Chapter 9
A/N: Once again, sorry for being late! But it's finally here :) I cannot thank you enough for your reviews, opinions, stories and asks, they honestly mean a lot to me. Also, I want to say that the next chapter will be the last one so yeah, my story is coming to an end. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
As always, a big thank you to Will for editing, what would I do without you.
Sometimes you think how wonderful it would be to run away. How magnificent it would be to disappear into thin air, go far far away from this place. Just pack your things, get to the airport and buy a one way ticket to anywhere (you’d pick at random, you know it). You could start anew, run away from everything and everyone, bask in the sunlight of a new city, a new home. You could find new people, you could present yourself the way you’d want. They would love you, that’s for sure. You could forget about the depression, everyone would think that you’re fine, everything’s fine. These new people wouldn’t think that you’re some little girl, some kind of freak who’s playing with death all of the time, sowing the seeds of destruction everywhere. And you could always leave if you wanted, pick a new destination, choose another city, another country, even another continent. You yearn for a new beginning, for a new place where no one knows who you are, where no one can hurt you because you don’t know them either. But you feel sad for reasons you can’t understand. Would it really be better? It would take a lot of time to get closer to people, and you figure that you probably wouldn’t feel like you belong, either. A different country – different socialization, different views on foreigners, different lifestyles, different everything to be honest. You could woo them with your brilliance (an intelligent person is intelligent everywhere, wouldn’t you say?), but it’s a bit superficial to think that. You think about how you have nothing else to offer and it makes you even sadder. This tiny room you spend so much time in seems so small; you’re barely able to breathe. It’s suffocating you with its stale air. You shift a little to lie on your left side and stare at the furniture of the room. Everything seems bland.
Your thoughts once again wander to Clarke. You have to try your best for her, she deserves the world and you better give it to her. Still, you’ve hurt her beyond belief; you’ve hurt each other multiple times. Will it always be like this? Treading the waters carefully, checking multiple times to see who breaks first? Sometimes you wish you were easier to love. Sometimes you wish you were a simpler human being to begin with. It is one thing to love someone, and completely another to be able to deal with their bullshit. You slowly stand up and walk around the room, breathing erratically, still feeling sleepy. It feels like you have way too many emotions. And they do not fit inside of you; it’s as if your body is too small to contain them. So it’s that kind of day, huh?
When life gives you lemons, grab salt and tequila. And that’s what you do.
*****
You’ve been in this room for many hours, way too many hours. You think that you’d grown more accustomed to it, but no. You still feel highly uncomfortable. Maybe because the room has no life? Just like a hospital room doesn’t. Maybe it’s because there are no positive emotions here, only memories that leave a bitter aftertaste in your mouth. You always feel very dirty here, like you need a shower, like everything you’ve just said is right beneath your skin and you need to scrub it off.
“Lexa, let me be frank,” the psychiatrist says and snaps you out of it. “I think that you’re doing too well,” he takes off his glasses and cleans them against the light of the room. Say what?
“I’m doing too well?” You think that you’ve misheard it. Maybe you did? “And that’s a bad thing how?” You don’t really understand what’s so weird about it.
“I think you’re suppressing a lot of your feelings,” he shifts in the armchair a bit. “Either that, or you’re ignoring some things, emotions, triggers. Maybe even lying,” he says dead on staring at you. Lying? What for?
“Let’s get this right – I’m not lying, I don’t see the point in that,” you start. “If I wanted to pretend I’m fine, I’d just stop going to these therapy sessions,” you explain to him in an icy voice. How dare he accuse you of this? You’ve been trying your damn best not to say “fuck this” and never come here again. You’ve put a lot of effort into coming here every week.
“What I meant to say is that something is not entirely right, something doesn’t feel right and I can’t put my finger on it,” he exhales loudly and stares at the red carpet for a second. The psychiatrist closes his eyes, then opens them, all the while trying his best to find the words to express what he wants to say.
It’s weird. First you’re a basket case, then you’re doing too well. Why is it not possible to heal and try your best? Is it impossible to get better in a little amount of time? Or is this some proven psychological theory? Maybe your brain is tricking you into thinking that you’re ok? You think that this is some kind of next level bullshit. What’s your real diagnosis then, oh dear doctor?
“I still don’t understand why it’s a bad thing,” you whisper as you sit up straighter. “Don’t you think I’m putting a lot of effort into getting better? Maybe that’s why I’m not cutting my veins every day, hm?” Your voice gets heated and angry.
