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And then everything hurts. My head feels like it was stabbed with a rusty blade, my neck is cramped from sleeping wrong, back sore from who knows what, but my vision is clear enough to see the mess on my bedroom floor. The smashed lamp, my pillow next to it.

“Fuck me,” I moan, closing my eyes again.

But the fucking sun is too much, and I throw my sheet over my head.

It smells like Millie.

I flop onto my stomach, but my pillow smells like Millie.

I can’t escape her.

She’s everywhere.

It’s been seven days.

Seven goddamn days since Millie told me she deserved better, and her words have settled in my gut like a stone. I haven’t been able to eat much. Only drink. I roll onto my side, the sheets tangling around my legs, and stare at the ceiling.

Yesterday, we arrived home from a road series, and I cracked open a bottle of gin because it was the first thing I spotted at the stupid state store.

I knew I hated Philadelphia for a reason.

Aside from everything, I can’t even grab a case of beer at the gas station.

What kind of dystopian nightmare is this?

Limited alcohol and no Millie? A horror show.

Outside, the world continues to spin. A motorcycle roars, cars beep and zoom by. A garbage truck stops. People hurry to and from work.

But I may as well be mummified.

I’ve barely paid attention to what city we were in, what stadium we were at, what the scores of the games were. I didn’t much care. I wasn’t pitching, so I technically didn’t even have to be there. But I go for team morale and all that bullshit.

Tonight, though, is a different story. I’m on the mound and need to get my ass in gear.

With a groan, I push up to a sitting position and rub my hands over my hair, face, and bare chest before assessing my body. Head—aching. Mouth—dry. Heart—shattered.

In the last week, the media has had a field day. Pictures and videos of the altercation with my family have been posted, whispers of my “out-of-control temper” making the rounds once again. Malcolm’s called multiple times, no doubt to smooth out the ripples, but I have yet to answer. I can’t deal. Not when the only thing I want, the only voice I crave, walked away.

I manage to roll off the bed, landing on stiff legs, and stumble toward the bathroom, swallowing two painkillers to face the day. And the consequences of my actions.

Or, really, lack of action.

I don’t blame Millie for standing up for herself. I did make her promise that if she wanted to leave, she should. I just never expected her to actually do it. I never expected her to leave me.

Which is the whole problem, I suppose. I took her for granted. Her smile, her laugh, her help. She’s so goddamn perfect and good—maybe, in the back of my mind, I thought she would always be there. She’d let me brood and be a dick and still stick around. I hoped her seemingly never-ending patience would never run out.

It’s not like what she asked of me is impossible. Only that it feels impossible.

Writing down those words, standing up to my father, finally confronting my brother and Kira…that felt impossible before, but I did it. I was able to do it because the last few months have changed me and my outlook for the future. Millie was part of that. Yadi was part of that. This whole fucking city that I despise was part of that.

But requiring me to take yet another step into the ocean of pain was a step too far. It’s so easy for Millie to talk about her emotions. She’s so free about her struggles and honest about her mental health, but I am not that way.

I wasn’t built to be.

And thirty years may as well be three hundred for how difficult it is for me to even admit to the fact that I might have some anxiety. And maybe I can’t ignore it.

But for fuck’s sake, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and I’m not unlearning everything I’ve been programmed with my entire life in a few months.