"How to Turn Your Meltdown into a Performance Art Piece No One Asked For"

"Honey..." Elly's voice is low, syrupy with worry. That particular voice. The one she reserves for tragedies.
Her usual concern is coated in forced cheer. But this—this is the voice from hospital waiting rooms and bad-news text messages.

"I know," I say gently. "It's been... a lot."
I want to soothe her, to make it sound like I've got this. Like I haven't spent most of the last twelve hours crying into my own hair. I just want to come home. But the room is prepaid, and changing my flight would cost my future child's first mortgage.

"Do you want me to lend you the money for the flight?" she asks instantly.
Elly knows everything about me. She knows I won't say yes. Her bank balance lives on a trust fund IV drip from her parents. She could wire the money before I blink. Wouldn't even notice it gone.

"Thank you, but... you know I can't." I sigh. "I appreciate it though."
I've never taken money from my friends. Not when I was broke. Not when I was broken. I won't start now. I'm not a charity case. Not even to the people I love most.

"Honey, are you sure? Should I fly out to be with you?"

Her offer turns my stomach. Not because I don't want her here—but because it sounds like pity. It reeks of it.
I knew things were bad, but hearing that from Elly? It confirms it. I'm on the floor again. Rock bottom with room service.

"I'm good, I swear. In twenty-four hours I'll be at Rick's with you guys. I think I can keep myself distracted until then."
She probably hears the fake smile in my voice. It's impossible to manufacture any kind of confidence at this point.

"Okay," she says, hesitant. "Do you want me to FaceTime with you tonight? Keep you company?"

This is her version of a compromise. Elly's protective instincts are basically SWAT-level. Arguing is futile.
"That would actually be nice," I admit. "I'll call you at nineteen?"

"Of course, honey. I'm always here for you, you know that, right?"
Her voice softens with relief. I think she needed to feel like she could help.

"I know, Elly. And I love you for it."
And I mean it. Truly. Because having someone like her is how I'm still upright.

"So, um... what are your plans until then?"
Translation: Please don't spend the whole day crying in your bed like a haunted Victorian widow.

"I, um... I actually thought about checking out the Moderna Museet," I say. "You know, distract myself."

This is only half a lie.
"That's good! That'll get you out of your head, right?" Her tone is encouraging, like I'm a wounded puppy and she's dangling a chew toy of optimism.

"Yeah... I think it might be okay."

"Remember to eat something, okay?"

"I will, Mom."
I know she means well. But I still hate how it feels to be shrink-wrapped in concern.

"I know. But I only—"

"I know. But I think I just need to get some air. This room smells like tears, drama, and a faint scent of desperation."

A soft laugh escapes her. Her version of letting me off the hook.
We say our goodbyes—her re-confirming 19:00, me sounding like a sulky teen agreeing to curfew.

As I hang up, my red, gritty eyes land on the shirt hanging on the back of the chair.
August's shirt.
It's dry now.

He texted me at 04:53. Said he was sorry for having to leave. Said he didn't want to wake me. Said he hoped I'd feel better after a good night's sleep. Said he had to go home.

Had to go home.
Someone's probably waiting for him.
And I don't mean a cat.

I think he genuinely forgot the shirt. Not some romantic breadcrumb to ensure a second contact.
I've never done that. Never intentionally left anything behind. And I've never gone back for anything either.

I try to reply. Six drafts later, nothing feels right. Do I apologize? Thank him? Play it cool?
What do you say to someone who saw you fully unravel? Who held your soggy body like a broken child?

I have to see this man again. In Amsterdam. In Barcelona.
If it weren't for the fucking shirt, I'd block his number.

Instead, I text: Should I toss your shirt or leave it at the front desk?

He replies instantly.
Not to answer. No. He just asks: What are you doing today?

I tell him about my fake plans. I repeat my question.

He replies: I'm already here. Just bring the shirt.

He's definitely not like Elly.

Fuck.

***

I don't have the energy to look even remotely decent, but I try. Mostly out of habit, like a reflexive PR stunt aimed at no one in particular. I usually make a point of dressing up for museums—respect the art, respect yourself, right? But today, I'm operating on the mental bandwidth of a houseplant and a suitcase full of bad decisions.

