It had been three weeks already.
Three weeks in a Calabasas penthouse Zay owned. Three weeks of floor-to-ceiling glass, marble counters, and silence so loud it felt like punishment. Three weeks of my mother showing up every morning like clockwork, sitting on the edge of the bed like I was five again.
Only I wasn’t five.
And she wasn’t gentle.
“Get up,”she would say.
“Drink this.”
“Take this.” .
“Eat.”
I didn’t eat.
I barely slept.
I had nightmares, cold sweats, tremors, and mental breakdowns.
I stayed in the bathroom with the water running so hot it turned my skin red. I’d sit in the tub until my fingers wrinkled,then move to the shower and let it hit my back until my thoughts slowed down.
She kept trying to give me methadone.
I kept refusing.
“I’m not trading one chain for another,” I told her.
So instead, I drank.
And smoked up Zay’s weed like it was a savior.
Anything to quiet the itch under my skin for harder drugs.
Today was different though.
Today I had to leave.
It was my favorite aunt’s birthday brunch. The only aunt that didn’t look at me like I was broken glass. She was having it big- pastel dresses and champagne energy. All the IT women from LA that my mom and aunt hung around with would be there.
My favorite cousin heard I was back home.
So she came early to help me get ready.
When she walked in the room and saw me, she froze.
I knew why.
I was ten times smaller than I had ever been. Smaller than when I ran high school track. Smaller than when I played college basketball. My cheekbones were sharp. Dark circles sat under my eyes. My skin was breaking out from stress and detox.
My teeth were all still there.
But they weren’t pretty anymore.
“Yuna…” she whispered.
“Don’t,” I said flatly.