There’s a pause. A long one. The longest you’ve ever experienced with him. And you don’t know how to feel about it, he always has something to say, all the time. But not now. You don’t know if you’ve pissed him off or if he’s just thinking. A part of you wants to get up and go, slam the door shut and never return. He can’t just brush your progress aside; you’ve worked so hard to get better! You smooth out your green T-shirt and wait for him to say anything really. It takes a few more minutes.
“Lexa, can I ask you a question?” He finally says, looking up at you.
“You’re going to ask it anyway, so go for it,” you roll your eyes.
“Who do you try to get better for? Is it Clarke, your friends, your parents?” He asks and catches you completely off guard. Wait, what does he mean?
“What do you mean?” You stutter a bit, but keep your head up high.
“I think you’re trying to get better for everyone around you. Everyone except yourself, that is,” he concludes as he takes a pen out of his jacket’s inner pocket and writes something down.
And? Is that so wrong? Wishing to be less of a nuisance to people around you? Less problematic? You want your parents to think that you’re doing ok; you want Raven and Octavia to stop worrying about what they say and how they word it. You want Clarke to finally catch a break; you want to stop hurting her. Why is it wrong to try to get better for people that surround you? It’s selfless! And it’s the right thing to do nevertheless.
“You have to want to get better for yourself, not other people. You can’t put everyone in front of you and think that that counts as love,” the psychiatrist continues. “Well, it does in some way, but you have to live your own life. If these people love you, they will never leave you,” he looks straight at you, but you have zero idea what he means.
“I don’t… I don’t follow,” you say confused. “I don’t understand,” you honestly don’t.
He takes his time to look at you, maybe he thinks that you’re lying or playing dumb. But you really don’t understand what he means; you have no idea what he is referring to. Did you miss something? Maybe you didn’t hear what he said before all of this?
“Take the time to think about it, Lexa,” he stands up and you do too. “Come back here when you figure it out,” he accompanies you to the door and nods.
You stand outside the room in a corridor, still not understanding what the hell just happened. You leave with more questions than answers, confused beyond belief.
*****
You sit comfortably in a coffee shop near the campus, your favorite drink in front of you, taking your time to relax. It’s a place where you feel good at. There are always tons of people here, but they do not intimidate you, you know most of them anyway. The barista that works here has a great taste in music, you discuss the topic whenever you come and buy coffee. It’s the place where you feel most comfortable alone, but you never feel lonely. You glance at the clock and at the same moment the doors open. Then you see her.
“Octavia! It’s so nice to see you,” you hug her tightly and she does the same, her leather jacket wet from the rain. “It’s been a while,” you laugh and Octavia raises her shoulders guiltily.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” she sits down and takes off the wet jacket, hanging it on the corner of her chair. “I’ve had a lot of shit to take care of, family things. That’s why I haven’t been around,” she looks around the coffee shop and waves at someone.
“Did something happen?” You ask, concerned as you take a sip of the coffee.
“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Octavia laughs as she drinks half of the cup you bought her in one gulp. Some things never change, do they?
“Well, you’re my friend, I tend to worry,” you give her a look and a smile.
“It’s nothing, really. Just my parents and brother finally met Lincoln,” she laughs and ties her hair in a messy ponytail.
“Wow, really? How did it go?” You ask surprised. “You have to tell me,” you sit back and take another gulp of the warm liquid. The coziness of the coffee shop lets you forget about the terribly windy, and now rainy, weather outside.
“It went well,” she leans in closer and smiles. “Really well, it’s weird. My parents loved him. Though my brother Bellamy looks at him suspiciously, but I guess it’s some big brother thing, huh?” Octavia laughs and takes a second gulp, finishing the cup of coffee. You just know she’ll go order another one in a bit.
“It’s great,” you’re honestly happy for her. “And Lincoln is great too, so it’s natural for them to like him,” you explain. You’ve met Lincoln multiples times, and even though he might look intimidating, he’s probably one of the kindest and gentlest people you know.
“Talking about parents meeting significant others, have you met Clarke’s?” Octavia stands up and takes the wallet from her bag. “Be right back, I’ll get some more coffee, do you want another one perhaps?” You shake your head and she goes to the barista, leaving dirty footprints on the floor.
