[First Draft] Unresolved (New Chapters Daily)

Part Twenty Three

**Warning. Includes mention of blood, self harm, suicidal ideation. Not appropriate for those with a sensitive disposition**

Eva's POV

Bang bang bang bang. The sound is relentless, each strike pounding through the fog in my head, sending a sharp pain through my skull. I clutch my temples, squeezing my eyes shut against the ache, but it doesn't stop. It feels like the sound itself is digging into me, like the glass still embedded in my feet. I bite back a groan and force myself to sit up, my body screaming in protest with every movement. A mess—that's what I am. My eyes adjust slowly to the dim light filtering through the curtains, and the disaster of last night comes into focus.

The room reeks of stale alcohol and vomit, a sour tang that turns my stomach. Shards of broken vodka bottles glitter like deadly little stars across the stained carpet. I spot dark patches where blood has soaked into the rug, smudged and smeared where I must have stumbled. The corner near my desk is a ruin, splattered with vomit that I don't even remember letting loose. A wave of nausea rises again, but I push it down, reaching for my legs.

My hands tremble as I pull at a piece of glass lodged in my heel, pain flaring hot and sharp. Blood wells up around the shard, but I can barely feel it anymore—just a distant, dull throb that matches the pounding at my door.

More voices join the banging outside, muffled and urgent, fighting their way through the haze in my head.

"Eva? It's me. Come on, open up. Just let me know you're okay, please."

I freeze, the glass slipping from my grip. Robin. What the hell is he doing here? Panic snaps me into focus for the first time in hours, adrenaline cutting through the fog. He can't see me like this. No one can. I look around wildly, searching for something to cover myself with, but there's nothing. Just the mess I've made, the ruin I've turned myself into.

The floor sways under me as I try to stand, a vicious wave of vertigo knocking me back onto the bed. The glass crunches beneath my hands, a reminder of my own stupidity. My feet throb with every attempt to steady myself, the room spinning in lazy, sickening circles.

"Eva, please, just let me in." Robin's voice cuts through again, quieter, almost pleading. He sounds closer, like he's pressing his face to the door, listening for any sign of life from me. But I can't let him in, can't let him see the broken shards of who I've become. I look down at my bloodstained hands, my breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps, and feel the edges of a sob clawing up my throat.

My mind races, trying to make sense of things. Why would he come here? Is he worried? Is he angry? Does he know what happened, or is he just playing some twisted game, trying to catch me in my lowest moment? I press my hands against my chest, feeling my heart race against my ribs. It's too much. All of it.

The pounding stops suddenly, leaving an awful silence in its place. My ears ring with it, the quiet more deafening than the noise. I press my cheek against the cool door, feeling the vibrations of movement on the other side—Robin pacing back and forth, maybe. I imagine him running a hand through his hair, muttering to himself, frustration leaking into every step. I try to picture his face, that mask of concern he always wears so well, and the bitterness bubbles up again. Why does he get to pretend like he cares, like this is all just some misunderstanding?

I can feel my strength fading, each breath turning more shallow, more ragged. My legs buckle, and I slump down to the floor, glass digging into my skin. I want to call out, to scream at him to leave me alone, but the words stay stuck in my throat. I'm too tired, too broken.

"Eva, I'm not going anywhere. If you can hear me, just... please, let me help you." His voice is softer now, and it hits something raw in me, makes my chest tighten until I can barely breathe.