"Drowning in My Own Tsunami: Lies, Regret, and No Lifelines Needed"

I feel like a drunk toddler wrestling bubble wrap. The disposable hair cap won't come off—somehow knotted into the top layer of my braid like it's latched on for dear life. Every tug sends a small jolt of pain across my scalp. I'm seconds from giving it a ceremonial burial when August's voice cuts in from behind.

"Slow down," he says, voice low, annoyingly calm. "I'll help."

There's a rustle of fabric as he steps close. My neck stiffens on instinct. I don't look at him, but I feel him—just a fraction too near.

"Be careful. Don't break any strands," I say tightly, trying to mask the full tilt of panic that comes with proximity and scalp tension. "Symmetry matters."

"I know," he murmurs, hands already working through the mess. "French braids. Equal tension. Structural precision. I'm not a monster."

I freeze. "How do you know that?"

"I just do."

Great. So now he's a mind reader with a working knowledge of hair mechanics. That's exactly what this day needed.

"There," he says eventually, stepping back like he didn't just upend my ability to exist in my own body. The cap is in his hand. He walks out of the changing room before I can get a word out.

"Thanks," I say, mostly to the door.

I run my hands over my hair, confirming that yes, I still have it, and no, I haven't spontaneously combusted. Andy walks by and offers a helpful, "Fix your hair," like I'm a prop someone forgot to polish.

The brewery tour had been three hours of smiling at tanks, pretending to be fascinated by hops, and resisting the urge to throw myself into a vat. Andy had opened with one of his trademark sermons—gripping, persuasive, smug as hell. I watched him work the room like a magician selling smoke, the clients practically begging for the next illusion. I took notes. I also considered stabbing myself with a tasting fork out of sheer envy.

We'd all been dressed like clinical Bond villains in matching white lab coats and hairnets—an ensemble designed to destroy self-esteem and ensure no one feels sexy near stainless steel. Now that we're out of costume and back in civilian business wear, there's a collective drop in energy. Blazers hang loose. Faces slack. Everyone's clocking out emotionally while pretending not to.

August, of course, looks perfectly composed. Sleeves pushed up. Shirt barely creased. His face completely unreadable—like nothing's wrong, like nothing happened, like he doesn't remember pulling plastic mesh from my hair like it's some perfectly normal colleague-to-colleague interaction.

I wish I could stop noticing him. I really do. But my brain's apparently set to "observe and suffer." His voice. His stance. The way his mouth tilts slightly when he thinks someone's being ridiculous. He's barely spoken to me since the apology, and still—still—he moves like background radiation in my bloodstream. Invisible, steady, inescapable.

Andy, meanwhile, has spoken to me exactly three times today. Once to ask me to help set up the presentation. Twice to ask about drinks with Helena.

And yes, that includes the time at breakfast.

He chose his moments carefully—by which I mean carelessly. First during the morning break, then again at lunch, both times surrounded by people with fully functioning ears. In the latter case, August was sitting right across the table.

The hedgehog lifted an eyebrow at the first mention. August gave no reaction at all. Just kept sipping his coffee like he didn't hear anything. Like I didn't exist.

Ever since our little diplomatic thaw, he's been polite. Unbothered. Pleasant in a way that almost feels like performance art. I can't tell if it's maturity or theatre. Either way, it's making me deeply paranoid.

I've done my best to match Andy's faux concern over Helena's radio silence. Lots of nonchalant shrugs. Carefully timed sighs. Minimal smiling.

Inside, I've been fist-pumping every time I open my phone and see no new messages from her.

That streak ends now.

As we pull up outside the Swedish IMarket office again—same grand façade, same creeping dread—I feel the buzz. The familiar haptic flutter of doom.

+46. Swedish number.

I don't even open it. Just grab my laptop bag and make a beeline for my designated workstation—also known as desk Siberia—and then straight to the bathroom. Lock the stall. Breathe.

I stare at the message like it might catch fire on its own.

For a moment, I consider deleting it unread. Pretend it never happened. Classic Schrödinger's text: unread, it exists in a state of both relief and rejection.