No, you haven’t met Clarke’s parents; you’re terrified of the idea. What if they’ll hate you? What if they already hate you? What if they think that their daughter is hanging out with some psycho loser? You’d be afraid to say something inappropriate, look too cocky or too insecure, too smart or too dumb. You want them to like you, yes, but you’re frightened of what the consequences will be if they don’t. And you know much it would mean to Clarke.
Octavia brings you a croissant and you try your best to explain why you haven’t met Clarke’s parents. In explaining this to her (another city, no time to visit, loaded with homework), you leave out the most significant part – that you’re afraid beyond belief, because it would be real, too real. It’s not that you’re hiding your relationship with Clarke; you think that everyone in campus already knows that you’re together. But still, meeting her parents – it’s a huge step.
And you’re not sure if you’re ready for that.
*****
February flashes by in what seems like seconds and finally, spring comes. With a lot of rain and wind that is. The weather weirdly affects your mood, you feel strangely melancholic most of the time.
“Why?” Clarke asks one day.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s because the world seems sad?” You say.
“The world seems sad?” The blonde doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”
“Because the sky cries and my heart cries with it,” you explain.
You haven’t seen your psychiatrist for a while, you still haven’t figured out what he meant and you want to go see him prepared, with answers. All that’s left to do is to find them. But why do you keep thinking that you won’t like what you’ll discover? Like there’s something foul and dark underneath it all?
*****
You’ve grown accustomed to the Sunday brunch, you love it, it’s probably your favorite part of the week. It’s the day when you and Clarke really sleep in and let yourselves wake up late. Then you both make food and coffee in your pajamas and eat it lazily, in no rush whatsoever. It’s a day of laziness and relaxation and after a busy week, it’s the best thing you could hope for.
“I want you to meet my dad,” Clarke says abruptly and you almost choke on your coffee. “And my mom too, of course,” she looks at you while putting butter on her toast and taking a bite.
“Yeah?” You suddenly feel like all the bravery you’ve ever had dissipated in seconds. “You really want that?” You scratch your nose absentmindedly, not knowing what to say or do. You want to be sure, you want Clarke to be sure because there’s no way back after that. Suddenly, it gets too hot in the room, too intense.
You think back to the conversation you had with Octavia a few weeks back, how you’re mortified of meeting Clarke’s parents, how you didn’t know what you’d say, how you’d act. Maybe that conversation was a sign of what’s about to happen, you don’t know. You just think that in a way, everything is happening too fast and you’re not sure how you feel about it.
“I’m sure,” the blonde exhales as she puts down the knife, then takes out a slice of cheese from the packet and puts it on the toast. “I really want you to meet them. And they really want to meet you, too,” she smiles as she puts her warm hand on top of your ever freezing one. You force a smile.
“Have you told them about the…” your throat suddenly goes dry and itchy. “About the…” you stumble and stop, stare at your unfinished toast for a while.
“A bit, but don’t worry,” Clarke puts her hand on your shoulder and you turn to face her. She looks at you in awe, as if you’re the one who created the world, the one who commands the sun to rise and the stars to shine. She looks at you like you’re the most important person in the world. You hope that the same is reflected in your eyes as well. Your chest doesn’t feel as tight, the sudden anxiety now gone and forgotten.
“Don’t they think that you’re just sleeping with some psycho lunatic?” You ask her seriously while pouring her some more coffee and she slaps your hand.
“You’re not a psycho lunatic,” Clarke gives you a stern look and giggles a bit.
“Maybe not, but I’m sure that they’re not happy that you are sleeping with someone mentally unstable,” you say and kiss her nose.
“I think they’ll be happy with you, just don’t give them all the juicy details,” Clarke winks and you feel how your face turns beet red in seconds.
*****
You pop a few blue pills into your mouth and take a generous gulp of the running tap water. The doctor said to take two on “rainy days” and it’s been one hell of a day, full of presentations, turning in assignments and other university shit. Still, no matter the workload, it keeps you busy, also less time to overthink everything. You yawn loudly as your mirror self does the same. You think about how it probably doesn’t get better than this, does it? The pills don’t make you happier, you just don’t feel anything at all, most of the time that is. You feel numb, sometimes even emotionless, like a robot whose batteries suddenly stopped working. Maybe these pills do not suit you, maybe it’s a side effect, maybe you need more time. Or maybe you’re broken beyond repair. You shake your head as you turn to the room in the hopes of making more coffee for you and Clarke. She should come by any minute now because she has only a few lectures on Thursday and they finish early.
