Gaslighter

11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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2021

          I stumbled in the dark towards the elevator.

         The lights in the main hall were off, unable to detect my movements, regardless of how hard I waved my arms around me to try and trigger the motion sensors, and I quickly gave up. The walk of shame towards Chase's apartment was mortifying enough already and I certainly didn't need to be caught on camera making a fool out of myself just to see where I was going.

          The advantage of moving blindly, in the dark, was that no one ever saw me.

          I knew this place by heart now, which made it easier to navigate the dark hallways, and the door to his apartment was slightly ajar, revealing the thinnest strip of light at the end of the tunnel.

          I tiptoed inside, closing the door behind me without making any noise, and found him sitting in the living room. I could barely find him there, surrounded by so many stacks of paper and books and cups of coffee, but I still did. It was late, but I knew he wouldn't go to bed early; he never did and, with all the work he had to do, tonight would be no exception. He barely acknowledged my presence when I entered the room, even while I danced around him to gather all the dirty, empty cups to give him some extra space on the table.

          With him being so quiet, I wasn't sure where to go or what to do, or even what to say. He'd said we could talk later, but I was here now and we hadn't said a word to each other, a fact I was unfortunately aware of. I didn't want to overthink anything, but the heavy silence, the unbearable quiet was impossible to ignore or brush off.

          In the kitchen, I allowed myself to take a deep breath. I caught a glimpse of my distorted reflection on the sink's polished surface, squeezed down it almost looked comical, and wasn't surprised by his hesitance to pay any attention to me. The corners of my eyes were black, covered in smudged, runny mascara and dry speckles glued to my skin. My skin, my skin, usually a healthy golden shade, courtesy of my Spanish heritage and summers spent under the hot sun, was submerged in a greenish tint. Overall, I looked like a made-up creature one would tell horror stories about to their children, not someone they'd invite to enter their house while they should be asleep.

          The cold air in the apartment was wet and thick with humidity, leaving me nauseous with the way it clung to me. One of the windows in the kitchen was wide open, allowing the gelid winds from outside to enter, and I rushed to close it with a soft thud before things got any worse. The tips of my fingers were numb to the touch.

          I was sipping a glass of water, tasting it slowly, like a bird, when something changed.

          "Penn?" he called.

          It was a reflex, reacting whenever he called my name. In lectures, I was Penelope, Miss Romero at first, back when we were still treading waters, shyly dipping our toes in the vast, immense ocean of unknown territory ahead of us. Penn was reserved for closed rooms and private moments, but he used Penelope whenever things got serious—too serious. By using Penn, he was trying to say he wasn't mad, but I could deal with anger.

          I couldn't deal with disappointment.

          I took in a sharp breath and returned to the living room, attempting to steady my feet against the wooden floorboards until I was no longer floating. Every piece of furniture looked closer or further away than they actually were, which culminated in me nearly knocking over a vase and a cabinet filled with his mother's precious china, but I made it towards him in one piece. There, he took off his glasses, looked up at me, and I tried to decipher the look on his face.