The screens feel invasive now, too intimate a view into her personal agony, and I feel a surge of anger, not just at her mother but at myself.
We shouldn’t have witnessed this. But now that we have, we need to be there for her.
“We need to do something,” I say, standing abruptly, my mind racing as I head toward the door to go to her apartment.
“No!” Grey snaps. His expression resolved. “How would we explain it? That we know what happened? That she needs someone? We could make this much worse, and we could lose her… and with that,shewould lose us.”
Goddamn.
I halt, my fists clenched at my sides, frustration and helplessness warring inside me. “I’m just gonna tell her I want to borrow some sugar or shit,” I grumble. My gaze shifts back to where Amelia still sits motionless on the couch, staring blankly into space, her normally bright eyes now dull and vacant.
I’m here. I’ll come and get you.
“Fuck,” she yells, her voice cracking with the force of her pain as she hurls the pillow across the room. It thuds against the window before dropping lifelessly to the floor. My heart clenches as I watch her curl into herself, drawing her knees to her chest like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible, as if she could disappear into her own despair. Her hand trembles as it moves to her head, and suddenly, in a frantic, almost panicked motion, she rips off her smartwatch and throws it across the room. The sound of it clattering against the hardwood floor echoes in the stillness.
The sight of her fingers tangling in her hair, yanking at the strands with increasing desperation, is like a punch to the gut. It’s a raw, visceral display of her anguish, and I feel utterly powerless to help her.
“What the hell is happening?” I mutter, horror tightening in my chest as I watch her self-destructive actions. “Is she pulling out her hair?”
“Maybe. She could have trichotillomania. It’s a stress-related compulsion. She might not stop until she’s calmed down,” Oliver confirms, his voice trembling.
“Of course, you’d know that,” I mutter, though the irritation in my voice is just a mask for the fear gnawing at me. I start for the door again, every instinct screaming at me to go to her, to do something—anything—to make this stop. “That’s it, I’m going down to get her.”
“Wait,” Grey calls out, his voice firm but laced with the same desperation I feel. I pause, my hand gripping the doorknob so tightly my knuckles turn white.
“I swear to God, Grey…” I start, but the words die on my lips as I see him quickly tap on his keyboard. The familiar notes of “One Step Closer” by Frank Dang begin to play through the interface, the soothing melody filling Amelia’s room like a balm for her raw nerves.
As the music envelops her, I watch in tense silence, praying it works. Slowly, agonizingly, the frantic pulling at her hair slows, then stops altogether. She takes deep, shaky breaths, each one more measured than the last, her body gradually relaxing as she lets the melody wrap around her.
“Thank fuck,” Oliver breathes out, leaning back in his chair, but the relief on his face is marred by the lingering pain in his eyes.
Thank fuck, indeed.
I turn to Grey, meeting his gaze with a nod of gratitude before I walk back to my chair, feeling a hollow ache in my chest as I sit down again. On the screen, Amelia lies down and curls on her side, clutching another pillow to her chest like it’s the only thingkeeping her together. My heart feels like it’s being torn in two watching her.
I wish I could be the comfort she clutches instead of that pillow.
As the song ends, she whispers, “Thank you, Jamie.” Her voice is so faint, so broken, that it barely reaches my ears, but it shatters something inside me.
Without hesitation, Grey restarts the track, letting the melody flow through her living room once more.
Oliver looks as distressed as I feel. His hands are clasped tightly around the armrests of his chair. Grey’s expression is one of deep concern, his usual confidence replaced by a shadow of helplessness that I’ve never seen in him before. We’re all feeling it—a desperate need to help her, to reach out and let her know she’s not alone in this, even if she can’t see or feel it right now.
I force myself to lean back in my chair, trying to quell the instinct to rush to her side, to be there in person. It’s hard—so damn hard—to stay here and do nothing.
But tomorrow… tomorrow, I’ll make sure she knows she’s got people who care about her. People who see her worth, even when she can’t see it herself.
We won’t let her fall through the cracks. Not on our watch.
TWENTY
Curled up on the couch,I remain motionless, yet internally, I’ve been battling a relentless war for hours now. A war to silence the voice in my head that terribly resembles Mother’s.
I broke downso hardthat even Jamie seemed worried. The music he chose for me, a song I’d never heard before but instinctively knew must be one of Grey’s, has been on repeat since.
A beacon of light in my personal darkness.
Having finally calmed down enough to stand and retrieve my smartwatch from where I had thrown it earlier, I strap it back on. It’s already three a.m.
