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That day, I was on edge the entire morning. It was around 7:30 a.m. when Connor dropped me off, and the air between us was heavy with unspoken tension. He hadn't said much during the drive, just a few half-hearted comments about how tired he was. I didn't push him, still too wrapped up in the haze of last night to really argue. My head was pounding, and my body still felt heavy and sore in a way that didn't sit right with me.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, I made sure to be quiet. The house was still, no signs of anyone being up yet. I crept inside, careful not to make any noise as I shut the door behind me. Everyone was still asleep, which was a relief—I wasn't in the mood to explain why I was coming home so early, still in yesterday's clothes. I didn't have the energy for that.
I made my way up the stairs, tiptoeing like I was sneaking out of some forbidden place. My heart raced with the fear of getting caught, even though I knew my family wouldn't be up for at least another hour. Once I reached my room, I closed the door softly behind me and leaned against it, exhaling deeply.
Everything felt... wrong. I should've been relieved to be home, to be in my space where I could relax and clear my head, but instead, I was tense. Unsettled. Something kept gnawing at the back of my mind, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
I plugged my phone in to charge—it had died sometime during the night—and as soon as it powered back on, I saw a flood of unread messages. But I couldn't deal with that right now.
I stripped off my clothes, tossing them onto the floor like they were contaminated, and made my way to the shower. The second the hot water hit my skin, I felt a strange mix of relief and disgust. I grabbed the soap and started scrubbing, harder and harder, like I needed to erase something. My skin turned red beneath my hands, but I kept going.
I felt gross. Not just dirty—filthy. Like something was clinging to me that no amount of soap could wash away.
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I wrapped myself in a towel, still feeling the lingering heaviness of the night before. The steam filled the bathroom, but it did nothing to clear the fog in my mind. I took a deep breath and headed back to my room, where I found Eloise perched at the end of my bed, her arms crossed and an expression of concern etched across her face.
"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving early?" she asked, her voice steady but tinged with frustration.
For a second, I was confused, but then it hit me. "I just didn't want to ruin your night. You looked like you were having fun," I replied, forcing a small smile to my lips. I didn't want to drag her down with my problems.
"I'm your best friend! You should've come to get me, Blair. We could've come home to movies or something," she insisted, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"It's fine," I snapped, my annoyance bubbling up. The last thing I wanted was to have this conversation right now. The pressure built in my chest, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of frustration and guilt.
"Blair, it's not fine," Eloise pressed, her voice softer now. "You can't just disappear like that."
I sighed, running a hand through my damp hair. "I'm sorry, okay? I just thought it would be easier this way." I hated how defensive I sounded, but the truth was, I didn't want to drag her into my mess.
Eloise's expression softened. "You don't have to go through this alone. I'm here for you, you know that, right?"
"I know," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I sat down on my bed, the weight of everything crashing down on me. "I'm really sorry for snapping at you. I didn't mean it."
She smiled gently, the tension between us easing just a bit. "Just promise me next time, you'll let me know. No matter what."
"Promise," I said, feeling a flicker of warmth in my chest as we exchanged a knowing look.