I leave the hotel in a cap, a giant sweatshirt, shorts, and sneakers. I'm aiming for classic Princess Diana. I'm fully aware I've landed closer to washed-up-Britney-on-a-Starbucks-run. 2007-era. The meltdown one, not the comeback one.

By the time I arrive, I already regret it. The Moderna Museet looms in front of me like some brutalist cathedral. All sharp modern lines and clean Nordic judgment. It looks like it's trying to puncture the sky. I hesitate outside like it's going to smite me on sight. Like it knows I'm full of rot and unworthy and barely held together with last night's mascara and a granola bar.

I stand there too long, frozen in front of the glass doors like a feral animal wondering if it'll set off an alarm just by existing. Then I force myself in—mostly out of shame.

Inside, I shuffle toward the ticket line and try to focus on breathing. Deep breaths, in through the nose, all that crap they tell you to do when you're spiraling. None of it works. My chest is tight. My pulse is embarrassing. I swear everyone here can smell that I'm 90% despair in a sweatshirt. I take my ticket with damp, shaky hands. Accidentally brush the clerk's fingers. She flinches. Fantastic. Now I'm the human equivalent of a contagious rash.

Should I text him that I'm here? Would that imply I want to see him? That this whole visit wasn't just about Eva Helene Pade and high art and emotional resilience? Do I look like someone who's up for a casual museum hang with the guy who watched her have an emotional systems failure?

The answer is no. To all of it. I decide to tour on my own and maybe text him right before I leave. Or not. Who knows. I'm a mess, not a planner.

The first hall is the museum's permanent collection. A sea of Swedish modernism. Abstract pieces that all scream "I'm better than you" in passive-aggressive Helvetica. I don't recognize a single name, and I don't care enough to try. Everything looks like a group project done five minutes before the deadline by someone deeply committed to minimalism and emotional constipation.

It reminds me of that digital art show I went to in Berlin, where the whole thing was ancient TVs playing slow-motion Tetris. Everyone was pretending it was profound. I was just glad there was cheap beer and someone to make out with in the stairwell.

But this? This isn't why I came. I came for her.

Eva Helene Pade. Danish painter. I mean, she's not actually mine, but if I was the type to be delusional and clingy, I'd say her work gets me. Or at least the version of me I usually ignore. The exhibition's new. Only here. Not coming to Denmark. Not touring. A one-shot deal, like me in relationships.

The paintings are based on Stravinsky's Rite of Spring—the ballet about ritual sacrifice, chaos, and a girl dying because the village needed her to. Cute. But Pade flipped the story. No more helpless victim. No more purity in pain. This time the girl's the center of it all. The storm. The fury. The fire.

As I reach the top of the stairs to the exhibition, I pause. The eleven paintings stretch across the gallery below like they own the place. Massive. Cinematic. They hum. They breathe. They throb.

And I can't move.

Because of course they look like me. Not literal portraits, nothing so obvious. But something in them feels familiar in a way I don't want. Like they're reflecting back everything I've worked so hard to bury. Not mournful. Not sad. Just raw. Brutal. Unforgiving. Like they've seen everything and don't care how sorry I am.

I hate that they hit me like this. I hate that I can feel it in my knees. I hate that I didn't sleep, that my eyes are swollen, that I look like roadkill in a sweatshirt while August's out there somewhere with full access to last night's breakdown. I hate that he saw me like that. I hate that I let him.

God, I hate me. And not in the poetic, broken-doll way. In the "you ruined everything, and for what?" kind of way. For years I let myself believe she broke me. That, Helena, cracked my ribs and left me bleeding. But it was me. I'm the one who detonated the bomb. All she did was hand me the match.

And now these paintings—these fucking beautiful, holy, bleeding paintings—they're looking at me like they know. Like they've been waiting for me to admit it.

I want to disappear. I want to dissolve right here on the marble stairs and drip between the cracks so no one ever has to look at me again.

