Chapter 41 #2
By the time I get home, my skull feels too small for my brain. Every sound is too loud—the door latch, the hum of the fridge, the pop of a car driving over the speed bump outside.
Miguel’s not home yet.
I end up in the shower, letting the water run hot enough that it should hurt. It doesn’t. Or if it does, it’s a good hurt, a sharpness that cuts through the fog.
Under the spray, my thoughts spiral tighter.
He’s dead.
He got an ending.
Messy, sure. In prison, sure. But done. Full stop. Period.
I’m still here, trapped in the long epilogue.
Anything to get away from you.
The line from my dream slides in slick, like it’s been waiting.
What if everyone else feels that way eventually? my brain whispers.
What if Miguel wakes up in five years and realizes he’s built his life around sandbags and warning systems?
He deserves someone whose worst childhood memory is a scraped knee.
Dad deserves a son who doesn’t flinch every time the phone rings.
Mom deserves…
I stop there.
Because another voice pops up, soft but vicious.
Maybe you’re the problem all three of them have been trying to fix.
I press my forehead against the tile, water pounding over my shoulders.
This is dangerous territory. I know that. We mapped this out on the safety plan. Intrusive thoughts about being a burden, about people being better off without me, that’s one of the red flags.
I should text Miguel. Dr. K. Martin. Someone.
I imagine it.
Hey, my brain is flirting with the idea that everyone I love would be better off without me.
The humiliation hits before anything else.
Instead, I’m stuck on what if I just… disappear?
“Pathetic,” my internal narrator sneers.
Another part of me nods along.
By the time Miguel gets home, I’ve successfully not eaten, not emailed Dr. K, and not done any of the assignments on my list. I have, however, reorganized my notes three times and stared at a blank Google Doc until the cursor looked like it was mocking me.
He walks in smelling like dust and outside air, curls damp from the mist, shirt a little dirty from work. When his eyes land on me, they do that quick scan—face, posture, hands.
“Hey,” he says. “You look like someone unplugged you and you’re running on residual charge.”
“Sexy.”
He sets his stuff down, crosses the room, and kisses my forehead. “How’s the volume?”
“Seven,” I say instead. “It’s just been a day.”
He pulls back enough to look at me properly. “That’s still high,” he says, frowning. “You wanna tell me about the ‘day’ part?”
Here we go.
I stare at his chest. The words get stuck somewhere between my lungs and my tongue.
If I say it out loud, it becomes real-real. Not just a weird, surreal phone call in a stairwell.
“It’s… family stuff,” I say. “Dad called. It was… a lot. I’m still sorting it.”
His jaw tightens. “He didn’t… say something shitty again, did he?”
My laugh comes out thin. “Not exactly,” I say. “He was just… himself in a very concentrated dose.”
Miguel hums like he doesn’t buy it. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not yet,” I say. “I will. I just… need it not to be the main character for five minutes.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods. “Okay,” he says. “We can… not talk. We can just… be.”
It’s unfair, probably, how relieved I feel.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just… be.”
He makes us heat up the leftover soup. Keeps it simple.
Puts my bowl in front of me and raises an eyebrow until I eat.
It tastes like nothing and everything at once.
We watch something stupid on TV. He makes snarky comments about the characters until I actually laugh, real laughter that cracks some of the ice in my chest.
For a little while, the volume drops to an eight.
It’s still too loud.
Eventually, though, the noise in my head hits that pitch where it’s either scream or short-circuit. The thoughts are looping faster.
You’re broken.
You’re too much.
They’re going to leave eventually.
I need out.
I need… less brain.
Miguel’s hand is on my thigh, thumb drawing slow circles. I look at him, really look at him, his tired eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the way he’s watching me like I’m both precious and volatile.
I swing a leg over his lap and straddle him, hands sliding up under his shirt. “Touch me,” I say.
He blinks, surprised, then huffs out a soft laugh. “Hola,” he murmurs, hands finding my hips. “Hi there. You sure?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice sounds too sharp and too fast, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he files it under “Caleb being intense,” which is… not wrong. “Please.”
He studies me for a second. “Is this a distraction request?” he asks quietly.
Yes.
“No,” I lie. “I just… want you.”
Both things are true. One is more true than the other.
He kisses me slowly at first, trying to set the pace. I don’t let him. I deepen it, chasing his mouth like I can crawl inside. My hands are greedy, dragging his shirt up, nails scraping down his sides.
“Caleb,” he murmurs against my lips, “breathe.”
I suck air in like it’s the only thing between me and drowning, then crash back into his mouth.
Somewhere between the couch and the bedroom, our clothes disappear.
My brain fuzzes at the edges, focusing only on sensations.
His hands on my skin, his voice in my ear, the stretch, the burn, the grounding weight of him slamming into me.
I push for more. Harder. Faster. So sharp it scrapes me clean on the inside.
“Hey,” he says at one point, hand braced beside my head, eyes searching mine. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say, lust dazed and on another plane of existence. “Don’t stop.”
He doesn’t.
He’s so careful with me, even when I’m rough with myself. He checks in, watches my face, and holds me together with his hands and his voice when he feels me start to drift.
I cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in a world tilting sideways.
When we both come, it’s with a sharpness that borders on pain. That’s what I want.
Pain I chose.
Pain that ends.
After, he gathers me in, big hands smoothing down my back, kissing my hair and my forehead and my cheeks like I’m something sacred.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer now.
I bury my face in his neck. “Yeah,” I say. “Better.”
In some ways, it’s true. The thoughts have gone quiet, stunned into silence by the sensory overload. My body is exhausted. My brain is… numb. Miguel pulls the blankets up, tucks me against his chest, and lets his hand rest over my ribcage like he’s counting breaths.
“Whatever it is,” he murmurs into my hair, “we’ll handle it. You don’t have to do it alone.”
Guilt flickers in my chest. I should tell him now. I’d say, “He died, and I don’t know how to feel, and part of me is scared that knowing he’s gone makes it worse, not better.”
Instead, I press closer. “I know,” I whisper.
He falls asleep before I do, his breathing evening out, his heartbeat steady under my palm.
In the dark, with his arm heavy around me, the thoughts creep back in, softer now but somehow more vicious.
You used him.
You turned your boyfriend into a fire extinguisher.
He deserves better.
My eyes burn because the voice is right. I blink up at the ceiling, where the faint streetlight cuts a thin line across the plaster.
“I’m trying,” I whisper to nobody. “I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying.”