desertion

138

LYDIA

I can feel it creeping in-again. The pressure, the exhaustion, the constant weight on my shoulders. It's suffocating me, but I can't stop. I don't know how to.

My fingers are stiff on the keyboard, typing in a blur of half-formed thoughts. The screen in front of me looks like a mess of numbers and paragraphs, none of it making sense. I want to scream, but I don't have the energy.

"You're really doing this again, aren't you?"

I freeze. My dad's voice, sharp but tired, breaks through the chaos of my mind. I don't even look at him. I keep typing, even though my brain is screaming at me to stop.

"I'm fine, Dad," I mutter, my voice hoarse from the endless nights of little sleep.

"No, you're not," he snaps back, louder this time. "You've been at this for hours. You're gonna burn yourself out if you keep going like this."

I finally slam the laptop shut, the sound startling me. My hands are shaking, and my heart is pounding. My dad doesn't know what it feels like to be constantly juggling everything at once. Work, school, life. He never has to carry all of it on his own.

"I said I'm fine, okay?" I grit my teeth, my words coming out sharper than I intended.

I hear him exhale slowly, like he's trying to calm himself down before he speaks again. "No, you're not. You've been snapping at everyone, including me. You think I don't notice? You're exhausted, Lydia. You need to rest."

"Well, I'm not tired," I snap, my voice rising. "I don't need rest. I need to finish this."

"That's not healthy, and you know it," he replies, his tone frustrated but with a hint of concern.

I push my chair back, standing up so quickly that it almost tips over. I can feel the anger rising in my chest like a storm ready to break. "I don't need you to tell me what I need, okay? I've got it under control."

Marisol, who's been sitting on the couch, doesn't say anything at first, but I can feel her gaze on me. She's always so quiet, just watching, waiting for the right moment to intervene.

"Lydia," she says finally, her voice gentle but firm, "You need to take a step back. You're burning yourself out. No one is saying you can't work hard, but you can't keep pushing yourself this hard and expect to be okay."

I spin around to face her, my frustration boiling over. "I don't need anyone telling me how to live my life!" I almost shout.

The room goes silent. Marisol looks hurt, but she doesn't back down. She just looks at me with those soft eyes, waiting for me to calm down.

But I can't. I can't stop the anger, the frustration, the overwhelming sense that everything is slipping through my fingers.

"All you do is tell me what to do," I mutter, my voice barely a whisper now. "It's like you think I'm some kind of child who can't figure things out on my own."

I hear my dad sigh. "Lydia, that's not what we're trying to do. We're just worried about you."

"Worried about me?!" I feel the sharp edge of my words slice through the air. "I don't need you to worry about me. I'm fine."

I can't breathe. I can't think. The walls are closing in, and all I want is to get away from this, from the noise, from everything.

Without thinking, I grab my bag off the chair and sling it over my shoulder.

"I'm done," I mutter, my voice cracking as I reach for the door.

"Lydia, don't walk away from this," my dad says, his voice more pleading now.

But I don't stop. I just open the door and slam it behind me, my heart pounding in my chest.

I don't even know where I'm going, but I need to be away from them. From everything.

Once I'm outside, the cold air hits me like a slap in the face. It doesn't feel good. Nothing feels good.

I stand there for a moment, just breathing in the chilly night air, trying to clear my mind. But I can't.

I can't even think straight.

I groan, putting my hands in my hair and pulling at the strands like it might help me feel better. It doesn't. It only makes the frustration worse.

I'm so tired. So tired of everything. Of feeling like I'm stuck in this never-ending cycle of work, school, and pretending I'm okay when I'm not.

I want to scream, but I don't. I just stand there, letting the cool air numb me, even though it doesn't help.

I hear the sound of the door opening behind me, and I don't turn around.

I don't want to face anyone right now.

"Lydia, please," my dad's voice calls softly. "Come back inside."

But I don't move.

I feel his hand on my shoulder, gentle and warm, and for a moment, I want to let myself lean into it. But I don't.

"I'm just tired, Dad," I say, my voice shaking now. "I'm so tired."

"I know," he says quietly, "but running away isn't going to fix it. You've got to take care of yourself. Please, Lydia."

I don't say anything. I just close my eyes and let the tears I've been holding back slip down my face.

I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to fix me.

But all I know is that I'm trying. I really am.