Instead, I stare. My jaw tight. My eyes stinging.

I inhale. Exhale.

I don't step forward yet. Not because I need to process it. Not because I'm gathering courage.

I just don't trust myself not to throw up.

I'm about to plug in my earbuds, hit play on Le Sacre du Printemps, and let Stravinsky guide me through the exhibit like a priestess in mourning. That was the idea, at least.

But then I see it.

That outline—so absurdly familiar it feels like a slap. That swimmer's back I spent far too long memorizing during the sessions in Copenhagen, instead of listening to any of the actual content. That maddeningly perfect shade of brown in his hair, tousled with just enough carelessness to look unbothered.

For a second, I feel like I've hallucinated him. Like I've conjured him out of sheer mental exhaustion. But no, he's very much there. Upright and breathing and real.

My body reacts before I can make sense of anything. I freeze a few steps down on the stairs, just out of his line of sight. There's a weird prickling sensation crawling down the back of my neck. My fingers twitch like they want to do something—wave, hide, claw their way through concrete. I don't move. I'm not sure I can.

Then she appears.

Petite. Effortlessly beautiful, even from behind. Long brown hair, immaculate posture. She slips her arm around his waist like she's done it a thousand times. Her head fits against his chest as naturally as a lock sliding into its key.

And he doesn't hesitate. His arm goes around her shoulders. They stand there, perfectly aligned. As if the whole museum was curated just for them.

Something sharp twists in my stomach. Then higher—into my chest. My lungs tighten. My jaw locks down without warning. My whole body suddenly feels hot and wrong. Like my blood doesn't know where to go.

It's nothing. I'm just tired. That's all. Probably dehydrated.

I turn away. Fast. Like I've seen something I wasn't supposed to. Like I'm the one intruding.

Why did I even think I could do this? I'm wearing a cap and a sweatshirt like I'm on the run from rehab. I'm holding his fucking shirt in my tote bag like I'm a walking, talking cliché. I start thinking up excuses I can text him later. Something light. "Sorry, the shirt mysteriously disintegrated." "Sorry, I gave it to a seagull." "Sorry, I realized I have no business being in the same building as you."

My brain's racing too fast to latch onto anything.

I decide—stupidly—to make an exit. I'll drop the shirt at lost and found. I'll text him later. I'll reclaim whatever scraps of dignity are left and just leave.

But the moment I turn and step up the stairs, my foot catches the edge and I go down hard.

My knee hits first. Then my palms. Then the dull thud of my tote bag smacking the floor, contents halfway spilling out—his shirt landing half-unfurled beside me like it's waving a white flag on my behalf.

"God. Damn. It." I hiss.

The words come out louder than I mean. A few heads turn, and I immediately regret having a voice at all. One woman gives me that look—half judgment, half mild disgust. Like she can smell the mess on me. Like she's not wrong.

I stay on the floor for a second, palms pressed to the cold tile. My shin throbs. My pride throbs louder.

I collect the shirt. Shove it back into my bag like it personally betrayed me. My eyes sting, but it's unclear if it's from pain or humiliation or the weird pressure still coiled tight in my chest like a spring.

"Have you ever not made a dramatic entrance?"
My body clocks the voice before my mind gets the chance. Of course it's him.

"Sorry," I mutter, brushing dirt from my hands. "Next time I'll fall more quietly."
I keep my eyes low, jaw tight, the flush on my cheeks burning hotter than the scrape on my knee. Under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear:
"Wouldn't want to interrupt the happy couple."

I see a flicker of puzzlement cross his face before a small smirk tugs at his mouth.

"Ahh. Yes, we're quite the couple." Smirk still intact. Like he's toying with something I'm not in on.

"Good for you. Thank you, or whatever. See you," I say, even-toned, like I'm reading from a manual on how to bow out of awkward ex-related conversations.

I feel humiliated. Like it wasn't bad enough he played some sort of accidental hero last night—now I'm standing here, the wilted mess with red eyes and a bruised ego and actual bruised knees.

He tries to swallow a laugh, and almost succeeds.

"Jealousy looks good on you."

