Breathing and resting.
And I breathe and rest withhim.
“It feels different now,” I rasp, trying to subtly wipe my cheek. “I started crying…the last time we…”
Here comes the sob damn it.
“Natalia, what’s wrong?” Lana asks.
“Come here,” Isa says.
I move to sit between them, but like the maternal friends they are, they urge me to lie across their laps—my head on Lana’s and my legs over Isa’s. Lana brushes my hair back and Isabelle holds my hands.
“Guys,” I croak through my hiccups.
“What’s wrong, Nat?” Isabelle begs. “Talk to us, please.”
“You haven’t been yourself.” Lana frowns, the line of concern between her brows making an appearance.
“I don’t feel right,” I cry and they pull me across their laps. “I don’t want any of this. I think…I think this is too complicated for me. I can’t—” I desperately gasp for air. “I can’t breathe.”
“Natalia? Natalia, we’re here. We’re right here?—”
My body trembles and quakes from the violent tears, and my bones grow weaker as though all of the sadness that has been stored within them has finally caused their deterioration. My body is breaking.
“I can’t breathe,” I gasp and my vision blurs with black spots.
“Okay, okay, um…” Isabelle stammers for a moment before putting a firm hand on my calf, wrapping her fingers around it. “Hand on your chest, Natty. Over your heart.”
Lana helps me, gently taking my wrist in her hand and putting my hand on my chest. I can feel its savage hammering against my palm as Lana presses it into my breast bone. She leaves her hand there, both of them offering firm touches to calm me.
They both begin to take controlled breaths, encouraging me to follow along.
“Natalia,” Isabelle coos, pushing my hair back. “I think you need to go back to therapy, honey.”
I nod and Lana wipes my cheeks. “He loves me.”
“We know,” Lana whispers. “It’s okay.”
“I—” I hiccup and inhale deeply, filling my lungs to maximum capacity. “I hate this… I—I don’t…”
“Shhh,” Isa whispers. “It’s okay, don’t say anything.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Lana says softly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just cry it out.”
I’d rather vomit it out. Something to get it out quickly—right now. I’d rathercutit out. Take a knife and cut out the parts of me that don’t make sense, that make me unlovable. Cut out all of my most undesirable qualities and shape myself into something worth admiring and loving. To cut him out and whatever I might actually feel for him because it’s precarious. It’s ruinous and catastrophic and I can’t do it.
I can’t do it.
I don’t want to do it. I think I want it to burn, I think I want him to burn me so I can at least say I know what it’s like to burn like this for someone else—someone like him. Maybe I want him to destroy me, ruin me for everyone and everything else that isn’thim.Or maybe he’s already doing that. No, he’s already done it—thats the truth. But I can’t look in the mirror and say it.
I can’t look at myself in the mirrorperiodor I’ll remain stuck there. I’ll use my finger as a marker, circle and point and draw lies across the flaws and scars and find things I didn’t know were there before.
I’d look at myself from the outside and look for what it is he might love about me. Because he does, Iknowhe does, and I don’t know what to do with it. What can I do with love like that when I don’t have love like that for myself?
Between my sobs in my best friends’ arms, Lana’s front door opens and her neck snaps as she looks over her shoulder. “Hey, baby,” Christian says and the door closes behind him. “What’s up?—”
