clear my throat. Twice.

“I’m not sure, Alan. I just... I feel like I was constantly on a hair trigger. I don’t like how weak I was—how quickly I let myself spiral. I drowned out everything around me. Every warning. Every instinct. I keep circling back to alcohol but... I don’t know. That sounds like a dumb cop out.”

“You’re right,” he says, gently but firmly.

“Alcohol isn’t the why. Based on how you’ve described your life after Tim’s infidelity, it was more a.

.. crutch . A coping mechanism. But the core behavior?

It came from somewhere else. That said, Lucian, I’ve told you before—you are a high-functioning alcoholic. ”

You are —not were . The words land like a slap. I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Alcoholic,” I repeat under my breath, voice full of disgust. “Jesus. I get what you’re saying but... god , it feels like something that happens to other people. Not... not me .”

“It can happen to anyone. You’re not the exception.”

He sets his iPad down and leans forward slightly, tone shifting.

“Let’s try something. From everything you’ve shared, the answer lies in your relationship with Aarohi. Let’s explore that. So we know why it imploded.”

“I fucked it,” I say flatly.

“That’s accountability,” he says. “Not the cause.”

I nod, tight-lipped.

“So tell me about your ideal day with her,” he asks. “What did you talk about?”

The past tense grates me. But it can’t be helped, can it?

Finally, I exhale. “Our best days were... simple. We talked about everything and nothing. She’d tell me about her grad school projects, the research, and this one professor she was convinced had a personal vendetta.

She hated the movie, Inception , which was weird as hell—but loved Interstellar .

We argued about that. We talked music, food, parents.

We watched the reruns of The Office . She always said she didn’t like Oscar. I don’t know why—”

Then it hits me.

Oscar was having an affair. With Angela’s husband, right?

Was that why?

Am I reaching?

“What just crossed your mind?” Alan asks, catching the shift instantly.

“Uh...” I hesitate. “I was just thinking—Oscar had an affair with a married man. Angela’s husband. I don’t know why, but maybe that’s why she didn’t like him?”

Alan studies me. “You think she saw herself as the Oscar in your relationship with Tim?”

I freeze.

The reflex is to say no . To push it away.

But I can’t. Because deep down...

“I... I don’t actually know how she felt about it—feels about it,” I admit slowly, wincing. “We never talk about the whole... you know. That night . So I literally have no idea.”

Alan nods, his voice gentler now. “Did you ever ask her?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “No. She brought it up sometimes. I either brushed it off or... or distracted her. With kisses. Or a dumb joke. Or... I picked a stupid fight.”

“Why?”

“Because I just... didn’t want to be reminded of that night.” My voice is tight. “That our story— our real story —is fucked up. And I’d have to face the fact that I started something honest, something beautiful , with a lie.”

“And if it was real,” Alan finishes for me, “you’d have to reckon with what that said about you.”

I nod.

“Lucian, this wasn’t just selfishness and avoidance. It was self-sabotage. Guilt. You didn’t think you deserved what you had with her.”

I press my palms into my eyes, feeling the ache build. “Because I didn’t.”

I don’t, I add shamefully, in my head.