My eyes widen.
"What? No. Not at all. I'm just happy for you."

"Happy for me?" he echoes, clearly unconvinced. Like I'm performing a one-woman show and forgot the script halfway through.

"Yes. Happy for you. Do your thing. Get it."
The words fall out like gravel, sharp and graceless. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. Just trying to get through this with a shred of dignity, which is now hanging by a thread made of lies and short-circuiting social skills.

He chuckles softly, letting my performance hang in the air like smoke.

"Right," he says finally, voice shifting into something more grounded. "How are you?"

And just like that, the floor drops again. I don't know which topic is worse—every single one seems engineered to showcase my least appealing traits.

"I'm fine." I try to make it sound final, but it just sounds brittle.

"Did you sleep alright? I hope I didn't wake yo—"

"You didn't. I'm fine. A good night's sleep was all I needed. I'm fine, thank you."

He gives me a long look. The kind that reads between every word you're trying to fake. He chews the inside of his cheek, like he's deciding whether to push or let me off the hook. I hope to god it's the latter.

But before he gets a chance, someone comes up beside him.

She's smiling. Radiating that soft kind of warmth reserved for people who've never been knocked breathless by their own memories. She's stunning. Of course she is. Effortlessly symmetrical, un-makeupped in that confident, better-than-foundation kind of way.
She smells like spring air and linen and light pink floral notes—like she walked straight out of one of those perfume ads where everyone's always laughing on sailboats.

She puts her hand on his shoulder, leaning up against him. And I—

I don't even know what I did to earn this exact brand of punishment—standing here like some haunted footnote from his past while his shampoo-commercial girlfriend floats in like the cover star of a Scandinavian lifestyle magazine. All soft lighting and inherited ease. Like this whole day had been choreographed just to make sure I knew my place.

"Hi! I'm Lea, August's sister. You're Frederika, right?"

My jaw hits the floor. Physically. It actually drops.

"Yes, hi, uhm... sister. Hello," I manage, trying to replace my open mouth with a polite smile.

August chokes on a laugh, directs it into a smug chuckle, clearly pleased with himself.
I want to hit him with the tote bag. Shirt first.

Lea's laugh is soft—too soft to be smug, just sweet. And kind. Her eyes, those almost-too-bright blue eyes, give her away completely. Of course they're siblings. I've only ever seen one other pair like that.

"Are you here for the Pade exhibition?" she asks brightly.

"Mhm, yeah. It's... supposed to be one of a kind." My voice sounds like I'm still catching up to reality. And maybe I am.

"I couldn't agree more!" she beams, a little too high-pitched, like she's been practicing being enthusiastic since she woke up.

August shoots her a glance—the older-brother warning glare, refined through years of passive-aggressive car rides and battles over the remote. My brother gives me the same one when I'm being "too much" in front of company.

Lea rolls her eyes like it's the oldest dance in the world. Then, in a more hushed tone, "I mean... it's really interesting how she flips the whole feminist sacrifice trope. Like, yeah, fucking patriarchy—but sometimes it's murkier than that, right? Even if I wasn't writing a paper on it, I'd still be overanalyzing the hell out of this show."

I blink at her. The profanity comes out of nowhere—like hearing a nun say "dick pic."
It's so perfectly jarring that I laugh. Out loud. From the stomach. I can't even help it.

Even August cracks a grin, though his looks more like damage control than delight.

"I think that's the best review I've heard in years," I say through the last of my chuckling. "You Stockholm U?"

"Art History. Third semester," she says with pride. "I survived first year. They should give us medals."

"Oh, I heard about that. The graduation trip, right? After surviving a year in Dionysus' spirit?" I ask with a teasing smile. "Do they still do that?"

Lea's eyes light up instantly. "Yes! I've been dying to go. But this one—" she jabs August in the ribs "—has decided I'll either get kidnapped, recruited into a commune, or come back wearing body glitter and trauma."

"Sounds like a personal attack," August mutters.

"It's a rite of passage," I say. "I mean, I wasn't even part of the program, and I still ended up there. Sort of... peripherally enrolled."

