Hold Me Close

un poquito numb

"Fleur!"

The hammering at María's door is increasingly insistent.

I know who it is, and I know that she'd have been allowed inside by now if María and Carlos had been in.

I have sort of had an... episode.

Ever since Alexia brought me back to a worried María, I have stayed in the house and not left. It's not that I don't want to – I just cannot bring myself to gather the energy and move my legs that far. The club is forcing me into sessions with their psychologist after my failure to attend training in the build up to the game against Atleti, but I am yet to reply to their email. I am sure that they are mildly satisfied with the confirmation that I'm alive, courtesy of María. The game is tomorrow, and the club's admin has announced that I am 'unavailable' to play. My teammates may be worried, but I can't find it in me to care.

Only three people have visited me in my little cave of security. I do not know if any others have tried and been turned away at the door. I haven't managed to get up and face anyone yet, despite María's ever-present nagging.

Ingrid spent the entire time with Oli in her lap, updating me on the happenings of the club, regaling me with stories from training that I zoned out of the moment she opened her mouth. It was nice to talk in fast English, and not the mix of Spanish and English I use with María and Carlos. She asked me how I was doing, and what she could do to help. Ingrid is an empathetic person, but her sympathy was not something I wanted. I told her that I couldn't describe it in English, which she understood. It was the same excuse I used when pestered about seeing the psychologist regularly – claiming that they would need to get a Dutch person in so I could express myself fully, knowing that they would never be able to do that. In truth, I wouldn't be able to tell anyone how I am feeling in any language I can speak. Dutch, English, German.

There aren't words to convey just how much of a blackhole my mind has become.

I'd honestly be fine if my limbs hadn't stopped responding to the messages my brain was sending them (or was it the other way around?). At least the gaping hole in my chest tells me that there was something there to begin with. I haven't decided whether it is all to do with Scarlett yet, or if it is just a build up of ignored depressive episodes that could have been but were fought off at the last second.

"Fleur!"

Pretending that I still can't hear her, I hunch over on the sofa, mindlessly watching the fourth season of Friends for the hundredth time. Scarlett used to mouth the words or act out scenes she was particularly knowledgeable about. It was funny.

Alexia came round yesterday. It was the ultimate betrayal on María's part, especially when the evil blonde played the captain card and forced me to 1-v-1 her in María's driveway. I let Alexia win, barely kicking the ball. I think she was taken aback.

Alexia didn't really speak to me, apart from when she left and said she'd be back in two days if I hadn't yet emerged from my hole and resumed living my life. Her voice was disgustingly tender, almost as if her stern words were coming from a place deeper than the obligation that comes with the captain's armband, but it didn't do anything. I have promised myself that when I get my energy back, the first thing I will do is sit down with Mapi and talk shit about Alexia Putellas until my tongue is sliced to bits by my teeth.

Because I still hate her, even if she is trying to fix me just as hard as everybody else is.

My third visitor did not expect to walk in on me, Ballon d'Or runner-up Fleur de Voss, wrapped in a blanket, lying face down on the living room floor. I suppose María had neglected to mention my current state to her when she was invited to talk to me.