Zara
Does It Ever Go Away
Cass and I have been officially together for a month, and it’s been stupidly, disgustingly good.
Like pizza-and-game nights that turn into make-out marathons. Skate dates where he pretends I’m not better than he is. Study sessions that are… about twenty percent actual studying and eighty percent him getting distracted by my mouth and my body.
We hold hands across campus. We sneak kisses in stairwells. He falls asleep on my chest during movie nights and drools on my shirt, and I don’t even care because his weight on me feels like home.
For the first time in forever, my life feels… full.
So I don’t understand why I’m sitting on the floor of the shower at two in the morning, knees hugged to my chest, water beating down on me as I silently cry into my hands.
It hits out of nowhere. One day, I’m fine—better than fine, I’m happy—and the next, everything feels heavy again. My brain flips a switch and suddenly existing is something I don’t have the energy for.
I keep thinking: You have him now. You’re in love. He loves you back. You’re supposed to be fixed.
But I’m not fixed. If anything, the fact that the dark is back even with Cass here just makes it worse. It confirms the thing I try not to look at directly—the problem is me. Not my life or my circumstances. Just… me.
I cry until the water runs cold and my skin prunes. Then I drag myself out, wrap a towel around my body, and look in the mirror. Puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks, and a hollow look I hate.
I slap on moisturizer, get dressed, and head back to my dorm, immediately climbing into bed and staring at the ceiling until the alarm I set for my meds goes off.
Can’t even be normal when you’re happy. Pathetic.
I don’t sleep. I take my meds before the alarm even rings. By the time the sun starts to rise, I’ve pulled myself together enough to pass for functional.
Sort of.
I don’t even bother with makeup today. I do the basics—deodorant, brush teeth, spray perfume. I put my hair in a messy ponytail that’s more feral raccoon than effortlessly tousled, shove on leggings and an old band tee that Cass likes.
Riley’s still asleep, one arm hanging off the side of her bed, so I tiptoe around, grab my bag, and slip out.
Cass is waiting for me by the coffee cart, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, steam curling from the lid of his cup. He spots me and his entire face softens in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Hey, Sunshine,” he greets, stepping toward me, scanning my face like he’s doing some mental checklist. “You sleep at all?”
“A luxurious three minutes,” I answer, forcing a grin as I walk into his space. “You’re looking extra emo today. Is that for me?”
“Always for you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss me.
I kiss back. I can always kiss back. Kissing is easy. It’s everything else that feels impossible.
He pulls away a little to squint at me. “You okay?”
There’s the question I don't have the emotional capacity to answer without dissolving into a puddle on the pavement.
“Yeah,” I lie, bumping his hip with mine as I steal his coffee. “Just tired. My stupid brain decided sleep was a scam.”
He watches me for a moment too long, dark eyes narrowing slightly, but he lets it go. “You wanna crash after class?” he asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and steering us toward the path. “I can skip the gym. Be your weighted blanket.”
The offer makes my eyes sting for absolutely no good reason.
“I’ll think about it,” I joke, taking another sip of his coffee so I don’t accidentally cry on him. “You do run hot. Could be a fire hazard.”
He snorts, drops a kiss on the top of my head, and starts rambling about some group project as we walk. I nod and make all the right sounds at the right times, but his words feel far away.
I spend all morning faking it. In class, I take notes, answer a question, laugh when someone behind me whispers something stupid. When my leg starts bouncing, I clamp my foot down and tell myself to stop being obvious.
At lunch, Cass drags me to the food court and steals my fries. He bumps my knee under the table, grinning when I glare at him, and my heart does that hopeful little flutter it’s so good at.
Look. Look how good you have it. Why are you sad?
I don’t have an answer.
By late afternoon, we end up in his dorm, door shut, blinds half-closed, sprawled on his bed with a movie playing we’ve both seen a dozen times. Or, well. It’s playing. He’s not watching.
His fingers trail slow circles on my hip under the hem of my shirt as we lie there, my back to his chest, his breath a warm whisper against my neck. My body reacts on autopilot, skin prickling, stomach doing that slow tilt I’ve become addicted to.
I want him.
I always want him.
But wanting and having are two very different energy levels, and today I’m running on fumes. His hand slides higher, palming the underside of my breast through the thin fabric, and he kisses that sensitive spot just under my ear.
“Movie’s boring,” he murmurs. “You know what’s not?”
“You when you’re trying too hard?” I offer weakly, forcing a smile over my shoulder.
