Nightmares and anxiety
Ingrid drifts off on the couch, the low hum of the television a temporary comfort. But it doesn’t last. It never does. She dreams, as always. Of her. Isabelle’s voice rings through the hollow of her mind, sharp and cutting, the way it always was.
“You’re pathetic.”
“You think anyone else would put up with you?”
“You’re lucky I even bother with you.”
The words scrape like knives against her skin, carving into wounds that never truly healed. And then there are the other memories. The ones she tries not to think about. The ones she never talks about. The yelling. The slamming doors. The accusations thrown like daggers, sharp and cruel, leaving bruises even when they didn’t come with a physical blow.
The silence that was always worse than the screaming. The waiting, the wondering, the anxiety coiling so tight in her chest it was hard to breathe. In the dream, she’s right back there. Back in that apartment with Isabelle. Trapped.
“I should leave you.” Isabelle’s voice is cold, detached, like Ingrid was nothing more than an inconvenience. “But you’d fall apart without me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t last a week.”
Ingrid gasps awake, her body jolting upright before she even realises she’s conscious again. Her chest heaves, her heart pounds so hard it hurts. She wipes at her face instinctively, fingers coming away damp.
Tears.
She barely even realises she’s crying anymore. Her hands tremble as she reaches for her phone, glancing at the time.
2:53 AM.
She exhales sharply, pressing her palms into her eyes She won’t be sleeping again tonight. She can’t. She pushes herself off the couch, her limbs heavy, sluggish. The TV is still on, the faint glow the only light in the room, but she doesn’t bother turning it off as she makes her way to the bathroom. The shower is scalding when she steps in, but she doesn’t turn it down.
She scrubs at her skin, hard, as if she could wash away the memories, the lingering touch of hands that had never been kind. Her breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t stop until her skin is raw, red, burning, and even then, she doesn’t feel clean.
The water runs cold eventually, but she barely notices. She forces herself out only when the shivering starts, grabbing a towel and drying off with quick, rough movements. She doesn’t look in the mirror.
Dressed in fresh clothes, she steps back into the living room, the dim light of the television flickering against the walls. She needs to do something. Anything. Her apartment is already spotless, but that doesn’t stop her. She grabs the cloth and spray from the kitchen and starts wiping down the counters. Then the cabinets. Then the floor. Every surface, even though there’s no dust, no dirt. She cleans like it will fix something. Like it will fix her.
By the time the sky starts to lighten, her limbs ache, exhaustion weighing her down like lead. But at least now, she’s too tired to think. Training is soon, and that’s all she allows herself to think about.
Ingrid gets ready in the quiet of her apartment, the routine methodical, practiced, something to focus on. She tugs her training top over her head, ties her hair back, and laces up her cleats before realising she doesn’t need them yet. With a sigh, she pulls them off and sets them in her bag.
She does this at home for a reason.
So she doesn’t have to linger in the locker room, doesn’t have to deal with the inevitable stares, the well-meaning but suffocating “How are you?” questions she doesn’t want to answer.
The drive is long, and she zones out somewhere along the way, her mind blank except for the occasional intrusive thought she bats away before it can settle. It isn’t until she pulls into the training ground that she realises another car has been following her.
Not just any car.
The same one that now pulls into the space beside hers.
Ingrid frowns, only realising who it is when the door opens and out steps Mapi, grinning like this is some kind of coincidence. She wants to ignore the wave Mapi throws her way. But she doesn’t. Her fingers twitch before she lifts her hand, barely waving back. Her lips quirk up in what can only be described as a pathetic attempt at a smile. She turns away before Mapi can say anything, grabbing her cleats from her bag and pressing her forehead against the steering wheel for just a second.
Three seconds, she tells herself.
One.
Two.
Three.
She straightens, pushes the door open, and steps out into the cool morning air. Mapi is waiting, of course she is, standing next to Ingrid’s car like they’d made plans to walk in together. Ingrid barely has time to brace herself before Mapi nudges her arm in greeting. It’s light, casual, probably something she does without thinking.
But Ingrid still fights the instinct to flinch. She masks it well, keeping her body still, her expression neutral.
“I think we live in the same building,” Mapi announces, her Spanish lilting, casual. She doesn’t wait for Ingrid to ask what she means before continuing, “I saw your car in the garage.”
Ingrid stares at her for a moment, trying to register the words. Mapi thinks they live in the same apartment building. Ingrid wouldn’t be surprised if she’s right. She hadn’t taken much notice of her surroundings, hadn’t paid attention to the other cars in the garage. She was just trying to get through the day.
Ingrid shrugs, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Maybe,” she says, noncommittal.