But then I remember her—yesterday. The immaculate blonde waves. That innocent laugh, the glint behind it that always meant trouble. And the bag.

Jesus Christ, the bag.

I'd scoffed at first, thinking it was some niche pink Mulberry made from endangered birds or whatever she had back in Paris. But no—no, of course not. It's a fucking Birkin. Hermès. Blue ostrich leather.

My eye twitches.

That bag costs what I make in six months—if I don't eat or live indoors. And even then, you don't buy a Birkin. You get offered one. After years of proving yourself as a loyal, elite-tier Hermès disciple.

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts.

There's not a single cell in my body that wants to do drinks tonight. I consider throwing my phone into the toilet and pulling the fire alarm for good measure. But instead, I tap the message.

Helena: "Still on for tonight? Let me know where you're having dinner—will find a bar nearby. :)"

The emoji nearly gives me a stress nosebleed.

I tilt my head back and glare at the ceiling tiles like they might offer guidance. Nothing. No hidden wisdom in the fluorescent flicker.

Of course she's in. Of course she's enthusiastic. I could say no—but then Andy would find out, and Andy would end me. Not literally, but in a prolonged psychological warfare kind of way. And honestly, my current state isn't robust enough for another week of passive-aggressive torture disguised as project feedback.

So I text back the name of the restaurant.

We agree to meet at a bar around the corner. 21:30.

I stare at the screen like it might grow fangs. It's done. Sealed. Signed in dread.

I'm doomed either way—I just hope this route burns slower.

I go find Andy to deliver the good news like the loyal foot soldier I am. He's in the farmhouse kitchen, naturally—where everyone always ends up when there's cake. And yes, there is cake. Big, beautiful, corporate-funded cake. My stomach turns just looking at it.

I spot all the usual faces, plus a few Swedish ones I don't recognize. I weave through the room and tap the hedgehog on the shoulder, subtly edging in next to Andy. The hedgehog shifts obligingly and bumps into August. Of course.

I could ask Andy to step out with me. Be discreet. Professional. But I don't want to make this more of a thing than it already is. And honestly, I'm too nervous to stage-manage his reaction. Andy has this gift—turning even things I do right into something vaguely disappointing.

I catch his eye and motion for him to bend down so I can whisper. He sighs, annoyed but compliant, like a father being asked to read a bedtime story while holding a martini.

"So," I murmur. "Uh. Drinks are on. 21:30 tonight. And I was just thinking, maybe you... could go instead of me?"

It sounds worse out loud. Like, so much worse. I blink at him, horrified by my own mouth.

He blinks back. Then repeats, slowly:
"You're asking me. Me. To go to your drinks. With your ex. Tonight. Instead of you."

Each emphasis is a nail in the coffin of my dignity.

I open my mouth to reply, but my brain files for emergency leave. So I do what I always do when I've completely bungled something with Andy—I default to sarcasm and retreat.

"Right. Yep. Good chat. Just a thought. We have a plan, then."

I nod like it's all been agreed upon and definitely not rejected in flames. Shame heats the back of my neck. My nodding becomes a kind of rhythmic, full-body cringe. I think I might dislocate something.

***

At this point I don't even give a single fuck if Andy hears me muttering obscenities through the paper-thin hotel walls. He should. He deserves it. This is his fucking fault.

I didn't pack for drinks with my ex. I didn't pack for running into August fucking Stoic Ice Prince Himself. I didn't pack for whatever nightmarish plot twist I'm now starring in.

I packed for sad brewery men in logo fleeces. For Excel. For boredom.
Not this. Not whatever the fuck this is.

I unzip my suitcase like I'm about to perform an exorcism. It's worse than I remembered. Beige, beige, depression, one outfit that screams overworked widow, a sad pile of hopes and delusions. I could cry. I probably will. But first, I want to punch myself in the fucking face.

Because I know what I did. I packed for a solo weekend like I was starring in a tasteful indie rom-com. Saturday at the museum. A little wine bar. Maybe pick up a stranger just to prove I still exist. Wake up vaguely smug and hungover, fly home and feel alive again.
A one-woman self-help retreat.

And now? Now I'm playing background character in someone else's success story, and my entire wardrobe screams "please ignore me while I spiral internally."

