𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 (𝐀𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚/𝐘𝐨𝐮)

[ Five ]

"The groceries are here! Help put them in the fridge!" My mom's voice echoed through the house, and at the moment I desperately wished I could just blend into the couch.

I cringed inwardly at the thought of dragging myself to the kitchen, the weight of the bags filled with food that I didn't want to face.

My brother, sensing my reluctance, stood up and grabbed my hand, pulling me off the couch.

"Come on, sis, I won't be the only getting all those bags," He stated, urging me to join him.

I sighed heavily, forcing my feet to move, even as dread pooled in my stomach.

Each step closer to the kitchen intensified my nausea, my mind racing with thoughts of the pungent smell that would greet me.

"Come on, you're being ridiculous. You should be grateful for her and how much she cares," I muttered under my breath, attempting to quiet the rising tide of anxiety.

As we reached the kitchen, my brother's teasing voice broke through my thoughts. "Wow, mom did you buy the whole store?" He laughed, lifting a hefty bag to it on the counter.

My mom chuckled, before she turned to me with a hopeful smile. "So, did I get everything you like?" She asked, listing off all the treats I once loved—Ice cream, orange juice, pancakes and waffles. But instead of nostalgia, I felt a wave of panic.

It's too much.

So many calories.

I glanced at the mound of food, the reality of it hitting me harder with every passing second.

"Uh, yes, thank you, Mom," I replied, my voice shaky.

She beamed at me, brushing a hand lightly on my shoulder, and my heart sank at the sincerity.

As she bustled away my mind was Al reading racing ahead; I thought about how I could dispose of the food, maybe give it all away to Courtney or Victoria.

Guilt gnawed at me for even contemplating such actions. How could I be so ungrateful? I felt like a horrible person, consumed by thoughts I couldn't escape.

"Ariana, go get dressed for the day; we'll finish putting the rest of the groceries in the fridge," My mom says, her voice cutting through the fog of my thoughts.

I let out a sigh of relief, grateful for the excuse to leave the room.

Making my way up the marble stairs, the coolness of the surface against my sock-clad feet sent a shiver up my spine.

The anticipation of reaching my room quickened my pace.

As I made my way into my room and to the bathroom, I shivered as the coolness hit me.

After using the bathroom, I moved to the sink, brushing my teeth. Up down up down.

Next, using a gentle cleanser, I massage the product into my skin, splashing water on my face then using a light moisturizer.

Staring at my reflection, I reached for my hairbrush, feeling the weight of my curls as I transformed them into sleek, straight strands.

I carefully gathered my hair. As I reached for a hair tie, I chose one that matches my brown hair.

With a few strokes of styling gel, I smoothed down any frizz or flyaways, ensuring that every strand was in place.

The final touch was a spritz of hairspray, keeping my sleek ponytail in a gently hold.

With my hair nearly tucked away, pearl earrings in, I turned my attention to my makeup.

After meticulously selecting and applying my favorite makeup products for the day, I completed the look with a final touch of lip gloss.

Yet, when I looked in the mirror, I felt a wave of disappointed wash over me.

I couldn't help but scrutinize the features that looked back, searching for something that felt more like me but failing to find it.

Shaking off my discontent, I stepped away from the mirror and began to get dressed.

As I stepped into my walk-in closet, the shelves lined with colorful fabrics.

The array of skirts hung neatly.

My fingers glided over the textures, and I settled on a khaki pleated skirt.

Next, I turned my attention to the sweaters, where a cream knit caught my eye.

With my chosen pieces in my hand, I left the closet, the door closing softly behind me.

I slipped into my cream sweater, its soft fabric enveloping me in comfort, and paired it with the khaki plated skirt that swished gently with my movements.

Completing the outfits with black stockings and knee-high black boots.

Walking over to my bed, I checked my phone, feeling an unsettling mix of curiosity and dread.

It's been days since Dalton left my house, and I hadn't touched my phone since.

A wave of notifications bombarded me, the screen lit up with his name—multiple texts and calls all begging for my attention.

But instead of reading them, I felt a sense of relief as I blocked his contact, closing the phone with a decisive click that echoed in the silence of my room.

I had stayed away from all social media, battling the urge to see what everyone was saying behind closed doors.

The thought of people dissecting our breakup churned my stomach; the whispers, the speculation, the inevitable judgements about my worth creeping up into the back of my mind.

I could almost hear the familiar narratives taking shape—how I was never enough for anyone, how difficult I must be to love, and how I can't seem to hold onto any relationship.

In truth, those accusations stung because there was a hint of truth in them. But the idea of being scrutinized by others, their cruel interpretations of my life, seemed unbearable.

I made my way downstairs only to see my mom arranging plates on the table. "I was just going to call you," She says with a smile. "Do you want any?" I glance at the spread of food: pancakes drizzled with syrup beside them rows of toasted bread and nearby a bowl of scrambled eggs.

"No, Thank you, mom. I'm not hungry," I reply, forcing a smile as I step back, eager to escape the clutches of food that feels overwhelming.

As I walk away, the scent of the breakfast lingers in my nostrils, intensifying the unease in my stomach.

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, seeking something to soothe my discomfort.

Each step towards the couch feels heavier, and I can sense Frankie's eyes on me as I pass him by.

I sink into the couch slowly sipping my water.

"Hey, Ariana, will you be going to the studio today?" My mom's voice is laced with curiosity, but I can hear the underlying hope that today will be different, that today I might find the motivation to create again.

But why would I want to? The thought of stepping into that space, trying to finish unfinished lyrics and melodies, feels suffocating.

Everything I'm feeling is a jumbled mess tangled in my head; what I really want is to forget, just for a moment the weight of it all.

My mom nods, picking up her fork as if she understands, though I can tell she doesn't.

Just as I settle into the quiet room again, my brother's voice burst through.

"Oh!" He exclaims, his excitement palpable.

Both my mom and I turn to him.

"Did you hear anything about your audition for Glinda?" His innocent question feels like an unexpected jolt, reminding me of the pressure that accompanies the opportunities I've fought so hard for.

I frown, glancing down at my skirt and smoothing it out Almost reflexively, avoiding the intensity of his gaze.