You wait for the kettle to boil as you stare through the dirty window. Relapse is always just around the corner; you can feel it in the air. You look through the window and watch how the world loses its meaning and colors. The sky is grey, the pavement, the streets... Most of the snow has melted into tons of puddles that scatter the campus. The outside world looks like an ocean, trying to swallow you whole. And you’d let it, most of the time.
“Lexa,” you didn’t even hear Clarke come in. “What are you doing?” The blonde asks as she puts down her bag on the floor, near the chair she usually sits on.
“Nothing, just staring outside, thinking how the weather is shit,” you mutter as you turn off the kettle. You try to remember how long it was boiling, but you can’t. Suddenly, a feeling of hopelessness washes over you and you feel sick, tired. “Do you ever think about the end of the world?” You ask her and once again, Clarke doesn’t understand what you mean.
“The end of the world? Lexa, is something wrong?” She asks, frightened. You return to the window, don’t even turn to face her. You keep gazing into the sky.
“Do you ever think about how fucked up everything is?” You ask her and you realize that you’ve already did, some time ago. Or is it déjà vu? Maybe something else entirely? You don’t know. What you do know is that your knees suddenly feel weak and your head feels light.
“Lexa, what’s wrong? Tell me,” You remember the last time you had this conversation, you remember Clarke’s pleading voice. If everything just keeps on repeating itself, maybe this cycle is a never-ending one? Infinite possibilities and you still go back to where you started. The illusion of progress, the illusion of constants and variables. In the end, everything remains the same, doesn’t it?
“Everything is,” you whisper the answer as you black out.
*****
You wake up in your bed, confused and with a terrible headache. For a while, you don’t even understand where you are. Only after some time do you figure out that it’s your dorm room.
“How are you feeling?” The blonde asks as your vision is blurry, the bed feels uncomfortable and you feel like you’ll throw up any second.
“Like shit,” you answer honestly as you reach out for her and Clarke takes your hand into hers. “What happened?” You ask her as you turn in bed, flopping on your back.
“I don’t… I don’t know,” she says. “You said how wrong everything is and then blacked out,” you finally manage to look at Clarke and her face is as pale as a sheet of paper. You figure that you don’t look any better yourself, probably even worse.
“I took two pills and then everything started spinning, I don’t know why,” you lie down again as Clarke sits on the side of the bed, lacing your fingers.
“Wait, two? Aren’t you supposed to take just one?” Her voice breaks a bit and you hear the accusing undertones
“You think that I’m abusing my medicine, don’t you?” You ask her straightforward and give her a look, then sigh loudly.
“I don’t, I just don’t know how many of them you should take at once,” Clarke’s voice gets angrier. “Maybe you need to take only one, how should I know,” she shrugs.
“From one to two. God, Clarke, stop thinking that I’m trying to ruin everything,” you cover your forehead with your hand in defeat. You’re doing better, you’re not trying to hurt yourself, you’re not trying to overdose or something.
“I don’t think that, don’t be ridiculous,” the blonde says. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“Worried,” you repeat the word. “Yeah, it’s probably because I had a hellish day. I didn’t eat that much and must’ve probably been overtired,” you try to explain and not make a big deal out the situation, not to escalate it.
“Did you eat breakfast?” She asks, and you remember that you didn’t. You’re not sure whether you should lie or tell the truth. You choose the latter.
“No,” you answer honestly. “I didn’t want to,” you cover your eyes with your fingers.
“Lexa,” Clarke shakes her head hopelessly. “I thought that we talked about this,” she says.
“We did and I’m doing all the stuff that you’ve told me,” you move your hand and look her in the eyes. “I just didn’t have the time today; I had to make sure that all of my presentations were good and that I didn’t forget anything,” you wonder if you’ll be able to convince her that you didn’t mean for this to happen, that it was accidental. After a while, Clarke’s gaze softens and she dishevels your hair a bit.
“Good. Want me to make you something to eat? Cause I’m hungry myself,” she starts to get up, but you don’t let her, you pull her closer. Then you slowly and carefully sit up and kiss her. Then you kiss her again and bury your head in her chest, kissing her collarbone in the process.
“Let me help you,” you say as Clarke kisses your temple gingerly.
You think that you could have fucked up worse.