But here's the sickest part. Sometimes—late at night, usually after a drink or three—I'd let myself fantasize about what I'd wear if I ever saw Helena again. In my fantasy I'd be rich. Healed. Blindingly hot. I'd show up in the Chanel black dress. The one with the delicate back, the brutal neckline, the kind of tailoring that could make God weep. I'd pair it with those Margiela boots, soft matte leather, the heel sharp enough to kill. And on my arm? The €9000 Loewe Puzzle bag. Not the secondhand limp version I actually own. The real deal. Fresh. Smelling like power and regret.

Fantasy me would float into a cocktail bar like a fashion assassin. Say devastatingly cool things. Maybe have sex in a five-star hotel and leave first, lipstick perfect.

And instead? Instead, I'm here. Swearing at my pile of wrinkled shirts, trying to pick the least soul-crushing option.

The second-hand Loewe Hammock mini bag that I shouldn't have bought is sitting on the dresser, staring at me like it's wondering how we both got here. I sigh and pick it up.

"You're coming with me," I mutter. "We suffer together."

I yank out a black mini-skirt. It's not leather. But it fits. It says: yes, I'm a little desperate, but I still know what a hemline is.
I pair it with the only white shirt that doesn't look like it's been chewed by anxiety. Rolled sleeves. Tucked in tight. And the leather blazer. Thank god I brought that. It's the closest thing I have to a backbone tonight.

Boots. Obviously.

I check the mirror. My legs are tanned, thanks to a brief summer miracle. My hair's barely holding on. My eyes look wild. But I pass. Just barely.

I look like someone who's about to walk into a bar and lie through her teeth.
And honestly? That's probably the best I've got tonight.

I hear knocks on my door. Sharp. Measured. A shiver runs down my spine like I'm about to be served my last meal on death row.

The knocks get louder—no, obnoxious. That's how I know it's Andy.

We sit in silence in the cab, the air between us just slightly less breathable than usual. I spend the entire ride on breathwork like I'm training for a goddamn boxing match. Inhale. Exhale. Prep the face. Client-schmooze mode loading.

Just before the cab slows to a stop, I hear him speak.

"Don't screw up tonight, okay?"

It's not about the dinner. It's about the drinks. Helena. Damage control. Reputation management. Me, on a leash.

This is Andy's version of a pep talk. Just enough threat to keep the blood pressure up.

I look at him, nod and smile like I've got this. He nods back, a rare flicker of approval in his otherwise judgmental eyes. Honestly? This is the most human Andy has been all year.

The restaurant is nicer than the photos. A lot nicer. That never happens. I feel a flicker of something dangerously close to pride as we're greeted at the door. I chose this place. I hope, somewhere in that spreadsheet of a brain, Andy logs this under 'Things She Didn't Fuck Up'.

The room is bathed in gold. Heavy white tablecloths. Grand chandeliers. Tall taper candles flickering like they're paid to seduce. I say a silent prayer—not for a good meal, but for wine. Lots of it.

Our brewery clients are already seated, bracketed by Ann-Katrin and two Swedish execs I've seen in far too many Teams calls. One chair left for Andy—right between the people holding the budget.

The only other seat? Across from August.

And next to the hedgehog.

Of course.

Honestly? Tonight, I'm not even mad about being relegated to the kids' section.

I'll take my juice box and coloring sheet if it means I don't have to pretend I have budget influence.

I slide into the seat after dishing out the best client-friendly smile in my entire arsenal—polished, practiced, nothing behind the eyes. The clients are already rosy-cheeked and loud, having spent two hours preloading in the restaurant bar. That's a gift from the gods. Drunk clients are easy clients. All I have to do now is not cause a PR incident.

I hold posture like I'm being evaluated. Straight back, graceful nods, light laugh. The full conversion. I will be elegant, measured, inoffensive. A vision of professionalism so golden it might distract from the emotional napalm I've scheduled for dessert.

The hedgehog raises his brows as I settle in. "Someone made an effort, huh?"

"Yes. Big client dinner," I say smoothly. Like the outfit wasn't selected to say something entirely different.

