Quandary | Noah Sebastian |

fifteen

Time moved at a snail's pace when I finally crawled into bed after throwing up until there was simply nothing left to come out.

My mind was just a never-ending vortex of the disaster I created, and the vertigo was so intense that it made me physically sick. I had heaved and heaved, leaving me with an intense stomachache and a raw throat.

It felt like an eternity had passed when in reality it was probably only an hour or two of staring at the ceiling. I could feel everything so intensely; the air felt too heavy, the room felt too dark, the silence was deafening, my head throbbed, my stomach burned, and I couldn't fucking sleep because of it. That, and the fact that I was quite literally killing my husband, the image of how sick and heartbroken he was, branded into my mind.

I wished that I could take this all back, and have things go back to the way they were. I wished that I could erase not only the pain that I felt but the pain that I was inflicting on him, too. It was affecting him more than it was affecting me, that much was obvious.

With a huff, I rolled over and took hold of Noah's pillow, tucking myself into a ball as I clutched it to me. I imagined that it was him as I breathed in the remanence of his cologne, holding it so tight as if I could will this back into existence.

There was a pressure behind my eyes, and my cheeks were suddenly warm and damp as the past images continued to flash before me. All the good, all the bad. I was crying again, though no sounds came out of me. I was so sick of crying, I just wanted to sleep—I needed to distract myself somehow.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand, shutting my eyes for a moment as the light from the screen shot daggers through my head. I peeked one eye open and unlocked my phone, dialing the only person I felt I could still call at 2 in the morning.

"You bitch—"
"I'm killing Noah," I whimpered into my phone. I didn't even let Vic finish her usual greeting whenever I called her in the middle of the night.
I hear rustling on the other end, and I know she's rolling her eyes as she sits up in bed. "You know that's my job, Liv," she humors, but I don't laugh. "What did he do this time?"
I sniffle, screwing my eyes shut as fresh tears spring in my eyes. "Vic, I'm not joking. He's sick."
"What do you mean sick?"

I don't say anything as my lips tremble. I can't. I knew the second the name of that disease made it out of my mouth, I'd be inconsolable.

"No," she breathes. "Olivia, no, it can't be that. I know how much you love him."
I sucked in a choppy breath, shaking my head. "He showed me the flowers, Vic," I whispered. "He's sick—suffering—a-and it's all my fault. And he left because of it."
I hear her curse under her breath. "Where is he now?"
"Nick's," I croaked, "and all I fucking see when I close my eyes is him hacking, struggling to breathe as he closed the door."
"Just give him time, Liv. He'll come back, I swear to you," she tries, her voice quivering. I knew the tone in her voice—she was not only trying to convince me, but herself, too.

-

JANUARY 29th

I woke up this morning to a pounding headache, the constant buzzing of my phone under my face from how I had fallen asleep like a fucking chainsaw inside my skull. I knew I was being flooded by a multitude of 'Happy Birthday' texts; I was officially 29, on the 29th.

I scrolled through my messages and threw my phone down on the mattress with a huff, telling myself I'd get back to thanking them eventually. None of them were from the one person I wanted to hear from the most, but that was to be expected—it's been nearly a month since I've talked to Noah, why would my birthday make it any different?

I did what I've been doing every morning since he left. Wake up, lie in bed until it was nearly time for me to get to the bakery, force myself up, and swallow some Advil and Tums to rid the hangover-induced headache and nausea. Throw on whatever clean clothes that I had, put my hair in a bun, and go my merry way. I'd have coffee and breakfast at work.