I glance at Lea, trying to ease the edges.
"I mean, it's not all chaos and madness. Technically it's about connection, liberation, understanding different perspectives through—uh, wine, dance, metaphorical rebirth..."

Lea looks hopeful. August looks unconvinced. I should've stopped there.

"...but yeah, there were definitely mushrooms, skinny-dipping, and like, one extremely confusing group massage. But hey, I turned out okay."
I gesture vaguely to myself. "More or less."

Lea snorts. August's expression hardens.

"Well," he says sharply, "she's not going."

I tilt my head and raise a brow. "Okay, but... why is that your call? Shouldn't it be your mom or dad making the 'don't do the orgy vacation' decision?"

That hits harder than expected. August's jaw tightens. Lea looks between us.

"I mean," I add, trying to backpedal but not really, "my mom never even knew I went. Probably for the best. Ignorance really is bliss."

Lea starts to laugh, but August's already shifted away from us. His eyes go distant—like he's remembering something or trying not to.

She reaches out, puts a hand gently on his shoulder. He shrugs it off—not rough, but final. Then he exhales through his nose and walks away without a word.

Lea lets out a resigned sigh. I'm just confused, afraid of what it is that I unintentionally just blew up. We're silent for a few moments, before she steps closer.

"Ever since our mom passed, he thinks he's my parent" she says, her voice soft.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know" I say, and sincerely mean it. A lump hits my stomach by the thought of losing a parent. Another lump because of what I just said to August, now that I know.

"Where's your dad?" I ask, just to instantly regret it. I don't want to be perceived as prying somehow, but in a way I am.

"After her car accident, he's been everywhere. I think it's El Salvador now? He calls once a month." She says, shrugging. Like she doesn't even care.

"Okay, so it's just the two of you? All on your own?" I say it with an instinctive pity in my voice. The particular string that usually lands a punch in my kidneys.

"Well, we technically live with our dad. He comes home every six months or so, pays the rent, our cleaner, food, allowance, you know." She says. Like it's a common phenomenon. Not bothered the slightest by the pity in my tone, and continues to explain,

"So, he's touchy about this month-long trip I want to go on. It's just a cottage in the mountains, with a bunch of people from my school."

My mouth reacts before my brain - "Sounds fun!"

"I know!" she says, in an equal high pitch.

"But he's too scared to let me do anyyyyything." She says, as her innocent face turns into that of a kid's who was told no for a third ice cream.

"I'm sorry I only made it worse" I offer. I know I was the one highlighting all the cautions triggered by getting a third ice cream - even the ones the elder didn't even think of.

"It's fine, he just needs to cool down. My dad would let me go, he's like that. August's just... Scared anything will happen to me." Her voice's tender, like she understands his reasons.

"Of course, that's siblings. I can only imagine how close losing your mom must have brought you" I say, imagining that's what a normal adult would say.

"Well, I'll butter him up later with pistachio ice cream and skittles." it's like she's trying to cheer me up in a way, to lighten the mood.

"I hope it's not in the same bowl!" I say, trying to follow the change in subject.

"Oh yes, it's the best thing ever - trust me"

"I seriously doubt that" I say with a smile and raised brows.

"Don't mock the Gus special," she says, half-smiling like she's daring me to judge.

I laugh softly, "Alright, alright. Pistachio and Skittles sounds like a match made in heaven. Just don't tell August I'm onto his kryptonite."

She nudges me gently, "Secrets safe. But you owe me a taste test next time."

I grin, feeling the tension melt a bit, "Deal. Just don't expect me to like it."

Her eyes sparkle, "Oh, you'll like it. Or at least you'll pretend to."

Her claim lingers in the air for a few moments, before I remember why I'm here in the first place. I technically did see Pade - and the superficial glance will have to do. I take out August's shirt from my tote and hand it silently to Lea.

She catches it effortlessly, smirking. "Thanks for babysitting this," She says. I notice her eyebrow arches, and her tone sharpens as she goes, "You know, sometimes it's better to hand it over yourself."