A soft scoff from across the table. August. He bites his lower lip, eyes scanning the rim of his wineglass like he's fighting the urge to correct the record.

The hedgehog clears his throat, clearly gathering steam. I glance over, unsure if he's choking on bread or a bad idea.

"Well, I just happened to hear..." he starts. "Aren't you having drinks with your ex tonight?"

I resist the urge to throw my fork. But there it is—on the table now, like a molotov with the pin already out.

I lean back in my chair and take a long sip of my wine, like that'll keep the chaos in. I watch the hedgehog squirm, and bite the inside of my cheek. I glance at August. Stoic again, but he's watching. Attentive in that maddening, quiet way. His gaze lingers like he's waiting to see if I'll combust or just spiral politely.

"Mhm," I say. "That's right."

The hedgehog blinks. "And... that's uhm..."

"Yes. The heiress. Helena. Is my ex," I say evenly, like I'm reading it from a PowerPoint slide. August remains carved from stone, but I swear something in him tightens—barely perceptible.

"I don't know if this is something I should ask, but... your ex is a girl?" the hedgehog asks, then instantly looks like he wishes he could claw the words back down his throat.

I burst out laughing—short, sharp, incredulous.

"Of all the plot points to fumble over—the heiress, the ex, the impending drink disaster—you get stuck on 'girl'?"

August lets out a small laugh too. Dry, surprised. Maybe amused. I don't know what to make of that.

"Sorry," the hedgehog mutters, shrinking. "That was... yeah. Dumb."

He doesn't know how close he came to a monologue on queerness and the workplace, gender politics, and the weight of heteronormative projections on bisexual women.

"It's fine," I say, lifting a brow. "Just don't ask me which gender's better in bed or I'll ruin your entire week."

His eyebrows shoot up like he's just now considered asking.

I shake my head slowly, silently mouthing Don't.

Then August chimes in. His voice low, deliberate.

"So... what part of drinks with her do you find most problematic?"

That lands like a slap. A quiet one. Sharp all the same.

I glance at him. His gaze doesn't waver. He wants the answer.

"Well," I say, shifting. "We were together in Paris. Years ago."

"So it wasn't serious?" he asks, like he already knows it was.

I laugh, thin and anxious. "Isn't your first love always serious?"

The moment stretches. I stare into my wine, refusing to look up. It's a stupid thing to admit. That it still matters. That she still does. That I still do.

The silence settles. Dense. I don't dare break it.

Then the hedgehog speaks.

"My first love was Maggie," he says, almost too quietly.

I glance at him. August looks over, too—curious, cautious.

"But she's gone now," the hedgehog adds, voice cracking just a little. It's enough to make me sit straighter. He swallows. "She... she passed when I was sixteen."

My stomach drops.

"I'm sorry," I say, reflexively.

"She was the most beautiful golden retriever I've ever known."

I freeze.

A tear escapes down his cheek.

It takes me a second.

Then I pull my hand back from his like it's been lit on fire.

August blinks. And then he laughs. Short and sharp. I follow, helpless.

The hedgehog looks at us both, baffled. "What?"

"Thank you," I manage between gasps. "Thank you for that extremely raw, deeply confusing emotional journey."

He shrugs, half-serious. "Love is love."

We never return to the topic of Helena. Or exes. Or feelings. I'm glad. The dinner is actually good. The wine, better.

But my phone buzzes like a countdown in my pocket. Dessert arrives, and I rise from my chair. Everyone knows where I'm going. Nobody says it.

Andy just nods once. The unspoken instruction: Don't fuck this up.

I nod back, steel in my spine. I whisper my farewells to the kids' section and head for the bar next door—heels clicking like a warning shot across the marble floor.

***

I'm early. 21:16.

The bar is low-lit and elegant, one of those places that smells like polished wood and generational wealth. I order an Old Fashioned and take the farthest seat at the counter—half for the view, half to see her before she sees me.

It's quiet, the kind of quiet that amplifies your thoughts. My fingers tremble against the glass, and I focus on breathing. In through the nose, out through the lie that this is just a work meeting.

