34. Damon
Damon
The second Roman slides off my bike, I already know I won’t be able to focus on shit today.
He lingers for a second, looking at me like he wants to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. “Later, baby,” I mutter, barely audible over the growl of my bike.
He hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line like he’s debating whether or not to push. But then he steps back, running a hand through his hair before nodding once. “Yeah. Later.”
He glances back once before heading inside the media building like he can feel me watching him, but I don’t wait to see if he’s going to do anything else.
I park my bike and look away, leaving him behind like I can outrun the way he looked at me this morning. Like I can outrun the feeling crawling up my fucking spine, the one that’s been sitting in my chest since last night.
Roman saw.
I wasn’t careful enough.
Roman fucking Bishop—cocky, reckless, sharp-tongued Roman—saw me at my weakest. Trapped in my own head, sweating, shaking, whimpering like some scared little bitch.
The thought makes my stomach churn.
I should be used to it by now—the way my past claws its way back in when I least expect it, the way it digs into me like it refuses to be forgotten. But last night was worse than usual. I can still feel his weight pressing me down, his voice cutting through the haze, grounding me.
I’m here. You’re safe.
And I believed it. That’s the worst part. I actually let myself fucking believe it.
Roman saw.
He saw me fucking break, saw the way I couldn’t pull myself out of it, saw how fucking pathetic I am. The nightmares come and go, but last night was different. Worse.
And Roman fucking saw.
I spend the next few hours on campus, drifting from class to class like a ghost, not really in my body. My sketchbook stays closed. My notes are garbage. The only thing keeping me grounded is the burn of my cigarette between my fingers every time I slip outside for a smoke.
People talk to me, but I don’t really hear them. My professors drone on, but I don’t absorb a single fucking thing. It’s like I’m watching myself go through the motions, but none of it feels real.
By noon, I’m done. I can’t fucking be here anymore. I don’t text Roman, don’t tell him I’m leaving—I just grab my shit and get the fuck out. By the time I step inside my apartment, my chest is tight, my head is fucking spinning, and there’s a pressure building behind my eyes that I can’t fucking shake.
Roman thinks I’m weak now. He won’t say it—he’s too good for that, too fucking soft underneath all that arrogance—but I know he’s thinking it. I close my eyes, my jaw clenching as I let out a slow breath. It’s fine. I just need to paint. Distract myself. Shake this fucking feeling.
I kick off my boots, strip off my jacket, and move straight to my art setup in the corner of my apartment. I grab a fresh canvas, pop the cap off the nearest tube of black paint, and—
Demon.
I freeze.
The word slithers through my skull like oil, thick and suffocating, curling around my ribs and squeezing.
Disgrace.
No. No, not now. I took my meds this morning, right? I didn’t miss anything, I took it like I’m supposed to! My fingers tighten around the paint tube, my pulse stuttering.
You let him see.
I shake my head, trying to force the voice out. “Shut up.” It’s not real.
Not real, not real, not real.
But the thing about my demons? They don’t give a fuck about what’s real.
You think he still wants you now?
The room tilts and I grab the edge of the table, my breaths coming too fast, too shallow.
I can’t do this.
Not again.
My free hand lifts, fingers pressing hard against my temple, trying to ground myself, trying to—
He’s going to leave, just like everyone else. You know that, don’t you?
My stomach turns, bile rising in my throat.
He’ll look at you like your father did, like something rotten. Something to be ashamed of.
My hands curl into fists. My nails dig into my palms, sharp enough to sting, and I welcome the pain. “It’s not fucking real,” I mutter, forcing myself to move, to do something, to get out of my own fucking head.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
It’s not real. It’s never real.
I slam the heel of my hand against my head once, twice, three times, hard enough to send pain splintering through my skull.
It’s like flipping a switch.
The voices stutter, warping at the edges, twisting into a tangled mess of static before fading into the background.
I breathe.
My chest heaves and the room stops tilting. I drag my hand down my face, fingers trembling, and force myself to straighten.
The paint tube is still crushed in my grip, black streaks dripping onto the table, my hands, my fucking clothes. I exhale sharply and grab a brush. If I stop now, the voices will come back. I won’t let them. I press the bristles to the canvas, dragging thick, messy strokes across the surface, my mind shutting off the way it always does when I paint.
And maybe, if I lose myself in this long enough, I won’t think about last night.
I won’t think about Roman.
I won’t think about the way he held me.
And I won’t think about how, for the first time in years, I actually felt safe.