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "I think I'm the last person on earth he wants to see right now. Everything I'd say would mostly just make it worse. Honestly, I think it's safer if I just disappear."

Lea's grin turns mischievous. "Disappear all you want, but August thinks there's a designated place in hell for even attempted ghosters. You two are stuck on that talent programme in Amsterdam in a few weeks, right? You're gonna have to face him sooner or later."

I force a weak smile and nod, "Thank you for making it sound like choosing between a rock and a hard place. I just hope he'll take a few weeks to cool down, and hopefully I'll know how to apologize by then?" My reply is mechanic, scared by whatever Amsterdam will bring, even before I thought that far ahead.

She gives me a less than reassuring smile. One that makes me question my choice just a tiny bit. I try to nod and muster a brave face. It's impossible.

I begin my departure with cautious steps away from her. No real goodbyes. No encouraging speeches. Just me, quietly escaping before my brain fries any further.

***

My trolley is somehow heavier than when I left for Stockholm. I can barely lift it up the three small steps to get into Rick's. As soon as I'm inside, I exhale, long and sharp.

The talk with Lea. Helena. The tears. Falling asleep next to August. Elly on FaceTime.
As soon as I landed in Copenhagen, it all started to feel like it had happened to someone else.
But judging by the way Kat, Sam, and Elly are looking at me—glass-eyed and brittle-smiled—I know it happened to me.

"Come on, guys. Quit looking like someone died," I say as I slide into the booth, trying to sound like my usual self.
They look at me like I'm some post-tragedy documentary subject. Like I need soft lighting and swelling music.
I hate it.

Elly's clearly briefed them. I'm quietly relieved I don't have to retell it all, but it also means there's no escaping their pity party.

"How are you, darling?"
Pet names from Sam are usually reserved for near-death experiences and post-breakup memorial dinners. This isn't comfort. It's a gut punch.

"Guys, I brought this on myself," I say, forcing a casual shrug. "There's really nothing to do about it. It just... is, you know?"

"It's not your fault that you and Helena split," Kat says, her voice uncharacteristically firm.

"But it is." I can't help but shoot it back. "I never asked her to move to Copenhagen. I said no to going with her. Long distance wasn't even on the table. That's on me."

"You were scared," Sam adds, gently. "You were both so young. Sometimes things just don't work out. That doesn't mean it's anyone's fault."

"She could have offered to move to Copenhagen too, you know," Kat adds. "You tried to do what was right. What you thought she needed. It's okay not to know everything back then."

"That's not your fault," Elly echoes, like they rehearsed this. Like there's a designated script for absolving guilt.

I look at them, feeling that old hollow ache reawaken. "I don't know. I blamed her for a long time. For breaking my heart. For breaking me. But once I realized I was the one who ended it, it just made everything else... obvious. I'm the one who made me sick."

Sam shakes her head. "If it hadn't been Helena, it would've been something else. You can't make yourself sick."

"I can." My voice is flat, but the conviction in it cuts clean. "If I hadn't been so stupid. If I hadn't let myself fall in love like that—like I was immune—I wouldn't have spiraled the way I did."

Kat leans in, her tone softer. "You can't control who you fall for any more than if you fall at all. It just... happens."

"No, I have to control it. I don't have the luxury of just letting it happen. I can't afford it. Not emotionally. Not financially. Not when the cost of falling in love is ending up like that again."

Elly's voice breaks through, equal parts sad and sharp. "Why would you do that to yourself?"

"There's too much at stake," I say, quiet but firm. "I can't go through that again. And I can't put you guys, or my family, through it either. It's not fair. You shouldn't have to clean me up again."

Kat looks like I've just insulted her to her face. "So what, we're just supposed to love you in easy doses?"

Sam snorts. "Right. Because when I broke my leg off-piste and couldn't even pee by myself for six weeks, you two didn't live with me around the clock?"

"That's not the same," I mutter, eyes down.

"How is it not?" Sam asks, blunt. "Accidents happen. People need help."

"You know it's different."
And I know how thin that argument sounds, even as it leaves my mouth.
But it is different. It feels different. Doesn't it?

