Intoxicating

Heart in Prison

⚠️TW: MENTION OF SU!C!DE⚠️

Leia's POV

Two days had passed, and I barely left my room except for work. The rest of the time, I stayed curled up in bed, the weight of everything pressing down on me. My eyes burned from crying, my head ached, and my heart felt like it had been wrung out and left to dry. I kept replaying that night over and over, trying to understand. Trying to make sense of why Timothée pulled away.

Was there someone else?

The thought gnawed at me, making my stomach twist. I thought he loved me-I knew he loved me. So why did he hesitate? Why did he look at me like he was breaking when I only wanted to be close to him?

I pulled his hoodie tighter around me, the sleeves long enough to cover my hands. It smelled like him-like his cologne, like the warmth of his skin. I buried my face in the fabric, inhaling deeply, wishing it was him instead. Wishing I could understand what had changed.

My phone sat on my nightstand, untouched. I hadn't texted him. He hadn't texted me. The silence between us was unbearable, but I was too afraid to break it. Afraid of what I might find out.

I closed my eyes, willing myself to sleep, but all I could see was him-his hands gripping my shirt, his lips against mine, and then the way he pulled back like it hurt him to do it.

I didn't know how much longer I could keep pretending I was okay.

My mom barged in without knocking, like she always did, and yanked the curtains open. Sunlight flooded my room, burning my already aching eyes. I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head.

"Come on, Leia. Enough of this," she huffed, hands on her hips.

"Leave me alone to die, Mom," I mumbled into my pillow.

She scoffed. "Oh, please. You're not dying. You're sulking."

I rolled my eyes under the blanket. "Same thing."

She sighed, walking over and ripping the covers off me. "No, it's not. Now get up. You can't just lie in bed over some boy-"

I sat up, glaring at her. "He's not just some boy."

She crossed her arms. "Right, he's Timothée," she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "The same Timothée who locked you in a basement for day. The same one I had to pick you up from the police station for. The same one you're willing to waste away over."

I clenched my jaw. "You don't understand," I muttered, looking away.

She sighed again, softer this time. "No, Leia. You don't understand."

I shook my head, refusing to listen. Refusing to hear whatever lecture she had locked and loaded. Instead, I reached for the hood of the hoodie and pulled it over my head. My mom sighed, but I ignored her.

My mom stopped at the door, hand on the knob, and turned to face me. "You're coming with me to a meeting tonight," she said.

I furrowed my brows, already shaking my head. "Meeting? What meeting?"

She hesitated for a second before exhaling. "A Stockholm Syndrome support group."

I blinked at her, feeling like I'd misheard. "Stockholm Syndrome?" I repeated, my voice flat. "What do you mean?"

My mom tilted her head, her expression careful, like she was trying not to set me off. "Leia, you were kidnapped."

I shot up in bed. "What? No, I wasn't!"

"You were taken away from your family, from your home," she insisted, crossing her arms.

I stared at her in disbelief. "Mom, I left with Timothée. I wasn't taken."