Mapi just hums, watching her like she’s trying to figure her out. Ingrid doesn’t give her the chance. She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder and walks into the building, heading straight for the locker room. Luckily, Mapi isn’t in her training kit yet, which means Ingrid can leave her behind. She barely sits on the bench before she’s shoving her cleats on, haphazardly tying the laces without much care for how tight they are. She just wants to get out.
She doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, doesn’t check to see who else is filtering in. She slings her bag into the cubby, pulls in a deep breath, and walks out. The training field is empty when she steps outside.
No coach.
No teammates.
Just her.
She lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. The sky stretches vast and open above her, grey clouds rolling lazily across the blue. She lets herself take it in, lets herself sit in the damp grass, stretching her legs out in front of her. Then, slowly, she lays back, pressing her hands into the earth, grounding herself.
She’s exhausted, and not just physically. Her eyes slip shut for just a moment, the cool morning air biting at her skin, but she doesn’t move.
She just breathes.
Ingrid startles when someone drops down beside her with an exaggerated sigh, the sound breaking through the fragile quiet she’d been clinging to. She doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Her heart pounds as she swallows hard, forcing herself to keep staring at the sky, to not let the sudden proximity rattle her.
But it does. She doesn’t like this.
Not just the closeness -though that alone makes her chest feel tight- but the way Mapi feels too close in every way possible. Like she’s trying to worm her way into Ingrid’s head, trying to figure her out. The thought makes Ingrid’s skin crawl. She doesn’t say anything, hoping that maybe if she stays quiet, Mapi will get bored and leave.
But she doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
“Are you okay?” Mapi asks, her voice warm, edged with curiosity.
Ingrid swallows. Fine. She’s fine. She just needs a moment, needs the ground beneath her to stop feeling like it’s shifting.
“Fine,” she says eventually, her voice even, controlled.
Mapi hums, clearly unconvinced.
“Long morning?” she asks instead, shifting so she’s propped up on her elbows, looking at Ingrid like she’s studying a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
Ingrid doesn’t answer right away. She doesn’t want to talk. “Something like that,” she mutters finally.
Mapi doesn’t push. Not really. She just…stays. And that? That’s worse.
The silence stretches between them, but it’s not the kind Ingrid likes. It’s not the kind that settles. It’s the kind that presses, suffocates, makes her skin itch. She chances a glance at Mapi, hoping -praying- that she’ll take the hint. She doesn’t. She’s lying back now, hands tucked behind her head, utterly at ease like this is the most natural thing in the world. Like she belongs here, next to Ingrid.
And that’s when Ingrid realises. Mapi isn’t going to take the hint. She isn’t going to leave Ingrid alone. No matter how much Ingrid keeps her answers short, no matter how much she tries to shut the conversation down, Mapi is still here. Still talking. Still trying.
“You know,” Mapi says after a beat, her tone teasing, “you don’t talk much, no?”
Ingrid clenches her jaw, resisting the urge to sigh.
“No,” she agrees simply.
Mapi laughs, and it’s so genuine, so light, that it throws Ingrid off.
“At least you’re honest,” Mapi grins.
Ingrid exhales sharply, a quiet, tired sound that isn’t quite a laugh, isn’t quite a sigh.
“It’s not personal,” she says after a moment, surprising even herself.
Mapi tilts her head, watching her carefully. “I know,” she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she already understands Ingrid better than she should.
That makes Ingrid’s stomach twist uncomfortably. She doesn’t want to be understood. She doesn’t want anyone to get too close. And yet, here Mapi is, slotting herself into Ingrid’s space, into her routine, like it’s effortless. She grits her teeth, scrambling for something, anything, to say that will put some distance between them.
But before she can, she hears voices -other players making their way outside. Relief crashes over her so fast it nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. Without hesitation, she pushes herself up, brushing the grass from her clothes with quick, efficient movements.
She needs to go.
Needs space.
Needs distance.
Mapi follows suit, standing with far less urgency, stretching her arms over her head as she watches Ingrid carefully.
“I’ll see you at lunch, yes?” she says casually, like it’s not something Ingrid has been dreading since she agreed to it.
Ingrid exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. “Right. Lunch.”
Mapi grins. “Try not to sound much excited, eh?”
Ingrid manages a tight, forced smile before she turns on her heel and heads toward the others. She isn’t used to this. The talking. The attention. At her old club, no matter what her teammates had known or suspected about her, they left her alone, and she hadn’t realised how much she’d taken that for granted until now.
It’s not that she dislikes Mapi.
Mapi is nice. Too nice. Too eager.
But Ingrid didn’t come here to make friends, or even acquaintances, really. But she came here to do her job, and the sooner Mapi realises that, the better.