Chapter 9 #3
My phone vibrates again. I refuse to look at it. Ash can wait for at least a few minutes. I head into the kitchen and open the refrigerator.
There isn't much inside beyond leftover chicken, vegetables, and rice, but it's enough. Normally I would grab something quick and call it a day. Today I actually feel like cooking. The realization hits halfway through chopping vegetables. I feel good.
Not perfect. Just... good.
My body is tired in the pleasant way it gets after a hard workout.
Every time I stretch or reach for something, I feel the lingering soreness from last night.
I should probably be embarrassed by how much I don't mind it.
Instead, the ache feels grounding. It keeps me present.
Keeps me focused on what's directly in front of me.
I finish making breakfast and sit down to eat. When I'm done, I wash the dishes. I stare at the clean countertop afterward. Then I start wiping it down. One thing leads to another. Twenty minutes later, I'm vacuuming. Thirty minutes in, I'm organizing the stack of books beside my couch.
At some point Cleveland wanders in through the partially open balcony door that connects Angela's apartment to mine. The orange cat hops onto the arm of the couch and watches me with visible suspicion.
“You look confused.”
Cleveland blinks.
“I am too.”
He yawns and immediately loses interest in me. Typical.
The apartment slowly starts looking less like a place someone survives in and more like a place someone actually lives. The strange thing is that I don't even resent doing it. Usually, every task feels heavier than it should. Getting through a day often takes more energy than I have available.
Today feels easier. The thought lingers in the back of my mind while I carry a stack of books toward the shelf near my desk.
That's when I notice the calendar hanging on the wall.
The Wizards schedule.
Practice days.
Games.
Travel.
Team events.
I set the books down and step closer.
Three games next week.
A road trip after that.
Then— My eyes stop moving.
Everything inside me freezes. The marker slips from my fingers and hits the floor. I don't even notice.
My gaze stays locked on the date.
Two weeks. The anniversary is two weeks away. The warmth that has followed me all morning disappears so quickly it feels like someone flipped a switch.
My stomach drops. Not already.
I stare at the date. Two years.
Two years since the worst day of my life.
The apartment suddenly feels smaller. The air feels heavier. My pulse starts climbing.
I look away from the calendar, but it doesn't matter. The date is already burned into my brain.
Every year it happens. Every year the anniversary gets closer and I start counting down without meaning to. Every year the memories become harder to ignore.
I grab the edge of my desk. My breathing becomes uneven.
I was doing okay.
For one night.
For one morning.
I was okay.
The panic arrives so fast it steals the breath from my lungs. I sink into the desk chair before my knees can give out. My hands shake. The familiar dread spreads through my chest.
The anniversary means interviews.
Articles.
Highlights.
Comment sections.
The video.
There is always someone who reposts the video.
The room is quiet but I can already hear the questions.
How are you doing two years later?
How do you carry something like that?
Have you forgiven yourself?
The answer—the real answer— is always the same.
I haven't.
I don't know if I ever will.
My breathing becomes shallow. I lower myself to the floor before I can fall there. The cool wood presses against my back.
Cleveland appears at the end of the hallway, watching me cautiously. Smart cat. He knows something is wrong.
I drag a hand through my hair. This is why I don't let myself feel good. This is why I don't trust it.
Because every time I think I've escaped it, even for a little while, something reminds me that I haven't.
I spent the night laughing with Ash.
I slept.
I woke up feeling lighter than I have in months.
For a few hours, I felt almost normal.
And now all it takes is one date on a calendar to drag me right back here. The worst part is realizing how quickly I had started depending on that feeling. On Ash. On the quiet he creates in my head.
Now I'm sitting on my kitchen floor, staring at nothing, because William's ghost has found me again.
And no matter how far my life moves forward, no matter how many years pass, I suddenly know exactly what terrifies me most.
I get up to my feet too fast, rushing to the bathroom. My stomach roils as I violently vomit into the toilet. Tears drag down my face with useless memories.
My thoughts are too loud. Everything is too bright. My heart is going to stop in my chest.
I rip open the medicine cabinet and find my spare razors. My hands shake so bad that I drop the box, scattering razor blades across the floor. When I finally pinch one between my fingers I don't even think as I raise my basketball shorts high on my thigh.
My skin bleeds.
The pain hums.
The thoughts stop for a moment.
Until they don't.
And then I repeat.