2. Back To Black
Back To Black
Days pass since Alex ended things. Days since the news about him and Madison broke. I can’t leave the house—can’t leave the solace of this couch. My limbs ache from how long I’ve been curled up here, like my bones are fusing into the cushions.
I haven’t eaten much. I sleep the hours away in sheets that still smell like him.
Riley comes and goes for work, giving me the space I need to process everything that happened.
Philippa is juggling the Montgomery empire and wedding prep—duties I should be helping with as her maid of honor, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Mortimer called, but I send him to voicemail every time.
Broderick is still overseas.
Everyone else moves forward, their lives unfurling in an easy rhythm.
I remain; stuck in the space between what was and what’s left behind.
It feels like my first album launch all over again—Mom had taken a turn for the worse, and when my music dropped, so did my world.
Why does this keep happening?
Instead of riding the wave of excitement around this new album, I’m hiding away from the world.
Sitting with my knees to my chest, staring at the dark screen of the TV. It hasn’t been turned on since everything fell apart, but I like staring at the blank screen, getting lost in the shapes of the reflection as the light in the apartment changes from morning to night.
I begged off a few press engagements—siting illness. With the album’s success so far, I hope they won’t hold the contract over my head.
But, the apartment feels like it’s shrinking around me. The silence buzzes in my ears. The wall on the clock like a metronome. Tick, tick, tick.
My phone lights up on the coffee table for what feels like the hundredth time. I don’t bother to check it.
I already know—headlines, PR statements, sympathy texts from people trying to say the right thing.
Mark begging me to get my shit together. Kylie insisting this was good press, no matter how much it hurts.
None of it matters.
I can’t even leave. The paparazzi are camped out below like vultures.
So, I stay.
Stuck.
Waiting for something—anything—to hurt less. It plays on loop in my head, a sick soundtrack to the last few months. This was supposed to be a new start. Instead, it feels like I was back there again.
Being dragged back into the dark. Grief rotting me from the inside out. Wanting to fall asleep and never wake again.
I hate myself for being this weak. This foolish.
A soft knock at the door breaks the silence.
My back shoots up, unsure if the sound was real or my imagination.
Another knock.
Definitely real.
I don’t respond. If I pretend no one’s home, maybe they’ll go away.
“Elena, it’s me,” Philippa calls gently through the door.
I close my eyes, a fresh wave of emotion tightening in my chest.
My sister. She’s here. It’s enough to break me open again—but I’m dry. Empty from everything I already shed.
I hear the key click. The door creaks open—of course she has a key—and her heels tap softly across the floor before she slips them off.
I hear the shuffle of her footsteps now in house slippers.
“Elena,” she breathes when she sees me, her hazel eyes widen, full of concern.
I don’t have to look up to know what’s in front of her. Me…in tattered clothes from days ago. Bags under my eyes. Hair tangled in loose, greasy waves down my back. Tear tracks dried tight on my cheeks.
Philippa sets her bag down silently, along with a paper bag, then lowers herself beside me, tucking her legs under, ready to stay as long as I need.
She looks like the picture of perfection—then again, when doesn’t she?
Her hair is perfectly blown out into chestnut waves, and she’s wearing a relaxed, caramel-colored two-piece suit. She must have come from work.
“I saw the news. Montgomery PR saw it first.”
If they saw it, that meant my father had too.
The thought made me sick. He probably couldn’t wait to rub it in my face and say I told you so.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I...wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me.”
I swallow hard, throat raw from crying, though somehow the tears still rise.
And here I thought I was all dried out.
“I should be the one apologizing for being a shitty maid of honor, I should be helping you instead of this.”
“Don’t even…Elena, that’s what wedding planners are for. I want you to be happy and be okay.”
“It’s okay…I’ll be okay,” I lie, barely audible—even I don’t believe it.
Philippa doesn’t push. She reaches over, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear in that way that reminds me too much of my mother and fresh tears threaten to spill—how I wish she were here right now.
“I know you didn’t like him,” I whisper after a long stretch of silence.
“No. I didn’t.”
Her honesty stings.
“But not because I didn’t see what you saw in him,” she sighs. “I did. He’s handsome, exciting. And for a while, I think he made you happy. He gave you something you needed. I...” she hesitates, “knew he wasn’t going to be careful with your heart.”
The tears spill over then—silent, but heavy.
“I really like him.” My voice cracks. “I never said it. I couldn’t. It was too soon, but...I think I did. You know?”
Philippa takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine like we were kids again, hiding from storms under the covers.
