Meant To Be

Hollow

 Where did I go wrong?

And did I let you down again 

I'll add it into all the things I've never said 

 - Trainwreck, from FOUR's fourth album, Already Gone 

Anthony drives me to the ferry the next morning. I say goodbye to Dad and hug him tight, and if he can sense that there's something a little off about me this morning, he doesn't mention it.

"Love you, sweetheart," he says. "Be safe and smart, okay?"

"Love you," I say. "You too."

Leaving him's easier this time, knowing that he's not alone now. That he has someone, and he's not just rattling around in that big empty house by himself.

Anthony and I are mostly silent on the drive to the ferry. I try to stop myself from obsessively checking my phone, and fail.

"You okay?" Anthony asks, when we're standing in front of the Departures. I shrug one shoulder.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Well, let me know if someone needs their ass kicked, alright?"

"Alright." I say, actually cracking a bit of a smile at that. "Will do."

"Good," he says, pulling me into a tight hug. "He doesn't deserve you," he says. "I don't care if he's the nicest guy on the planet, he still doesn't deserve you."

"Thanks," I say through the lump in my throat.

The exhaustion and my own mental turmoil makes the journey back pass in a haze of nothing. I take an Uber, not able to scrape up the mental capacity I would need to navigate the public transport system right now. With that, and the fairly early ferry I took, it's just about noon when I shove the finicky door open and dump my ridiculously heavy bag in the entranceway of our house.

Darya's sitting in the living room, reading a textbook. "Good weekend?" she asks, looking up and then seeing my face. "Maybe not?" she says cautiously, closing her textbook and putting it to the side.

I shake my head, rubbing the bridge of my nose with one hand. "It was fine," I say, picking up my backpack again and struggling up the stairs to my room. I throw my bag on my bed and head back down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.

"I made muffins!" Darya calls from the living room. "They're apple spice, if you want one!"

"Thank you," I call back. I wasn't hungry this morning, a combination of how early it was and how I've been feeling mentally, but I definitely regretted that as soon as I properly started to wake up.

I wait for the water to boil, sitting down at the table and eating the muffin in small, careful pieces. "This is so good," I say, calling out so Darya can hear me. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she calls back.

The water boils and I make my tea slowly, lost in my thoughts. I pull my phone from my pocket and realize that I've got about a hundred missed messages from Anya and Maggie - I guess I turned my notifications off at some point and forgot to turn them back on.

I don't have the energy to deal with whatever crisis they're having right now - if it was something actually serious Darya would know about it - so instead I just pick up my tea and absentmindedly open Instagram, leaning my hip against the counter for a moment.

And that's when my whole world implodes.

My cup of tea slips from my grip, falling almost slow motion to hit the kitchen tiles and shatter, as I'm staring, completely destroyed, at the pictures of Holland plastered all over my feed.