Through the Dark

Chapter 2: Things could be worse... but not by much

So, here's the thing. I don't believe in fate, destiny, or any of that crap that people use to justify their life choices. You know, like, "Oh, it's meant to be!" Yeah, well, sometimes what's "meant to be" is a whole lot of bad decisions and poor judgment. And I've had my fair share of both. But today? Today's a special kind of shitshow.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop—mug in hand, fake smile on my face—and for once, I'm not pretending to be fine. I'm really not fine. I haven't been for a while. But of course, that's not the version of me that anyone gets to see. No, they get the Gracie who laughs when she wants to scream, who cracks jokes because the idea of admitting she's not okay might just make her vomit. So, to everyone else, I'm the girl with a snarky comment ready for any situation, the one who always has something sarcastic to say, but really, I'm just trying to keep it together. And let's be real, that's going... pretty much terribly.

Anyway, I take a sip of my coffee—mediocre at best—and look around the shop. Of course, there's a couple making googly eyes at each other, whispering sweet nothings like "You're my world," and "I'll never let you go." Throw up. I don't know who decided that public displays of affection should be a thing, but I hope they trip on their own shoelaces and fall face-first into a puddle of whatever kind of goo they think they're made of.

My phone buzzes. Great. Another message from my best friend who clearly has her life together. "OMG, Gracie, I've got so much to tell you! You won't believe it!!" Of course, she does. She's got the perfect boyfriend, the perfect wardrobe, the perfect life. Meanwhile, I'm over here trying to figure out how I'm going to survive the next five minutes without asking someone to explain how I ended up with the title of "Perpetual Disaster."

I type back a quick "Good for you, I'm here surviving" and hit send, only to immediately regret it because now I look like a moody, insufferable bitch. Oh well. If the shoe fits.

But wait. The real kicker? A guy walks into the coffee shop, and for a brief second, I think he might actually be a mirage. Like, my eyes are playing tricks on me. Because this guy... this guy looks like he stepped out of a frickin' romance novel. He's tall, blonde, and so casually good-looking that I almost want to throw my coffee at him just to see if he's real. Not that I'm interested, of course. I don't do the "let's swoon over the pretty boy" thing. No, that's for the basic bitches in the corner, not me. I can't even be bothered to pretend that I care.

I look away and go back to my phone, fully aware of the fact that I'm trying way too hard to act like I don't care. Which, of course, only makes me look even more like a dickhead. Classic Gracie.