Fred, the bartender, makes small talk I barely register. His gold name tag gleams. I fight the ridiculous urge to tell him we share a name. No need to let the world know I'm already spiraling.

At 21:26, she appears. Ten minutes late, of course.

Same stride. Same impossibly smooth hair. Same smell—strawberry gloss and something expensive I'll never afford. My brain short-circuits. I forgot how physical her presence is. How it used to fill a room, and me, all at once.

"Nights with you never seem to go as planned," she says, a soft smirk playing on her lips.

"Life with you doesn't," I reply, instantly regretting the tone—too sharp, too true.

"Aww. I missed you too," she teases, before greeting me like it's still Paris. The double cheek kisses, the proximity, the intimate familiarity—it knocks loose something in my chest I thought I'd buried.

We slide into small talk. Safe zones. Work. Weather. Outfit compliments. I push it back to business as quickly as I can.

"I was thinking maybe we could do a team dinner next week, or the week after. Introduce you to Ann-Katrin properly. And the others."

She nods, absent-minded. "Sure. Have your assistant send me a few options."

Right. My assistant. Totally real.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder, and just like that, I'm back in our fifth-floor walkup on Rue Montorgueil. She used to do that after a shower, wearing my shirt, humming something French under her breath. I stare into my drink.

She snaps me out of it. "Are you still painting?"

"No." It comes out too blunt. I clear my throat. "Haven't in a while."

She frowns, and for a second, she looks like the girl who used to leave notes in the margins of my sketchbooks.

"Well, you're very polished now," she says. "Professional."

"You're the heiress now," I shoot back. "That's grown-up."

She laughs and shrugs, swirling prosecco in her glass. "My dad thought it was time. My brother turned it down, so here I am."

"And you're okay with it?"

A pause. "Not really. I'd rather be living at Jax's vineyard full-time. But apparently, I need to 'learn discipline.'" She air-quotes, rolls her eyes, sips.

Jax. Right. I brace for it.

"I don't think I told you," she says, already grinning. "I'm getting married."

"Oh. Congratulations." I say it sincerely, which surprises me. The old ache is still there, but the part of me that wanted to scream, Are you fucking kidding me?—that part's tired.

She launches into Jax Trivia. His horses. His family's vineyard in Provence. The private polo matches. He's a Venn diagram of husband and wine label. Her eyes glow, and I nod through it like I'm not having war flashbacks of her dragging me to godawful wine bars in the Marais.

"So, how are you really?" she asks, sweet and sudden, catching me off-guard.

"I'm good. Work's good. Everything's good."

"And love?"

"Not really my thing anymore."

She tilts her head, studying me. "No one since me?"

I force a smile. "Not really, no."

A pause.

"Why?"

My breath catches. I try to laugh it off. "Jesus. Where do I even begin?"

She waits. I give her a version of the truth, a harsh one, not sure why I want her to know the damage she'd done, or just too short-curcuited to lie any better,

"After Paris, I crashed. Like... completely. Couldn't write. Couldn't think. My friends basically wrote my thesis for me. I stayed in Copenhagen for a while, then left for Berlin. Thought the change would do me some good, hideaway for a bit"

Her face softens, lips part slightly. I expect pity. But instead—

"It was hard for me too," she says quietly. "You weren't the only one trying to survive."

I glance at her. Her eyes aren't glassy, but something in them's gone distant.

"I didn't stay in Stockholm for long. I couldn't even open the application to stay there. I ended up doing my master's in London. It was something. I think it helped."

That stings. Because I didn't help. Not her, not myself.

She gives me a small nod, like she's allowing me back into the memory. For a flicker of a moment, I think we're okay.

Then: "Why didn't you ever ask me to move to Copenhagen?"

It's not an attack. It's almost... gentle. But it tears through me like shrapnel.

"I— I did," I stutter, but more like a murmur.

She holds my gaze. Doesn't blink.

And then I realize. No, I didn't.

I never asked. Not once. I wanted her to read my mind, follow me blindly, arrive unprompted. And when she didn't, I used it as proof she didn't care.

"I think, I just thought you'd say no," I admit, quiet.

She gives a half-laugh, bittersweet. "I might've. But I didn't get the chance."

