Beside

57 - meltdown

"Fox, what's the hardest word you know?"

"Catastrophe. It means when everything goes really, really bad."

"Oh. I don't want a catastrophe."

"I know. But it sounds cool, right?"

ｃｈｒｉｓ

I slip my arms through the long sleeves of a pale yellow blouse that feels like sunlight. It drapes over the linen pants I borrowed from Whitney months ago.

My dark hair is choppy, almost brushing my shoulders now. It used to be pin-straight, but chemo changed a lot of things about me. My hair follicles were just one of them.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror propped on my nightstand, but sometimes when I look, I'm not even there.

I brush my fingers across my collarbone, tracing a half-forgotten ache. I had central lines in a few places, but the scars are so faded I usually have to close my eyes to remember where they were.

A sharp knock sounds on my door.

For one foolish moment, my heart jolts. Him. But Fox is with Camila again, punching things, sweating the past away.

I pad over and open my door, grinning. "Hey, Jed, what's—"

He barges in, his eyes darting around as if searching the room for something. "Do you still have the stone?"

I blink. "Yeah, it's just over..." I turn to point, but he's already over by the windowsill bathed in the sunlight. "There."

He's in a rainbow tie-dye shirt, eyes wide and serious. He taps the rock, then whispers, "Screams. The universe screams."

I walk over, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension thrumming through him. His shoulders deflate. "You okay? Do you want the rock back?"

"Sorry," he murmurs. "I am fine. Truly. You need to keep it."

I nod, understanding without understanding at all. "Okay. Hey, wanna help me pick a shirt? I'm going to Skyfall today."

His gaze sharpens with a spark. "Yes. All right."

I turn back to the bed, where my options are laid out like a pastel rainbow: soft lavender, petal pink, mint green, and the sunny yellow I'm wearing now. I hold up the purple shirt, letting it billow out, gauging his reaction.

Jed plops to the floor, crossing his legs. He narrows his eyes at the shirt. "No. That is a false sense of calm before a storm."

I pout, throwing it back to the pile. I pick up the green one. "What about this?"

He tilts his head. "Fresh. Green is good." He squints at me. "You already know this."

I bite my lip, looking back at the array of colours. I'm thinking I might just stick with the yellow I have on. Yes, green is good, but I can't keep living for green. I need to find my own favourite colour.

I glance down at the sunshiny shirt, pressing my palm to my heart, feeling it beat beneath the fabric. Slow, a little unsteady, but there.

ᖴO᙭

The lights buzz overhead, a sickly hum filling Cam's office. I lean back in the cheap, squeaky chair, legs splayed, foot tapping against the floor in this goddamn rhythm I can't shake. She's always doing fucking paperwork. I don't like it in here. I don't like waiting.