“Sometimes,” she says gently, “we have to let ourselves love the wrong one before we believe we deserve someone better.”
Was that it?
Was I so desperate to prove I was lovable that I handed my heart to the first person who made me feel seen?
I sigh, glancing at her. “Did you?”
She gives a small, sad smile.
“I’m not a prude Elena. I’ve dealt with my fair share of jerks,” she says. “There was this one—total douchebag. I was stupid, obsessed. We were on and off for almost a year. He made me feel like I had to fight for every scrap of his attention. Like if I could just be perfect enough, he’d stay.”
She winces at the thought. That deep insecurity of hers, buried in something old. Something broken.
When Mom left her behind, Philippa had taken it like a flaw in her. Like if she’d been better, maybe she wouldn’t have been left. And so she hardened herself. She made herself infallible.
I frown in disbelief. “Really?”
She laughs softly, shrugging. “It happens to the best of us.”
Her smile softens, something warmer filling her eyes.
“And then Andrew,” she sighs wistfully, shaking her head like she still can’t quite believe it.
“This cocky, insufferable nerd who would not stop teasing me in every meeting. He pushed my buttons like it was a sport. Made me laugh when I didn’t want to.
And for the first time, I didn’t have to fight for someone to see me. He just…did.”
I let her words settle, chewing at my lip as the tears finally slow.
“He drives me crazy sometimes,” she adds, bumping her shoulder into mine. “But it’s the good kind of crazy.”
I let out a breathy laugh, swallowing down a sob.
Philippa leans her head against mine, squeezing my hand, the gesture taking me by surprise.
“You’ll get there too,” she whispers. “I know it feels like hell right now. But one day…someone’s going to love you the way you deserve. And you won’t have to question it.”
Her words sink deeper than I expect. For a moment, I let myself believe her.
Just for a moment.
Because even as hope flickers, the fear presses close.
What if no one ever stayed for all the broken, ugly parts of me?
She straightens her back. “Elena, you stink.” Her face scrunches in mock disgust.
We laugh, loud and hard, and the release is cathartic.
I can’t even remember the last time I’d put on deodorant.
She grabs my shoulders, locking eyes with me, no-nonsense and razor-sharp.
“You need to get back to work. You can’t sit here and wallow. You chose a career in the spotlight—you need to pull your big girl pants on. You can’t let this break you, or you’ll never move forward.”
I nod. Even though I don’t want to.
“I brought you food.” She says it like it’s some kind of bribe to seal the deal. “But you only get it if you get up, get yourself together, and take a shower.”
It is a bribe—but isn’t food the best kind.
“What did you bring?” I ask, my stomach rumbling with sudden hunger.
“Chicken arroz caldo.”
“Just like…” I couldn’t finish. That was the dish Mom made when we were sick, hurt or sad.
Food for the soul, she would say.
“I know,” she says softly. “Figure you could use some comfort food. It’s not like hers, but… hopefully it’s enough to make you feel a little better.”
“Pip.” My voice cracks as I pull her into a tight hug. “Thank you.”
She holds me close for a moment, then pulls away, brushing at a tear from her cheek.
“Okay. You really do smell bad—get in the shower. I’ll reheat this.”
We laugh again, and even though it still hurts—it starts to hurt a little less.
Once Philippa leaves, a lightness settles in, my belly full of comfort food.
Laundry basket in hand, I pass my music room and stop. The piano sits in stillness, waiting. My fingers itch to play, to write—but the ache beneath my ribs propels me forward instead.
Would I ever move on from this?
Would writing always pull me back to the heartbreak I can’t seem to untangle myself from?
Loss—my constant companion.
I throw myself into mundane tasks, ignoring Kylie’s calls as the front door creaks open.
“Honey…I’m home!” Riley calls, then pauses. “Elena?”
“In here,” I call back.
She rounds the corner, eyes widening. “Well, look at you! Up, showered, and everything.”
“Yeah,” I say with a half-smile.
“I was about to book a fumigation or get the hose out.”
“Okay, okay—I get it. I let myself go a little.”
“I knew you’d find your way back,” she says, closing the distance between us. Her arms slide around me, gentle and grounding.
It’s enough to make me cry—but she holds me together instead.
“Elena, you’re vibrating,” she murmurs.
“Oh. Kylie won’t stop calling me.” I fish my phone from my hoodie pocket.
Riley watches me with a raised brow as my phone buzzes again.
“If she’s calling this much, it must be important,” she says, leaning against the counter.