In Riptides

21 | seventeen

L I A

I wake up wearing a piece of clothing that doesn't belong to me.

It takes my thumping head a hazy moment to remember how I ended up wrapped in Nate's hoodie. I haven't worn it for weeks, not since he gave it to me when I stayed over. But last night, after the pills and the throat-searing drinks, I vaguely remember digging it out from the bottom of my drawer. Slipping it on while the room tilted and my vision tunneled. I could barely stand, but I still found that hoodie. Still wanted to feel something solid and familiar. The olive green fabric is worn and soft, the smell of the beach weaved into the fibers. Sea salt.

Him.

My heart pinches into a steady ache. He knows. Not everything, but enough to look at me with that sympathy I can't stomach. I hate that he can't stop caring, and even worse, that there's a part of me that can't let him go. Who drunkenly rummages for a piece of him to feel his comfort from a distance. I wish that part of me would disappear already.

I drag myself out of bed, my unfocused eyes landing on my piano.

'It used to be everything to you.'

I take a breath, the hoodie somehow weighing heavier on me. Pressing in the memory of us sitting on that bench. Nate listening when I played for him.

I slowly sit down and lift the dusty lid. My fingers hover above middle C, and my throat tightens. It used to be so simple. A song I loved, a note I knew by touch. Playing made the world feel small enough to hold in both hands. I could analyze every little detail that led me to those keys, dwell on each second of the day. Now it's too blurred and overwhelming and it feels like playing again would end me entirely, because I don't know if it would still sound beautiful. I don't know if I have that ability anymore, and I don't want to know.

I shut the lid and stand, peeling off the hoodie too. It clings to me for a second, like it doesn't want to let go. But I do, so I ball it up and shove it into the back of my drawer, telling myself it's just another piece of clothing. Not the last thing that made me feel safe.

None of this is mine anymore. The piano, the hoodie. It's just a reminder of who I was before. A reminder of what I've lost.

I dig past the folded clothes until I find the little orange bottle in the depths. It rattles faintly in my hand, half-full, but I don't need much. I dry-swallow one and wait for the knot in my chest to loosen. Forget the music. Forget the memories.

Forget Nate.

When I make my way downstairs, the walls of the house narrow in around me as if they're trying to squeeze me out of here. They don't have to try so hard. I'm convinced.

The kitchen smells like sweetness when I walk in, both tangible and fake, and it hits me like a gust of overbright noise.

"Happy birthday, farfallina!" Mom exclaims, leaping up from the island with a wide smile.

She's holding a plate of cupcakes, candles already lit. They flicker in the morning light, arranged in the shape of the number seventeen.

Right. Today is my birthday.

Rob grins half-heartedly, Derek raises his coffee mug like a toast. I force a weak smile. It feels like I'm borrowing my own face.

Seventeen.

There was a time where I would've been counting down the minutes to this particular birthday. Seventeen always seemed like the be-all and end-all, a promise of everything I wanted as a kid. When life falls into place.