𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞

maybe it'll last this time,
feel like I'ma crash
-Montell Fish

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The door creaks open; it must be early morning because sunlight bleeds through the window. I hear Frankie, giggling, and Khalil's low voice trying to quiet her. I pretend I'm asleep, pull the blankets up around my face.

But I watch as Khalil leads her inside. He takes off her shoes, tucks her into bed. Her eyes look like they're already closed; he presses his lips to her wild hair. And then he's out of the room, and the only sounds are Frankie's long breaths.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

March 2016,

Those first few days, I had really tried to keep my promise. I didn't want to lose Tenny; he meant too much to me, so I tried to be what he wanted. I tried to be his.

In daylight, and with a sober mind.

But the first time he kissed me, without the whiskey on our breaths, it ruined everything. Just like I knew it would.

His hands were in my hair, and I told myself it was fine. They went to my hips, and I told myself it was nothing we hadn't done before. He was pulling me onto him, our lips pressed to each other's. I kept telling myself that was what I wanted. It's what we wanted. But he didn't taste like whiskey, anymore, and neither did I.

I started thinking of the last time I'd been that close with anyone, without whiskey on my breath. Sober. There wasn't any liquor left to numb me.

So I felt it, all of it. I was a train de-railing off its tracks. I pulled away from Tenny. A head rush. My vision blurred. My heart pounded. I could feel it, my heart flopping around in my chest like a dying fish. I was a dying fish. Air. There wasn't any. I was gasping and gasping, but there wasn't any air left in the room.

"Vio, breathe."

Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. Heart: thump, thump, thump.

There was a hand on my back. "You're okay, just take a long breath in and hold it."

Gasp.

"One, two, three...breathe out."

His voice was the only thing I could hear. So I listened. I held my breath, counted to seven, like he said, and exhaled. We did that, again and again, until the air came back to my lungs. My hand clamped over my heart, still fluttering but no longer jumping around. I hugged my waist, doubled over on the mattress, drenched in a sweat. "What the hell just happened?" I breathed.

"I think you had a panic attack."

I looked up at him with what must have been terror in my eyes. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to his chest. I listened to his own heart thump against my ears. My cheeks were damp and hot, but I didn't remember crying.

"You're okay," he said, and he stroked my hair. But I wasn't okay—we were not okay.

Because I knew I'd broken my promise. I knew I could never touch him again, not sober.

I didn't think I'd touch anyone sober, not ever again.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