𝐏𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓 ― rafe cameron

εξήντα ; 60

song of the chapter:
I KNOW THE END ; phoebe bridgers

! TW ; SELF HARM

Rafe's truck screeched to a stop in front of Margarita's house, his pulse racing as he jumped out, not even bothering to close the door behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, every step toward her front door feeling heavier, more urgent. Something was wrong. He could feel it deep in his gut.

The door was unlocked, and he pushed it open slowly, stepping inside. The house was eerily quiet. The air felt stale, like it hadn't been touched by life in days.

"Margarita?" he called out, his voice breaking the silence.

No response.

His stomach twisted as he made his way down the hallway, past the living room, toward her bedroom. The door was slightly ajar, and he hesitated for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. He knew he wasn't ready for whatever he was about to see.

He pushed the door open slowly, and there she was.

Margarita sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the wall. Her body was hunched over, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart. Her skin was pale—far too pale for someone who lived for the sun. Her bones jutted out sharply under her skin, her frame alarmingly thin. Her hair, once sun-kissed and full of life, hung in tangled strands around her face, matted and dull.

Rafe's heart broke in two at the sight of her. She looked so fragile, like a ghost of the girl she once was. Her eyes—once vibrant green—were empty now, hollow. There was no spark, no light. Just emptiness.

"Margarita..." he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

She didn't look up. Her hands trembled slightly, even though there was no wind, no cold to cause it. They shook like she couldn't control them, like her body was betraying her in every possible way.

Rafe stepped closer, his breath catching in his throat as he saw her up close. Her cheeks were hollow, her lips dry and cracked. The girl he once knew was disappearing before his very eyes.

"Rafe..." she finally muttered, her voice barely audible. It was raspy, weak. She didn't even look at him when she spoke.

He crouched down in front of her, gently placing his hands on her knees, his fingers brushing against the sharp bones that protruded from her skin. His heart ached, seeing her like this—seeing what the drugs, the pain, and the isolation had done to her.

"Margarita, what have you done to yourself?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me help you?"

Her empty gaze finally shifted toward him, her eyes barely focusing. "I'm fine," she mumbled, though her words held no conviction. Her hands continued to shake, as if her body was giving up on the lie she'd been telling herself for so long.

"You're not fine!" Rafe snapped, his frustration boiling over. He grabbed her hands, holding them in his own, feeling how cold they were, how fragile. "Look at you. You're falling apart."

She didn't fight him, didn't pull away. Instead, she looked down at their hands, her lips trembling as she tried to speak. "I didn't want you to see me like this," she admitted, her voice breaking. "I didn't want anyone to."

Rafe swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. "You don't have to do this alone, Margarita. You don't have to hide from me." His voice softened, pleading. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."