The silence after stretches. I don't know how to respond. I don't think there's anything left to say.

"Let's let bygones be bygones," she says eventually. "We were just kids."

I nod. "Paris feels like another life."

"It was," she agrees. "A beautiful, fucked-up one."

We move to lighter topics. Old classmates. That awful artist who only painted nude self-portraits in grayscale. We laugh more than I expect.

At 22:45, she checks her phone and jumps. "Shit. Jax is out front."

I stand with her. "I'll walk you out."

She kisses my cheek, warm, familiar. "Let's do dinner, you'll be the highlight in the sea of beige. I mean it."

"I'll find a date," I say. She smiles, then slips into the night like she always did—graceful, unbothered, leaving me with the noise in my own head.

Fred the bartender just hands me a new drink.

"Rough night?" he asks softly.

I nod. "Yeah."

And I empty it, and then another before I step out.

Outside, the air bites through my shirt, sharp and cold. The brick behind me is wet and unforgiving, like a wall of stone that's seen a thousand breakdowns and doesn't care about one more.

I tilt my head back and stare at the sky like it might cough up a miracle. Nothing. Just the dull, gray blur of a city that doesn't care what I've done. I light a cigarette. And then it begins.

Her voice. Her perfume. Her hands in mine on the Métro. The first night. The first fight. Her laugh under those shitty pink Christmas lights in my flat. What basically became our flat.
Paris crashes back into me like a bus.

God, I thought she ruined me.
I thought she left me.
But it was me. I left. I didn't ask her to come with me. I never gave her the chance. And now the truth is here like a freight train, flattening the last bits of the narrative I'd made to survive.

And it's not just heartbreak anymore. It's horror.

Because I've been angry with her for such a long time—for breaking my heart.
For shattering it so cleanly that it set off everything.
She was the detonator for the worst symptoms of my disorder.

And I've coursecorrected since, been furious with myself for being stupid enough to fall in love in the first place.
For letting my guard down. For naively thinking heartbreak was something you just cried about, wrote sad poetry, drank wine with your friends over.
I didn't know it could kill me, and barely did.
It left me catatonic for weeks.
I couldn't work. I couldn't eat. I left my job without even calling in. I stopped answering my phone.
It was Elly who finally took me to the doctor—carried me there, like I was made of stone and shame.
Kat picked up groceries and made me toast I didn't eat, too busy staring at the floor.
Sam changed my sheets. Sat with me through the nights, the silence. Pretended not to notice I hadn't showered in six days.

I've been so angry. For being broken. For being a burden. For needing them to piece me back together when I didn't know how.

And now I have to live with the fact that it wasn't her that detonated it.
It was me.
I pushed the button. I set it off.
I let my silence kill what we had, and then blamed the crater on her.

The sob breaks through my chest like a siren. My knees buckle, and I crouch on the pavement, arms wrapped tight around myself. I can't breathe. I can't stop.

I am so tired.
So fucking tired.
Of pretending I'm fine. Of building myself into someone worth being around again, only to realize I was the one who dropped the match in the first place.

I curl tighter, the cigarette long gone. My eyes burn. My lungs ache. The guilt claws its way up my throat until I think I might choke on it. It just makes my self-imposed exile from fairytale love more important to enforce. Like a personal sanction. A punishment. No more illusions. No more softness. No more wanting.

Because it wasn't just me who paid.
It was Elly, Kat, Sam. My mum. My dad.
They had to witness the fallout.
They had to drag me through it, bleeding and desperate to disappear.

I gave them a full implosion and handed them the wreckage like it was their responsibility.

The rain starts. Like it's timed for maximum cinematic cruelty.
At first gentle. Then harder. Then relentless.
I can't tell what's water and what's tears anymore.

I try to stand, legs shaky, soaked. Think I'm moving. Maybe a sliver of self-preservation makes me look for cover. I can feel the chill climb under my soaked clothes like fingers.
I think I'm crying again. Or still.

A shape approaches. I squint. Umbrella. Dark coat.
I think I know the face.

"What happened to you? Are you okay?"

August.

Of course it's him.
Of course.