He huffs a laugh, nips the curve of my jaw. “You wound me, woman.” His hand curves fully over me now, thumb brushing my nipple, sending a sharp little jolt down my spine. “You okay?” he adds, the question a little quieter this time. “You feel… tense.”
I swallow, staring at the wall.
I could tell him. Right here. Right now. I could say the thing I’ve been trying not to admit.
Hey, Cass, I’m miserable for no reason and I’m terrified you’ll think it means you’re not enough.
Instead, my mouth makes a different sound.
“My stomach’s weird,” I blurt.
His hand stills instantly.
“Weird how?” His voice drops, concern pushing out the desire. He props himself up on his elbow to peer down at me. “Like I-ate-something-wrong weird, or I’m-about-to-die weird?”
I turn onto my back, staring at the ceiling again. “Like… crampy? Gross? I don’t know.” I make a face. “It’s probably nothing. Just doesn’t feel great.”
He searches my expression for a second, like he’s trying to decide if I’m minimizing or not.
I am, just not about this, because my stomach is actually just fine and I’m lying through my teeth right now.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he asks, brushing my hair away from my forehead with gentle fingers. “We could’ve just vegged. Or I could’ve gotten you soup. Or stolen a golf cart and driven you to the ER, whatever.”
A small, guilty laugh escapes me. “You and that damn golf cart.”
He’s joked about driving one on campus since his freshman year here.
“I’d look hot driving it,” he says, mouth twitching. “But seriously—” His gaze softens, thumb skimming along my temple. “There is never a ‘have to’ with this. Ever. I don’t want you pushing through pain or feeling like you owe me anything, okay?”
Shame washes through me.
“I know,” I murmur, picking at a gem hemmed onto my pocket. “I just didn’t want to… kill the vibe.”
“You are the vibe,” he says, so simply that my chest tightens again.
“If you’re not feeling good, there is no vibe.
” He glances at the clock on his nightstand and sighs.
“I gotta head to that stupid study group in like twenty minutes, but—” He swings his legs off the bed and stands. “I’ve got something for stomach stuff.”
He rummages through the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a half-empty bottle of antacids and a little packet of the good meds he keeps for when I forget mine.
“Here,” he says, coming back to the bed and holding them out in his palm. “Drink?” He reaches for his water bottle and unscrews the cap, watching me with that furrow between his brows I both hate and love.
I swallow the pills, take a sip of water, and sink back against his pillow.
He leans down, presses a slow kiss to my forehead, then another to the tip of my nose. “Text me if it gets worse,” he says quietly. “I’ll ditch early.”
The thought makes me weirdly want to cry and laugh at the same time. “You’re such a bad student,” I mutter, smoothing my expression into something playful.
“Only for you.” He kisses me once more, softer this time. “Feel better, okay?”
“Go learn things,” I tell him, waving him away with a weak smile. “I’ll be here, contemplating my life choices.”
He gives me one last lingering look, like he’s debating whether to stay, then finally grabs his backpack and heads for the door.
The second it clicks shut behind him, my face falls. The meds sit heavy in my stomach. I stare at the ceiling again and feel tears prick my eyes for the hundredth time today.
“You have him,” I whisper to myself. “You’re supposed to be okay.”
It doesn’t help. I cry quietly into the pillow instead. That night is worse. I go back to my dorm, tell Riley my stomach is being stupid, crawl into bed at nine, and stare at my open laptop for two hours while my assignment document stays blank.
I answer Cass’ texts. I send memes back. I type “I miss you” and “I love you” and mean every single one. And then I cry into my blanket when the dots disappear and he says he’s going to shower and crash.
I hate this version of me. The one that can’t have good things without immediately worrying they're going to disappear.
The next morning, my face looks like I lost a boxing match. Swollen, red, and shadowed.
Dear God no.
I stare at my reflection, opening the drawer where I keep the emergency supplies. I grab the cold gel eye mask from the mini-fridge Riley bullied me into buying, strap it on, and flop back on my bed for ten minutes.
After that, it’s eyedrops that promise “instantly whiter eyes,” pressed under my lower lash line until it burns, making the red fade.
Two ice cubes in a washcloth pressed under my eyes until I can’t feel my cheeks.
Then concealer, foundation, a little blush to fake a pulse, and mascara.
By the time I’m done, I almost pass for a well-rested human and not a corpse running on intrusive thoughts.
Riley rolls over, hair a mess. “Why are you doing full glam at eight a.m.?” she mumbles, squinting at me.