Page 156 of Breathe Like Hell

“I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

“If you were sorry, you would help me!” I screamed, crawling backwards, heat wrapping around my throat. “You’re not fucking sorry! Why did you even come here! You just want to see me like this! You probably like it!”

“That’s not even remotely true.”

“That’s how it feels! Why would you come here and refuse to help me?”

“I’m not refusing to help you. I’m just not doing what you want me to do.”

“Yeah,” I bit out. “Exactly.”

I was starting to regret calling him at all. Maybe it would’ve been easier to deal with this on my own, with no one to witness me as a sobbing mess on my floor. I’d never been so embarrassed, never felt so disgusting.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I think I want help, but maybe I don’t deserve it. Micah probably knows that.

The inside of me is rotted, and he can see all of it.

I pushed backwards with my heels into the bathroom, more nausea becoming heavy and insistent in my gut, more heat crawling up my throat. Micah followed me in.

“No,” I said, stomach churning. “No. Get out.”

I tried to shove him towards the door, but he didn’t budge. Urgency bled into my actions, and I was frantically pushing him now, feeling the vomit in my stomach.

“Get the fuck out, Micah,” I ordered through gritted teeth, tears blurring my vision.

This is not about to happen twice.

It cannot fucking happen twice.

“Please,” I sobbed. “Please just listen to me for once!”

He finally relented, stepping out of the bathroom barely far enough for me to get the door closed. I slammed it shut and crawled to the toilet, yanking up the lid just in time for stomach acid to come up my throat.

I crouched over the bowl, spit hanging from my lips, tears dripping down my cheeks, an empty sort of relief claiming my body. I was sweating all over, my t-shirt sticking to my slick back, and my legs were shaking now.

For one more minute, I sat there over the toilet, staring at nothing, tasting acid at the back of my throat, spitting into the water, feeling as disgustingly broken as I’d ever felt. Humiliation and regret still burned hot in my cheeks. My brain was quiet, but not because of Micah. I’d just tired myself out enough with all the crying and yelling and sickness that I could no longer form actual thoughts.

I got up in a daze and flushed the toilet, brushed my teeth as best as I could, and opened the door, swaying on my feet. Micah was still standing directly outside it, his head down and his face tormented.

“You know I don’t care about that,” he said, his voice quiet.

“Yeah, well, I don’t want you to see me like that.” I forced the words out, hiccuping a bit, gripping the doorknob to stay upright. “I don’t like being this way. It’s fucking embarrassing.”

“It’s embarrassing? No the fuck it’s not.”

“Oh, what would you know about it? Huh? Nothing. You’re perfect.” I tried to push past him towards my bedroom, my vision smearing with tears, sobs stabbing my ribs, but he stopped me in the dark hallway.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Yes, you⁠—”

“I know more than you think I do.” He shook his head.

“You always say shit like that, and I don’t know what you mean. You know more about me than I think you do?”

“No,” he answered, his expression strained. “I understand how you’re feeling. More than you expect.”