He doesn't say anything else. Just shelters me under the umbrella like he was looking for me. Like he knew.

"I don't know," I whisper. My voice is gone. I am gone.

He looks at me with a kind of panic disguised as composure. "You're shaking. How long have you been out here? Where are you staying?"

My mind doesn't want to answer. Nothing makes sense. But somehow, one word slips out.

"Falcon."

That's all he needs. He puts his jacket around me—soaked as I am—and flags a cab without hesitation.
He helps me in. I don't argue.
Because right now, I don't know how to save myself.

I feel like I should say something. Thank him. Lie and say I'm fine. None of it fits in my throat. The words don't belong.
His eyes flick toward me a few times, unsure if I'll speak or crack. I give him nothing.

When we pull up outside the Falcon, I manage a quiet "Thank you," before slipping out. The cab drives off and I assume he's gone with it—until I turn and see him again.

He's just... there. Waiting by the door to the elevator like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't ask.
Just walks beside me like some quiet, worried storm cloud in a blazer.

Part of me wants to tell him to fuck off. To snap, I'm fine and slam the door on the whole pathetic scene.
But I don't. Because I'm not fine.
And I don't even have the energy to fake it.

I let him follow. Up the elevator. Down the hallway. Into my room.

The second I sit on the edge of the bed, the tears press back.
My throat seizes.
And then I'm in it again—face in my hands, sobs breaking out like I've held them back for years, not hours.

He doesn't ask. Doesn't hesitate.
Just closes the door behind him and crosses the room in two steps.
"Come here," he murmurs.
He sits beside me, takes my shaking hands and places them gently on the back of his neck. Then he wraps his arms around me—solid, steady, unrelenting.

I don't hold back.
I sob into his chest until my eyes burn and my breath catches on every inhale. I soak through his shirt like it's part of the price.
He says nothing. Just strokes my back with the kind of rhythm people use to calm scared animals or crying children.

It helps.
But it doesn't fix anything.

Because he's not Elly.
He's not Kat.
He's not Sam.
He didn't hold my hand in the waiting room. He didn't watch me unravel from the front row.

And suddenly I feel raw, exposed—ashamed to be this shattered in front of him.
Like I've handed him too much. Let him see something he can't unsee.
I flinch at my own collapse. At how small and weak I must look.

I start to pull back.
To reclaim some version of myself—whatever scraps are left that feel remotely like control.
But his hand is still there, warm and steady at the base of my spine. Grounding me.

I shift, just a little. Subtle, unsure, but he notices.
His arms ease open, letting me breathe. Letting me go, without really letting me fall.

My cries have thinned into tremors and sniffles, the kind that still catch in the throat and feel sore in the lungs.
He brushes away the last of the tears with his thumbs, the gesture so soft I flinch without meaning to.

His shirt is soaked. I don't know if it's from rain or me. Probably both.
I glance up at him, the words landing somewhere between shame and gratitude.
"Thank you."

"Not at all," he says, voice low. "Are you okay?"
His eyes search mine, not pressuring. Just watching. Just... there.

"Mhm." I nod slowly. "I think I just need a shower to warm up. And then maybe a good night's sleep."
I don't know if I'm trying to reassure him or myself. The words sound limp, like they're trying too hard.

"Okay," he says after a pause, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"Okay," I echo, waiting to see if he'll actually let me off the hook that easily.

I start to rise, clumsily. "I'll go take a shower, but—uh—feel free to... I don't know. Dry your clothes. Or whatever."
I wave vaguely at the room like it'll make more sense than my mouth does.

The bathroom's light is bright and sterile. I shut the door gently, leaning against it for a second too long.
Then I start peeling the clothes off. Damp fabric clings to me like a second skin that doesn't want to let go.
When I step into the hot spray, I expect relief—
But the warmth only opens me up again.

The sob is small, but it splits me.
Then another.
And another.

Crying feels like breathing now. Uncontrollable. Constant.
I'm no longer crying about one thing—just everything.
My chest aches, my eyes sting, and my mind feels like it's been dragged backward through time.