*****
The hospital is busy, hectic and loud. The white walls remind you of the hospital you’ve were in not that long ago. The thought makes you shudder. Clarke borrowed Raven’s car again and you both drove to see her dad. You felt nervous and could not stop fidgeting in the car, feeling lost, afraid of what Clarke’s parents will think of you after your displays of depression and suicide. Not to mention the still pink scars on your forearms. Maybe they will say that you are not worthy of their daughter. Maybe they just won’t like you and there will be nothing you could do about it. You don’t like it when there are too many possibilities; you like to get a head start like you always do. Now you’re just going to meet strangers and you have no idea how they feel about you.
“What if they hate me?” You asked her at the stoplight, nearing the hospital. There was a feeling of inevitability, that somehow this meeting will have a higher meaning, affect you in some way. This made you even more terrified.
“They won’t,” the blonde said. “They never hate anyone,” she turned her head to you slightly and smiled.
“There’s always a first time for anything, Clarke,” you said as you felt lost in the streets you’ve never seen, feeling anxious because of the upcoming meeting.
“Lexa, babe, stop being paranoid,” Clarke laughed. “They will love you. I’m sure of that.”
You both brought some fruits, water and other things you could give her dad. Your hands shake as you step into his quiet hospital room.
“Dad!” Clarke excitedly shouts. “I came to visit you. And I finally brought my girlfriend,” she points at you as she goes to give her father a kiss on the cheek.
Jake Griffin had a light complexion to begin with it seems, but now he was even paler from the treatment and the hospital life. You immediately notice the same shade of blue of Clarke’s eyes. Jake’s sharp jaw relaxes as he smiles a friendly smile at you, hands reaching out to smooth his light brown hair. He waves for you to come closer and you take a big step forward.
“So this is who my little girl has been hanging out with,” he says, his voice warm and welcoming. “It’s Lexa, right? Nice to finally meet you,” he nods at you and continues smiling.
“The honor is mine, sir,” you nod as well.
“No need to be so formal, Lexa. You can just call me Jake,” he says and you relax a bit.
Clarke takes her time to take the fruit out, put the bottles of water on the table. All the while explaining her university life to Jake, what had happened since the last time she saw him.
“Where’s mom?” She asks while you help her slice the fruit and put it into a plate. You then take the plate to Jake as he sits up straighter in the bed.
“Thank you,” he says, then turns his head to Clarke. “She went to talk with the doctors for a bit, get some information about the surgery they will all be performing on Monday or something,” he starts eating the fruit, offering some of it to you.
“That’s what you get when your mom works in the same hospital,” Clarke laughs a bit then rolls her eyes. “I’ll go look for her or she’ll talk for hours and we won’t even see her. I’ll be right back,” she says as she goes out through the door.
You’re left with Jake; you swallow, hard. There’s going to be “the talk”, that you’re sure of. Your hands shake a bit, but you pretend that you’re fine. You have to.
“Take a chair, Lexa. Let’s talk,” Jake says as he takes another bite of the melon.
“Of course,” you bring a chair closer to his bed, afraid of what’s to come, of what he’ll say.
“So, how have you been?” He asks sincerely. “I know it’s been tough for you, if you don’t mind me saying that,” he gives you a sympathetic look.
“I’ve been… I’ve been trying to hold on,” you mutter. “You probably think I’m no good for Clarke,” you say after a pause, staring at the floor, scratching your hands.
“No, Lexa, I don’t think that,” he pats you on the shoulder and you look up at him. “Clarke loves you with all of her heart and it’s not my business to interfere. Besides, I think you’re great, at least from what Clarke has told me. And she told me tons of good things about you,” he turns a bit to take a napkin from the nightstand to wipe his hands.
“But…” you try as he motions for you to stop.
“Look, Lexa, your depression doesn’t change who you are at heart and what kind of personality you have,” he says looking at you.
“I just… Feel worthless most of the time,” you confess as you stare at the white tiles again.
“I know you’re not. And Clarke knows it too, she’s a smart one. So if she chose you, she chose you for who you are, not who she wants you to be. She accepts you no matter what,” Jake explains. “She wants you to be yourself, with all the bad and good stuff,” he tries to convince you.
“I’m always scared that I’ll let her down, or that I’ll hurt her,” you shake your head slightly.