"You sound like someone who thinks they should've known better," Elly says carefully, "when really, you just... didn't. And that's not a crime."

I'm quiet. Their words clang around in my brain like loose change in a dryer.

A pause falls between us. No one says anything. Not because they've run out of things to say—but because they're waiting for me to let it go.

But I don't. Not yet.

"Do you remember what the psychiatrist said about weddings?" I ask, voice flat.

Elly nods slowly. She remembers.

"Extreme events—positive or negative—can trigger episodes. Weddings, job offers, breakups. Anything that floods the system."

I say it like it's science. Like it's just data. But inside, it feels like a death sentence.

Their faces flicker between concern and something deeper. Mourning, maybe.

For the version of me who still believed in falling in love without fearing the fallout.
For the version of me who didn't plan her emotional exposure like a military campaign.
For the version of me who thought loving someone couldn't actually ruin you.

"But you're stable now," Kat says, voice edged with that hopeful kind of insistence. "You can see the signs. You can handle it."

"He was stable," I cut in, sharper than intended. "Right up until he wasn't."

There's no need to say his name. We all know I'm talking about the groom who unalived himself on his honeymoon. The one who looked fine. Until three days in.
It triggered a spiral in me so fast it practically tore time. I was gone before I even knew what hit me.

"Not everybody's like him," Sam says, but her voice is low, uncertain. Like she's trying to cast a spell she doesn't believe in.

"Well, I for one don't really feel like trying it out," I say with a fake cheer that tastes like acid.

"You have us. Your family. Professional help..." Elly lists, like she's reading from a safety pamphlet. Like that makes it okay to hand them the fuse to my live wire of a brain.

"I know," I say. "And I'm thankful. But ultimately it's in my head. And I just don't think I could do it again. I don't think I'd come back."

The words linger like smoke. And they all know what I mean.
How hard they fought to bring me back last time.
How close I came to disappearing completely.
How none of us are sure it wouldn't be worse next time.
How I still sometimes wonder what it would feel like to step into the sea and just keep walking.

Rick appears just then, gently sliding a plate of churros and a massive chocolate milkshake in front of me without a word. Just a nod. Like a man who's seen enough sadness to know that sometimes fried sugar is the only answer.

I give him a grateful half-smile, dig in. The others exchange looks. The kind that say let her have this and also how the hell do we pivot?

It's Kat who breaks the silence.

"So... August, huh?"

I glance up at her. Of course she's been briefed. Of course this is where we're going.

"He's..." I chew longer than necessary. "A friend? Maybe. I mean—if he's not secretly wishing I'd get hit by a bus for ghosting him again."

Sam raises an eyebrow. The courtroom face. The one that demands truth only.

I sigh. "Okay. I think he's pissed. Lea thinks so, at least. But I dunno, I just... I'll only make it worse if I reach out. So I'm not doing anything."

Elly sighs, the familiar cadence of her exasperated-caregiver voice kicking in. She's already made this argument on FaceTime last night. Something about healthy communication and emotional maturity—words I am violently allergic to at the moment.

"You know," Kat says gently, "you can just say sorry. Nothing more, nothing less. Sometimes that's all it takes."

"I think silence is key," I mutter, dragging a churro through the milkshake like I'm scrubbing regret off it. "Out of sight, out of mind, right?"

A collective sigh floats around the table. The kind that tastes like shared helplessness.

"So," I say brightly, a little too loudly. "Can we dissect someone else's fuckups now?"

Kat lifts an eyebrow. "Only if you promise not to ghost him forever. He's in Amsterdam too, remember? Same programme. Same group. Same forced brunches full of people pretending they don't want to die."

I groan, loud and dramatic. "God, can't you let me repress that for another week?"

Elly snorts. "You can't hide behind churros forever."

I lift my last limp, sugar-drenched piece like a white flag. "Watch me try."

And somehow, they laugh. All of them. And for a moment, the ache in my chest doesn't feel like an anchor. Maybe, manageable, like they'd taken some of it, made it lighter. As I realize, the guilt only takes up more space.

Still determined to never ever leave my exile.