Then, just as I was about to drift off, my phone buzzed with a text.
Kyle:Hi Gabe, you’ve probably blocked my number. I wouldn’t blame you, but I’d love to talk.
My stomach churns every time I think about it. About what he might have said next. About what it might do to me if I read it. I can’t stop glancing at the phone on the counter. Screen black, but I see it anyway, burned behind my eyes.
Talk.
I can still hear the way he used to say that word.Sit down. Don’t argue. Let me tell you what’s wrong with you.That wasalways his favorite word before he’d take something apart—my choices, my work, me.
I blocked his number right after the text came through. I should have done it before, but I never opened the thread after I left him, never wanted to see the evidence of us. Why is he contacting me after all this time? He never sought me out after I left. Never a single message or call. I wasn’t important enough for him to come after.
But now, when I finally feel like I can breathe properly for the first time in years, a simple text is making me feel like I’m drowning again.
The bookstore feels wrong today.
The air is stifling. Even with music playing low, every sound is too loud—the door whenever it opens, the creak of the floorboards, the faint buzz of the lights.
I count the register twice, then a third time, but my hands won’t stop shaking. The numbers balance, but it doesn’t settle me. I can’t shake the sinking feeling that if I get them wrong, something terrible will happen. Like he’ll step out from behind the shelves, arms crossed, ice-blue eyes boring into me, ready to tell me how stupid I am.
Nobody else would put up with you.
I fumble with a coin, and it clatters against the drawer, my heart racing at the sound. I pick it up with trembling fingers.
When the door opens, I jump so hard my elbow knocks the edge of the counter. For a split second, the sound isn’t the shop door—it’s a door slamming hard enough to shake the frame. Thecustomer doesn’t notice. They smile, nod, and wander off into the shelves, but my pulse is frantic until they leave.
My phone sits next to the register, face down.
It might as well be a loaded gun.
I try to read while sitting behind the counter, hoping to lose myself in another world, but I can’t concentrate. I reread the same paragraph multiple times, but it’s no use. All I can hear is his voice in my mind. My hands grip the counter until my knuckles ache.
Why did Ilethim treat me that way? Why didn’t I stop him?
By midafternoon, I’m crawling out of my skin. I can’t take a deep breath.
I keep thinking about Noah’s arms around me last night. About how safe I felt, just for those few hours. How he listened to me speak, there was no pity or judgement in his eyes. How he kissed me softly on the forehead, like he still thinks I’m special, before leaving for work. I cling to the moments in my mind, I try to hold them close.
But then I think about Kyle—the anger in his eyes, the coolness of his voice—I can’t keep him out of my mind.
Customers come and go. I paste on a smile, ring up their books, bag them, and say goodbye. I wonder if they can tell that my heart is hammering against my chest, that I keep swallowing back bile between transactions.
Can they tell I’m falling apart?
An hour before closing time, and I’m still waiting for something bad that hasn’t happened yet. I lock the shop early, lean back against the door, and squeeze my eyes shut, willing my body to let it go. I bite back tears and push the heels of my palms into my eyes until it hurts. It doesn’t work, and tears well without permission.
Don’t fucking cry, Gabe.
You’re too soft.
Too sensitive.
Too fucking much.
And never enough.
By the time I step into the apartment, I feel like I’m vibrating. I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and stand there, waiting for the silence to settle and calm me. This is my safe space, but right now, I don’t feel safe. I kick my shoes off and watch them tumble into the others there, the urge to fix them is so strong, but I walk past them.
I wash my hands even though they’re already clean. I scrub hard until the skin goes pink, until it stings. Nothing is working.
