Paramore
The day goeswrong in quiet ways first. The kind you don’t notice until they pile up and then suddenly, you’re standing in the middle of your office, smiling too tightly, wondering when you started holding your breath.
It’s a teen I’ve been working with since the day I got here. Fifteen. Smart, but closed off. Angry in the way that makes adults uncomfortable and easy to dismiss. I don’t dismiss him. I listen. I show up. I believe him when he tells me he’s trying. Today, it doesn’t matter.
He explodes over something small, something I can’t even remember now, and when I try to redirect, to ground him, to de-escalate, he shoves back the chair he’s in, raises it over his head and throws it across my desk, one of the legs slamming into my cheek before I even have time to react. It scared the absolute shit out of me.
Security showed up in less than thirty seconds. Administration stepped in. Protocols were followed. Theincident is documented. I’m told I handled it well, but next time maybe I should escalate sooner. Protect myself. Protect the institution. Tell that to the bruise now thumping with its own heartbeat on my cheek.
No one asks how it feels to fail someone you were trying to reach. By the time I leave work, my chest feels tight and hollow at the same time, like something caved in but didn’t fully collapse.
I don’t go straight home. I stop at a liquor store instead. I tell myself it’s the weekend. That I’ll just have a glass. That it’s not a big deal. The lie is thin even to myself. When I unlock the door to Mikey’s apartment, it’s quiet. Not empty, just still. The kind of still that makes it too easy to hear your own thoughts.
I kick off my shoes, drop my bag by the counter, and head straight for the kitchen. I don’t pour a full glass at first. Just enough to take the edge off. I sit on the couch, staring at nothing, and drink it faster than I intend to. The second glass tastes less sharp. The third tastes like relief.
By the time I hear the door open, the bottle is almost empty and my emotions are no longer neatly packed away behind competence and logic. I hate how scared I was when that chair came across the desk at me. I should have been stronger. More in control.
Mikey steps inside, keys still in his hand. He clocks the scene instantly, me curled on the couch, wine glass in my hand, bottle on the table, my shoes abandoned where I dropped them.
His jaw tightens when his gaze lands on my face. And it’s not in anger, it’s concern, and it cracks something inside of me wide open.
“Quinn?” He takes three long strides and crouches in front of me. “What the hell happened? Were you mugged? Are you okay?”
I try to answer. I really do. But my throat closes around the words, and instead of an explanation, a sound escapes me that’s too close to a sob for comfort. His arms wrap around me immediately. I don’t pull away. Not even a little. And that, that says more than anything I could explain.
“Talk to me,” he demands quietly. “You’re scaring me.”
I laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Really bad day.”
“That’s kind of obvious.” He nods as he leans back to look at me. “A black eye doesn’t usually happen on good days.”
And that’s when the dam cracks. “I’m so tired,” I whisper. “I try so hard to do everything right. To help those kids. Let them know I’m there. And it still isn’t enough.”
Mikey sits on the edge of the couch now, releasing me, but staying close enough that I can feel his warmth without being touched. “You do help,” he insists.
I shake my head. “Not today. I failed him.”
“One of your kids did this to you?” His brow furrowing.
“Failed him.” I nod and point to my face. “Case in point.”
His voice stays steady. “I’m sure you didn’t.”
I laugh again, tears burning now. “You don’t know that.”
“I know you,” he replies. “And I know what it looks like when someone carries more than they should.”
That does it. The tears come even faster now, messy and uncontained. I cover my face, mortified, but Mikey’s hand comes up, hesitant, asking, and when I don’t pull away, he rests it gently on my knee, grounding me. “I don’t want to feel this,” I admit through my fingers. “I don’t want to think. I don’t want to be strong tonight.”
His hand stills. The air changes. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t pull me into him. His voice lowers, careful and serious. I drop my hands and look at him. Really look at him. The restraint in his posture. The concern in his eyes.
“Just make me forget,” I whisper, practically begging.
Something shifts in his expression. Not temptation. Not hesitation. Decision. His breath leaves him slowly, like he’s bracing himself, then he stands, pulling me with him. “Come on.” He points to my discarded shoes. “Put those on.”
“What?” Confusion sets in because shouldn’t he be taking off my clothes? I’ve definitely had too much wine.
“Put your shoes on.” His repeats, his tone firm as he grabs my sweater off the back of the chair and waits for me to put my arms in the sleeves. I do as he asks and slide my feet into my flats.
