"Okay. That's different."
Is it?
My hands buzz harder. My thighs ache, begging for impact. My chest compresses in on itself.
Pain is cleaner than shame. It's specific. Shame spreads.
Mom's plea flashes in my brain.
Please answer me.
The phone vibrates again in Demi's hand.
She flips it face down without looking at it. She calmly declares, "We need to mute that for an hour."
My stomach flips. "She's going to think?—"
"She's already thinking," Demi interrupts gently. "Right now, we're focused on you."
Focused on me.
That's the problem. Everything is focused on me. My choice. My relationship. My failure. My disappointment.
The urge shifts from quiet to more insistent. I need something sharp, so I stand abruptly.
Demi stands too. "Where are you going?"
"Bathroom," I say too fast.
She doesn't move out of my path. "Blue."
The buzzing grows louder. My brain catalogs where I can find something sharp.
Kitchen drawer.
Bathroom cabinet.
Cosmetic bag.
"Let's call Red," Demi gently suggests.
I shake my head. "No. I don't want to manipulate him."
Demi frowns. "What are you talking about?"
"I don't want to text Red and make him come home because I can't handle this."
"You telling him you're struggling isn't manipulation."
"It feels like it."
"It's not."
I swallow hard. My eyes sting.
"Let's text him green," she says.
"No. I'm yellow," I lie as the buzzing shifts sharper and more demanding. I press my nails into my thighs, but it's not enough.
