Lucy Chen is in the army, mirroring Tim Bradford's experience

cracks in the facade

The days rolled into weeks, and Lucy found herself trapped in an exhausting routine that masked her inner turmoil. Every morning, she woke up, stared at herself in the mirror, and rehearsed her smile. The same mantra played in her mind: "You're okay. You're okay." But the truth felt like an aching weight in her chest, a constant reminder that she was anything but okay.

Life outside her apartment seemed to continue without her. Tim, Angela, Nolan, and Nyla had tried their best to include her in their activities, but Lucy often felt like an outsider looking in. Each gathering, each laugh shared among friends, made her acutely aware of the chasm between her and the world. It felt as if she were watching a movie of her life while trapped in a dark theater, unable to join in on the scenes that were unfolding.

Despite her efforts to appear normal, the cracks in her facade deepened. Lucy returned to the habits that once offered her solace—self-harm and binge drinking. Each night, after the laughter faded and her friends returned to their homes, she would find herself sitting in the dim light of her apartment, a bottle of alcohol clutched tightly in her hand. The burn of the liquid sliding down her throat felt like a temporary reprieve, drowning out the haunting memories that lingered in the corners of her mind.

In moments of desperation, Lucy sought the familiar comfort of her old coping mechanisms. The pain from the razor felt like a release, a way to control the chaos within her. Each cut was both a relief and a regret, a reminder of battles fought and lost. She was fighting a war no one could see, and every time she healed, she felt the urge to tear her skin again, to feel something—anything—other than the numbness that had taken hold of her.

Lucy kept her struggles hidden, and her friends remained oblivious to the storm raging beneath her calm exterior. They believed her when she said she was okay, that she was making progress, but deep down, she knew she was losing ground. Tim had started to ask questions that made her uncomfortable, and she was terrified of his probing. He had seen her at her worst, and she feared that he would see through the cracks she had carefully concealed.

One night, after a long shift at the precinct, Lucy arrived home to find her apartment shrouded in darkness. She tossed her keys onto the kitchen counter and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. The thought of a drink filled her with anticipation, a glimmer of hope to ease the dull ache in her chest. As she poured the amber liquid into a glass, she glanced at her phone, seeing multiple missed calls and texts from her friends.

"Are you okay?" Tim had texted.

"We're worried about you," Angela followed up.

"Let us know when you're free," Nolan had added.

Lucy sighed, her heart heavy with guilt. She knew they cared, but the weight of their concern felt suffocating. She didn't want to drag them into her chaos. Taking a deep breath, she downed the drink, feeling the familiar burn spread warmth through her body. It was a fleeting moment of escape, a brief interlude from the reality she was desperate to escape.

The following day, Lucy decided to go for a run. The rhythmic pounding of her feet against the pavement usually cleared her mind, allowing her to feel alive again. As she ran through the familiar streets of Los Angeles, she tried to focus on the burn in her legs, the rush of adrenaline. But today, her thoughts were clouded with memories that rushed in like a tidal wave.

The faces of her captors danced in her mind, their taunting laughter echoing in her ears. Lucy stumbled, nearly losing her footing as she fought to push the memories away. She felt her heart race, not from the exercise but from the panic that surged within her. Forcing herself to breathe, she steadied her pace, reminding herself of the present moment. But the images refused to dissipate.

Suddenly, Lucy found herself at the edge of the bridge she often crossed on her runs. It was a place where she had always felt at peace, but now it felt different—darker. Leaning against the railing, she stared into the water below, contemplating the depths. The thought of escape teased her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.

"You could end this. You could be free."

But just as quickly, guilt and fear pulled her back. She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face as she fought against the tide of emotions. She couldn't let herself go there, not again. Shaking her head, she pushed away from the railing and continued her run, but the allure of the darkness lingered in the back of her mind.

That night, Lucy joined her friends for dinner at Tim's apartment. The atmosphere was light, filled with laughter and banter, but Lucy felt like an imposter. She forced herself to engage, to laugh at the jokes, but inside, she felt like she was crumbling. Every joke about mundane life felt like a reminder of what she couldn't grasp—a normalcy that felt forever out of reach.

During dinner, they played a game that involved sharing their thoughts and feelings. When it was Lucy's turn, she froze. The expectation of her friends weighed heavily on her shoulders. "Um... I'm good," she managed to say, offering a weak smile.

Tim raised an eyebrow. "Just good? Come on, you can do better than that. We're all friends here."

Lucy's heart raced. She felt exposed, vulnerable under their gazes. "I really am trying," she insisted, her voice wavering. "I'm just... adjusting. It's not easy."

Angela nodded sympathetically. "We know, Lucy. We're here for you, but we need to know you're okay. You don't have to hide anything from us."

Lucy swallowed hard, feeling the walls closing in. "I appreciate it, really. I just don't want to drag anyone down with me," she said, forcing a laugh that felt empty.

"You're not dragging us down. We care about you," Nolan chimed in. "We want to help, but you need to let us in."

But Lucy remained silent, retreating behind her façade once more. She couldn't let them see the turmoil within her. The thought of being a burden was too much to bear, so she clung to her mask, even as it threatened to suffocate her.

Later that night, as she lay in bed, Lucy stared at the ceiling, tears streaming down her face. The weight of her loneliness pressed down on her chest, and the emptiness enveloped her like a thick fog. She reached for her razor, the small blade glinting under the faint light from her bedside lamp. The urge surged within her—a desperate need to feel something real, something she could control.

As the blade kissed her skin, she felt the rush of relief wash over her, a momentary escape from the chaos inside. But as the crimson droplets began to fall, the guilt came flooding back. What was she doing? She wanted to be better, to be free from this cycle, but the darkness was a cruel master, always pulling her back in.