I towel off. Pull on my sleep shirt—oversized, grey, cracked print that reads: I could be meaner.
There's a cartoon raccoon under it. Grinning like a goblin.
I don't smile back. I don't agree.
I can't be any meaner than I've already been today. Not to myself.

I pull on the night shorts. Old, frayed, barely-there fabric—what's left of a pair I cut myself in some past life.
The last artifact from my soccer dreams, back when I thought resilience just meant staying hydrated.
Now they feel like armor. Stupid, sentimental armor.

I blow-dry my hair until it's only slightly damp, and the last of my energy drains with the hum of the motor.
I feel new, but only in the physical sense. This body is clean and warm. But the one inside?
Still splintered. Still storm-swept.

I exhale.
Then open the bathroom door.

August's still on the bed. The only difference is that he's in a wifebeater now, not a shirt. I blink twice just to make sure I'm not hallucinating from exhaustion or trauma or both.

"My shirt's not dry yet," he says like he's reading my mind. "How are you?"

"I feel like dust."
My eyes drift heavily toward the bed like gravity's increased since the shower.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently.

I shake my head. That's all I have to give.

"Do you want me to leave? I can jus—"
He starts to stand, halfway through his escape route.

"Do you want to watch a movie?"
The words crack out of my throat, brittle and unsure. It's like my brain wanted a safe plan in place for the next critical hours alone with me. I don't even know if I said them out loud until I see him stop, surprised.

A second or two pass before I dare look up.
There's warmth in his eyes.

"Sounds good," he says softly.

My gaze lands on the bed. Clothes are scattered around him like debris from a life I don't currently have the energy to care about. But something stops me. My whole body stills.

There it is.
The berry-colored pill organizer.
Right on the nightstand.
Even the bra draped over it is less of an embarrassment.

I forgot.

Fourteen pills a day. Seven compartments. Each one labeled like a public humiliation: morning, evening, morning, evening.
It's not a scrape-on-the-knee situation. It's a fucking bleeding-through-your-pants-in-a-white-dress disorder.

His eyes follow mine. I see it click.
I react too late, fumbling for the bra, tossing it into the suitcase with a performative shrug like that's what I care about.

Then I grab the container, slide it behind my back like it's a fucking weapon, and nod like, one sec, like I'll be right back after this deeply casual act of hiding a small piece of my mental health from the guy who just held me while I sobbed into his chest.

I slip into the bathroom, hating myself.
I hate everything about this disorder.

When I return, I don't say anything. Just start pushing clothes to the floor, clearing space.
He doesn't ask.
I climb into bed and cocoon myself in the duvet. August stays on top of the covers, remote in hand, spine propped against the headboard like this is just a normal hotel room, just a normal Tuesday, and I'm not a soggy emotional grenade he just happened to catch.

We settle.
He flips through channels aimlessly, giving me silence but not space. Just enough comfort to breathe.

Until.
The Paris skyline.
A dreamy jazz soundtrack.
A familiar fade into Midnight in Paris.

It hits like a punch to the ribs.
Of course it would be that fucking movie.

My eyes well up again. Not slowly—immediately. Hot, stupid tears that push past my exhaustion. I try to stifle them, brush them away discreetly, but that only makes it worse.

I turn my face toward the pillow, trying to break eye contact with the screen. But the tears keep coming. I'm back in Paris. I'm drowning in it. I can't climb out.

Then—his hands.
One on my cheek, the other cupping the other side. His thumbs swipe under my eyes. I think he's trying to help. Maybe trying to hold me together with his bare hands.

"What can I do?" he whispers, holding both my hands now, gently but firmly. Like I might float away. Or shatter.

I search for something. Anything. But my mind is cotton.
"Can you just stay?" I manage.

"Of course." No pause. Just certainty.

He shifts. "Here."
He pats the pillow in his lap. I hesitate only a second before sliding over, pulling the duvet around me like a shell.

As I settle against him, August begins to twirl my hair. Slow. Gentle. Reassuring.
Each stroke pulls me further down, away from the panic, the movie, the memory of Paris and all the damage I let it do to me.

My eyelids start to shut before I've decided to let them.
I don't even know if I stopped crying before sleep pulls me under.

But I do know I didn't do anything severe, stupid, or cry alone.