I scoff. "Down bad? What the hell are you talking about?"
Mateo crosses his arms. "You’re telling me that after all these years, after how wrecked you were when she left, you don’t feel a single thing now that she’s back?"
"We were in high school," I say, forcing a casual shrug. "She broke up with me. We both moved on. There's nothing more to it."
"Uh-huh," Andres mutters, clearly unconvinced.
I lean back, sighing. "Look, we’ll probably not even speak again. Especially judging by the way she ran out of Ink & Paper today. I’d say chances are high she’s gonna be avoiding me."
I say it like I don’t care. Like it doesn’t bother me that she ran. But deep down, I find myself hoping that isn’t true. I can’t get the image of her out of my damn head.
She’s a smoke show. Always has been. But today? I had to force myself not to stare. Not to let my eyes linger on the way herjeans hugged her curves and her lips parted when she saw me, like she had something to say but couldn’t find the words. Like maybe she felt it, too.
I shake my head. No. Not going there.
"This is a really small town," Andres says after a beat. "I don’t think you guys can really avoid each other."
I exhale. "Yeah, well. We’ll see."
And yet, no matter what I tell them, no matter what I tell myself…Deep down, that’s what I’m banking on.
CHAPTER 7
Mariana
Iwoke up in pain. Before I even open my eyes, before I move a single inch, I feel it. A dull, throbbing ache deep in my joints, like my bones are too tired to hold me together.
My fingers are stiff; my elbows burn the second I bend them. My body feels like a battlefield, and today, like every morning, I wake up on the losing side.
I begin to massage my hands, gently working my thumbs over my knuckles, wincing as the pain flares up. Mornings are the hardest.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to move. Wishing I could just disappear under the covers. The warmth and safety of my bed are the only things that feel bearable right now, my only refuge from the chaos that is my life.
But this is normal now—pain is just part of my existence, something I wake up with, something I go to sleep with. I tell myself I’ve accepted it, that I’ve made peace with the way things are. But deep down, I know that’s a lie.
Because how do you ever truly accept that this is forever? That no matter how much I fight, or how much I push through, this will always be there, waiting for me? I keep telling everyone I’m okay, but damn…how much more can a girl take?
I like to think of myself as a strong person, but even I break sometimes. I wish I could just shut my mind off. Hit a switch. Unplug it like a faulty computer. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Hello, God? It’s me, Mariana. Any chance we can shut my brain down for a few hours? Just until I don’t feel like I’m drowning in my own thoughts? I could really use the break.
I hate this. I hate that my body has the power to keep me prisoner. That something as simple as getting out of bed feels like a battle I have to psych myself up for.
It wasn’t always like this. Before, I could roll out of bed without thinking twice—get dressed, start my day, and move through the world without my own body working against me. I used to run on coffee and ambition—late nights, long days, always on the go.
But now, even sitting up feels like a task that drains me before the day has even begun. The things that used to be effortless now take planning, energy, and strength I don’t always have.
But now is not the time for my body to be beating me up; I have too much to do. My mom needs me. She needs me at my best. And I don’t get to be weak when she needs me to be strong.
I force myself to sit up, blinking at the darkness of my room. The blackout curtains block out every hint of light, and for that, I’m grateful. Whoever invented them? My hero. I hope their side of the pillow is always cool.
I exhale, rubbing my temples, and try not to think about yesterday. But my mind goes there anyway. To him. Seba. My Seb. No. Not my Seb. Not anymore.
It was jarring, seeing him for the first time in years. Like a punch to the ribs, like something long-buried breaking open. It hit me harder than I expected. He looked good. Stronger. More sure of himself than when we were kids. Damn, time has been good to him.
I wonder if he hates me. The thought makes my chest feel tight. I wouldn’t blame him if he did, but damn, I hope he doesn’t.
The hot shower helped, but the ache is still there, lingering in my joints like a dull warning. It always does.
