The beer hits my tongue with a bitter-sweet taste.It’s good.I crush the empty can and toss it into the trash.Damn.Now my stomach hurts.My knees cramp, so I sit down, curling up on the kitchen floor.
What the hell am I doing?
Tears spill down my cheeks.My breath comes in broken sobs.I hug myself, shaking, unable to stop crying.My chest tightens until I can barely breathe.I picture myself drowning, sinking deep into dark water, trapped inside a wrecked ship with no air.
Maybe if I die, I can escape everything pressing on my head and heart.It’ll finally stop.Maybe I should’ve just died already—like everyone screamed at me on socials.Alan, Mallory… all their fake smiles and empty words don’t matter anymore.Nothing can bring my life back to what it was before I met them.
My phone blares from inside my bag, sending a punch straight to my chest.The ringtone sounds familiar, but I can’t remember who it belongs to.I let it ring out.
I grab another can of beer, ready to drink it, but my phone rings again, freezing my hand midair.Maybe it's urgent.Is someone dying?I set the can down on the floor, reach for my bag, and dig through it until I find my phone.
When I see the caller ID, my heart sinks.Like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.I bite my lip and wait for the ringing to stop.When it finally does, I exhale in relief.
But then it starts again.Persistent.Whoever’s calling isn’t giving up.Should I answer?Maybe this is my last chance.I wipe my tears, blow my nose, and swipe the screen without saying a word.
“Hello, Fenella?Are you there?”
It’s my mom.I haven’t called her in months.The last time we talked was right after New Year’s.She’s never been thrilled about my modeling career because she worries too much, always has, and at some point, I just started pulling away.
Dad passed away five years ago.Back in my first year in New York, no agency would take me, so he was still paying for my tuition and rent.When he died during my second year, I had no choice but to hustle on my own.
He didn’t leave much behind.The company he built with his whole life’s work had to be sold to cover debts.Even his life insurance went to pay off what was left.
From riches to rags.That’s why I pushed myself to work while studying, even though Mom hated the idea.But it was the only way I knew how to survive, and she’s never been proud of the fact that I use my looks instead of my degree to make a living.
“Fenella?”she calls again, gentle and soft.
“Yeah, Mom.”
I drag myself across the kitchen floor and lean against the fridge.My head still pounds, and my throat aches until it makes me cough.
“Hey, honey.Are you okay?”
Her voice sounds the same, sweet and caring like always.She’s an angel, really.The last thing I want is to disappoint her or hear her say I told you so.
“Yeah, Mom.I’m fine, just choked on a drink.”I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.
“Oh, thank God.”She lets out a relieved sigh.
“What’s up?”I ask.
“Nothing.I just wanted to know when you’re coming home.”
I freeze.It’s been years since I last went back, always too busy, always with some excuses.
“I know you’re probably busy, but I hope you’ll come home this year and celebrate Christmas with me,” she says.“This time I’m head of the committee for a fundraising event, and we’re opening a secondhand bazaar in the park.I’d really love for you to join us.”
Mom still runs her charity foundation for children with cancer.She’s always believed it’s her life’s calling, and she’s always hoped I’d find something noble like that too.But my first attempt at a social campaign turned into a disaster that got me cancelled.
“Uh… you really think I could be useful there?”I ask, hesitant.
“Of course you can.”Her voice brightens instantly.“If you want to donate, you can sell some of the stuff in your room.I swear, I’ve never touched your things.You should organize them when you’re here.”She sounds so hopeful it almost breaks me.
“You know, people say cleaning up your old stuff helps clear your mind,” she adds softly.“Like that Marie Kondo thing.”
I wipe my nose again, swallowing the sob rising in my throat.She must’ve seen the news, the headlines, the comments, but she won’t say it.This is her way of reaching out.
I remember donating my prom night fundraising money, six hundred dollars, to her foundation.Mom made me hand it over at the hospital myself.We bought toys and clothes for the kids.
