𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ~ | 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯

Band Aids and Bullet Holes

~'~

It started with a drink.

Well, to be fair, it started with Layla and her couch. 

After crying my heart out on her shoulder, I'd felt this overwhelming itch under my skin, a restless sort of buzzing that kept telling me I couldn't just stay. Layla had offered to let me crash there. She even patted the spot next to her and started pulling a blanket over my shoulders. But as much as I loved her and how safe she made me feel in that moment, I couldn't breathe. It wasn't Layla; it was me. The walls of her cozy apartment seemed to close in around me until my chest felt too tight.

It didn't help that Carlos was asleep in the next room. So, I felt like an intruder. Like I was in the way of her real life. I shoved the blanket off and told her I needed to go.

Home?

No.

But home meant silence.

Staying meant my thoughts would catch up with me. And the thought of Carlos stirring awake, coming out to find me there, and asking me what happened made my stomach churn. I mumbled something about needing to be home, gave her a quick hug, and practically ran out the door before she could argue further.

Only, home didn't feel like home. It hadn't for a while. The idea of curling up in my bed, staring at the ceiling in the dark, knowing I'd be alone with everything replaying in my head, was unbearable. The buzzing in my chest turned into something sharper. A vice tightening.

So instead of catching the next cab to my place, I ended up at a bar.

I told myself I only wanted one drink. Just enough to quiet the ache, to help me breathe. But one drink turned into two, and two into three, and at some point, the bartender's concerned eyes stopped registering. The heat from the alcohol coursed through me, dulling my edges until I felt almost light. Almost like I could float.

I wasn't even sure when I'd left the bar. The blurry streets twisted and turned, and before I knew it, I was standing in front of an apartment building. It hit me all at once: the stupid ache in my chest, the lingering burn from Lorenzo's rejection, and the cold emptiness that settled in every time I tried to think about what came next.

And like some drunk, messed-up autopilot, I'd ended up here.

Of all places.

My fist hit his door harder than I'd intended, the knock loud enough to make me wince. For a second, I almost bolted. What the hell was I even doing here?

But it was too late. The door opened.

Max stood in the doorway, shirtless, his gray sweats riding low on his hips. His light hair was messier than usual, sticking out in soft tufts that suggested he'd been asleep until about five seconds ago. His eyes were half-lidded, bleary with confusion until they locked onto me. Then they sharpened immediately, his brow furrowing.

"Sabrina?" His voice was low and rough with sleep, and just hearing it made something in my chest pinch tight.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The warmth of his apartment seeped out into the chilly hallway, and I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself awkwardly. His gaze flicked down briefly, taking in my state, probably the now wrinkled dress, the faint sway of my stance, and the too-bright flush on my cheeks.

"Are you..." He stepped closer, his concern immediate. "Are you okay?"

"This," I slurred, my voice thick and wavering. I jabbed a finger in his direction, more at his general being than anything specific. "This is your fault."