“Relationships are never perfect. You will hurt her, she will hurt you. It’s all about being able to overcome the difficulties together, to talk, to communicate,” Jake nudges your shoulder lightly. “I know that Clarke’s a stubborn one, she keeps a lot of things to herself, but I see it changing. Since she met you, she’s been more open,” he smiles and puts down the empty plate.
Jake helps you realize something you’ve always denied and rejected. You’re not perfect, it’s impossible to be. Because no matter what, people are flawed, they always were, they always will be. What you understand is that you’ve never embraced the concept of who you really are.
“I think… I think you are right, Jake,” you say.
You’ve been trying so hard to be perfect, and for so long, too. And you’ve been jumping from one extreme to the other. I’m perfect, no, I’m terrible, that kind of thing. You never took the time to realize that you’re both, at once. You were either on top of the world, or under it and you thought that it’s alright to be this way. It isn’t. It’s high time you realized you’re not a one dimensional person, you’re so much more.
You smile at Jake and nod energetically.
*****
The chat with Jake breaks the ice and you start talking about everything, from sports to philosophy and religion. Jake is smart and well versed in everything, he’s respectful of different opinions and you think how wonderful it would be if there were more people like him. After a while, Clarke returns with her mother, a woman with piercing brown eyes, her hair in a braid over her shoulder. She and Clarke share the same fire in their eyes, even if they are not physically alike, there’s no question that she’s her daughter.
“Well it’s nice to see you becoming best friends,” Clarke laughs as you stand up awkwardly to greet her mother.
“My name is Lexa. It’s really nice to meet you,” you extend your hand, but Clarke’s mom just embraces you tightly and doesn’t let go for a while.
“I’m Abby,” she says as she lets you go. “And don’t be so formal, Lexa,” Abby laughs.
“Uh, yes, of course,” you say as chatter ensues between the four of you.
*****
Jake’s hospital room becomes a place where you feel very comfortable, peaceful even. The four of you spend your day by playing cards and talking, eating the fruit and other snacks that you’ve brought. You win and impress Jake, but annoy Clarke. Though later, she kisses your temple and squeezes your hand. Abby talks with you about the therapy sessions and asks how you’ve been feeling in general. In the evening, you hug both Abby and Jake as you leave the hospital room, promising to return.
“Visit me more often girls, it is lonely here,” Jakes waves goodbye.
“What do you mean it’s lonely? I visit you all the time,” Abby says sternly and you laugh as you walk towards the exit, giving them one final nod.
Later, with Clarke asleep in your bed, you think about what Jake had said and you feel more at peace than you’ve probably ever been. Sometimes, good things do happen. Or so you thought.
*****
It all comes crashing down in the form of a nightmare.
You’re in a black tank top and black underwear, barefoot. Your wild wavy hair is wet and sticking to your face, especially your forehead. You look around, but you don’t recognize the scenery, it looks as if you’re somewhere far away from the city. Countryside maybe? There are houses, but none of them have lights in their windows. It’s nighttime and the rain is pouring heavily. There are tons of big puddles around you and you try your best to avoid them, even if you’re already soaking from the rain. There’s something not right about them, something tells you that you’d better not step in them. Lightning strikes and the loud thunder rumbles as you hop in the hopes of avoiding the puddles. Your feet carry you as if they know where to go, but you still feel lost. You walk some more, and as you squint, you see some kind of an old-fashioned road sign. It’s frightening, but you get closer to it, then take the time to inspect it. As you look up to finally read what it says, you wake up. You cough, gasping for air, your back wet and your skin clammy as you sit up and try your best to breathe. Clarke is in her dorm room tonight, hanging out with her roommate and finishing up the painting she’ll have to present in class in a few days. Your fingers shake as you get up to go grab a glass of water in the dark of the room.
“I think you’re trying to get better for everyone around you. Everyone except yourself,” the voice of your psychiatrist says and you grab your head, almost spilling the glass of water standing near the edge of the counter. Of course you want to get better, what’s the point of moping around? What’s the point of not trying to get better? You’re not the one who’d try to play the victim, that’s not how you feel and that’s not what you do.
“You’re doing too well,” you hear his voice again. What did he mean? How can you be doing too well? It’s nonsense, it has to be, right? He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! It’s all bullshit!
“Too well… Too well…” echoes in your head for a while and suddenly, it all goes silent.
Something snaps inside of you and you finally get it, you finally figure it out. You finally figure out why everything is so wrong.