And Then We Fell Apart (18+)

chapter 14

It's fair to say that I absolutely despise myself. Whatever it was that came over me on the beach that afternoon, I wish I could grab it by the throat and shove it against the wall to threaten it to never show its ugly face ever again.

But I can't. I just sit and regret it all, frustrated as the days pass while Sam and I very visibly begin to drift apart.

It's not entirely severe, except we don't touch anymore. It's been days since the last time. It's so bad that I feel myself start to tremble and sweat when we're together. He doesn't touch me in the kitchen when he's passing by. He doesn't lift me over his shoulder and carry me to the shore. He doesn't hoist me on his back to carry me back to the house. He doesn't brush my hair out of my face or hold my wrist or even gently shove my arm anymore.

Not since I essentially turned him down about a week prior.

I feel like an addict going through withdrawal.

One hot August afternoon, I find myself more than frustrated with my decision. I feel sick to my stomach knowing that by trying to preserve our friendship, I've somehow ruined that too. The heat doesn't help either, or the fact that I haven't had a full meal in two days. I'm so irritable that I don't even feel like myself.

I stand in front of my mirror with just my bra and shorts on, pinching the skin on my hip. I can't tell if it's skin, or fat. I weighed myself the other day, and I lost only a pound. That means I still have ten more pounds to lose. My lack of progress only adds to my horrific mood.

"What the fuck," I groan, hating what stares back at me today.

Some days are like this. The girl I am is a completely disgusting, unappealing, unattractive waste of space. My hair doesn't lay right, my makeup doesn't sit nicely, my clothes feel too tight. I just want to crawl out of my own skin with disgust and find another outer exterior.

Other days are just about the opposite. I feel pretty and unstoppable, like I have whoever I want in the palm of my hand. I feel just as pretty as Stella or Holly or Max.

Frustratedly, I huff and notice my eyes start to burn. I want to cry and scream and yell and hide in my room forever, never to be seen by anyone again. My skin feels hot and sticky and too fucking tight on my body.

Even worse, my phone rings on my bed to add to the already intensely aggravating sensory overload I'm experiencing.

"Hi," I exhale, throwing my body down on my bed. I don't care who it is, anyways.

"Hey," the voice replies slowly, likely taken back by my extremely off-putting greeting.

It's Sam. Suddenly, I do care, but I'm too overwhelmed to show it.

"You alright?" he asks, keeping his voice low and slow.

Despite the obvious rift between us, he still talks to me like he always does. We stay close, except not physically. Everything else feels almost the same.

I shake my head, though he can't see. "No," I groan, covering my face with my hand. "Sam, it's fucking hot out."

"Let's go swimming, then," I can almost see him shrugging.

"I can't," I whine.

I can. But I don't want to. I don't feel like seeing myself in my bathing suit today, so I complain instead. And then I get mad at myself for complaining. And that adds to my frustration. Then it all gets worse.

"We can go lay under my mom's sprinkler?" He suggests.

I can't. I don't want to wear my bathing suit.