RISK & REWARD ✔️

50 | 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

I PICK at my room-service pizza with little interest. It's gone cold by now, cheese tough to the touch and not sliding so easily down my throat anymore. Outside, the world has faded to nightfall; save for a scattering of lamps along the otherwise empty street, everything is dark and black.

Slade's out there. Somewhere. Without thinking, my eyes flick over to my phone; much like the sky, it's dark and black and empty. She hasn't texted once, called once; I've made one text, and it's been to Dr. Kensington, assuring her that I'm alright and that I'll explain everything once I get home.

Home. A lump forms in my throat. Yeah. Home.

The hotel room is small, and yet all on my own under the sheets I feel as if it's all too big.

I'm fine. I keep repeating the mantra to myself, trying not to let the voice in my head pick up the husky rasp I'm used to hearing those words spoken with. I'm fine. I'll be fine.

In the morning, I forget, and then I remember, and then I cry. I check my phone, and I find nothing, and I cry more.

I shake myself. Open Slade's contact, open up info. Block it in hopes that it'll clear my head, even if just a little. Get up. Drown myself under the showerhead. End up sitting there for a little too long, boiling under the water; drag myself out, back to the bed, sit, and stare.

I don't know how I waste that day. I really don't. One second it's morning, and the next it's night. I can't bring myself to do anything. I should go home, but I can't bring myself to buy a train ticket. I can't get up, get out for fear of seeing her.

I don't sleep that night. I can't. I'm restless and imprisoned in my motel room on my own accord. I scroll mindlessly through the news and social media and whatever else I think of. I pour a handful of salt in water and try to convince myself it's liquor, only to retch at the taste of it.

I fall asleep at two a.m.

I wake up twice: once at four a.m, the next at six thirty a.m. I elect not to try and fall back asleep after the second time.

Check my phone, find nothing except a few concerned messages from Dr. Kensington. Blank out under the showerhead, try to cry only to find that the combination of the past few days and drinking saltwater has caused my tears to run dry. Convince myself to head down to the little kitchen at the back of the ground floor and pick up a handful of food from the breakfast. Pick at my bagel with little to no interest; take a little paper bowl of cereal only to find that the milk has gone sour.

It's a dreary, overcast morning, and I'm alone in that little room, at a table made for four all on my own. The ambient murmurs of the occasional passerby in the halls only deepens that feeling of loneliness, like I'm sinking to the floor of the ocean with a weight tied to my ankle.

I've got a little under twenty dollars left. It's enough for me to catch the six o'clock train back to Chicago.

Back to Chicago. There's a hard twinge in my chest. On one hand, life will go back to normal; but a normal without adventure, without drama.

Without Slade.

My bagel comes to sodden pieces in my hand, and I heave all of my breakfast into the trash before returning to my room.

That afternoon, the congested sky gives way to sleeting rain. It falls in sideways sheets, stinging at my eyes like thick, icy needles. It's going to be a miserable walk to the train station, but I'll manage; by four-thirty, I'm ready to go, dressed in all I'd come in. Just a thick hoodie, sweats, and a pair of winter boots, once off-white, now muddy brown and soaked halfway through.