Welcome to the family || Johnnie Guilbert story

Maybe - Chapter 6

Emily's P.O.V

-one month later-

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of my window and stared out into the dreary street. It was one of those days where the sky was just dull enough to match the feelings in my body. I should have been filming, crafting content for my YouTube channel, a world where I felt like someone other than me. Right now I'd somehow amassed 900,000 followers. I think most of them came after me and Johnnie poster a picture togheter on his instagram, but still. But all I felt was the weight of everyone's expectations.

My phone buzzed on my bed, breaking me from my thoughts. Johnnie's name lit up the screen. We had kept in touch over the last couple of weeks, sending eatchother random stuff, calling eatchother.

At first i didn't feel like answaring, I didn't want to worry him, he had enough on his plate. Ever had bern going downhill since the party, Amelia was out of town so i couldn't hang out with her. I started taking pills, not my medication. I had been taking everything i could get my hands on. Right now, i was as high as the roof, the Molly i stole from the druggie at school was really good.

But as I stared at Johnnie's name on my phone, I could almost hear the dull beat of my heart syncing with the thought of it.

"Hey," I muttered, almost too quietly, when I finally picked up.

"Hey, Em. Is everything okay?" His voice gripped me like an old blanket, familiar and comforting, but also laced with concern.

I glanced around my room, band posters peeling at the corners, a guitar I hadn't touched in weeks, unopened books collecting dust. "Yeah, just... tired. You know how it is."

A brief pause hung in the air between us. "I know how it is," he responded, and I could feel the distance of his experience. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just...nothing." My fingers traced the scars on my arms, invisible tapes that held my soul together.

"You can talk to me, Emily," he urged, his tone softer, coaxing. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Pretending was all I had left, though. I wished I could tell him how the thought of picking up a blade had crossed my mind again, how the shadows had crept back under my bed and whispered old promises. "It's just this weird feeling," I said lamely. "I don't know. I've been struggling again."

"Struggling is part of life, you know?" He sounded as if he was wrestling with the words. "I don't want you to feel alone in this."

I wanted to tell him everything. But vulnerability felt like bared skin, like exposing myself to the frigid air that always found its way inside me, chilling my bones. "I just... I don't want to bring you down."

A long silence followed, long enough that I could've counted the seconds. "Emily, I've been there too. You're not bringing me down; you're keeping me company. I want to help, but I can't do that unless you're honest with me."

The truth festered like a wound, and I felt an urge to burst open like an overripe fruit; but instead, I sat there, silent. How was it that he, from his distance, could sense my unraveling? How could he somehow know that I was slowly spiraling into the comfortable embrace of my old habits?

"Talk to me," he urged again, gentler this time. "Tell me what's hurting."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, a futile attempt to block out the clamoring thoughts. I could picture him, dark hair cascading over his eyes, staring at his phone, waiting for me to say something that would release us both from this built-up tension.

"It's hard to think about it," I admitted, the words spilling out as I recalled the buzzing in my head that filled the spaces in between my anxious thoughts. "It's like I'm stuck in my own brain, and everything around me is just... it feels so far away."

"It's okay," he murmured. "You're not alone."

His words washed over me, cold and warm like rain. There was solace in knowing that he understood this place I'd returned to, a place where the nights were longer and the days blurred into a monotonous haze.

"What are you doing right now?" I asked, unwilling to steer the conversation back to mine. I wanted to know about him, about the world where he existed without the shadows following him.

"In my, uh, studio," he replied, and I imagined the clutter of musical instruments, unwashed coffee cups, and piles of research books scattered like breadcrumbs around him.

"Are you writing?" I was always curious about the creativity that ebbed from him whenever he shared snippets of his songs.

"Trying to." His voice deepened with passion and pain. "But it's hard. Sometimes I feel like there are too many voices in my head, like they'll drown me out before I can get the melodies down."

"I get it." I closed my eyes, imagining him, that halo of sadness hanging over him like a cloud ready to storm. "I really do. It's like I can hear all these pieces of me: the one that believes I'm worth something, the one that screams I'm not, and the one that's just too damn tired to fight anymore."

"Fight with me, Em. You don't have to face this alone."

The weight of his words was like a lifeline thrown in murky waters. "But what if I fail?" I whispered, the final brush of defiance in my voice.

"Then we'll figure it out together."

I hung up on him. Feeling my chest starting to tightning up as i thought about it. Maybe i couldn't do it? Maybe i was to weak. I stood up and walked over to my bathroom.

I sat down on the floor and took out the blade from my pocket. I didn't think twice before i started cutting up my arm, long and deep cuts forming over my arm as my head became lighter and lighter. The last thing i herd before pasing out was my mom screaming my name.

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