When The World Turns

Chapter 8 (Official)

I feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach when I spot Ethan standing there, having witnessed it all. My body goes cold. Without a thought, I turn and bolt. Or at least I try to. Pain shoots up my leg from where I hit the floor earlier, making me stumble pathetically as I try to escape. My body's too wreck to move properly, but I need to get away, I need to hide.

Somewhere behind me, I hear his voice, soft and hesitant, "Hey.."

But I don't stop, I can't. A second later, I feel his hand catch my arm gently but firm enough to steady me as I sway. I yank slightly, trying to pull free, hiding my face with my other arm. God, I don't want him to see me like this.

He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, holding my arm lightly, giving me that same soft and concerned look, the one that makes it even worse somehow. Like he's seeing all the ugly parts I try to hide. Don't look at me like that, I beg of you.

I tug again, weakly but with a slight more power than the last one. His hand tightens just a little, not letting go. He's trying to help. But I can't do this, I can't.

"Please," I whisper, my voice cracking, barely audible.

He hears it, causing him to slowly loosen his grip. His free hand shifts lightly, reaching out towards me.

I don't know what he's about to do. I just know I don't want anyone touching me or seeing me like this. I flinch, pulling back instinctively, my body reacting before I can even think.

He freezes, a pained look flashes across his face as he shifts a half step back, giving me space. HIs hand hanging awkwardly in the air between us.

My chest twists at the sight. He wasn't trying to hurt me, he was just.. A tear slips down my cheek before I can catch it. I turn my face away with shame, not just of myself but for making him look like that.

I don't notice when he moves again, I don't even realize he's close until I feel it. A delicate, soft, and hesitant pat against the top of my head. Light and careful, barely there.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, voice low, heavy with guilt. Apologizing for things he can't fix.

He steps back, hesitating for a moment like he wanted to say more, but he doesn't. Then he pulls away, like he's afraid of doing any more damage. He doesn't walk away. He stays there, a few feet behind me, just watching. Not hovering or crowding me, just close enough, like he's making sure I don't fall. Maybe he's waiting for me to ask for help, but I can't. I can't bring myself to look at him

I drag myself to the nearest bathroom, each step heavier than the last one. My legs burning with every movement, a physical reminder of how hard I've fallen. The hallway feels endless, stretching out too long. But I can't stop now. I can't let him see how much it hurts. If I slow down, I'll collapse. I can't let him see me fall apart like this.

I push the bathroom door open with shaky hands, and the door swings shut with a soft thud. The fluorescent lights hum above, too bright, too white.

I let myself breathe. Alone. It's quieter here, but it only amplifies the noise in my head. I don't look up right away.

I stagger over to the sink and drop my bag onto it with a loud slam, the echo ricocheting off the tiles.

For a moment, I just stand there, breathing heavily, watching myself.

I look like shit. Red eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair clinging to my skin. Wrecked with a bruised pride and a broken heart.

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes again, but I shove them down. I can't cry anymore. Not right now.

I unzip my bag slowly and pull out my comb with stiff fingers, and start brushing my hair. Not frantically, not angrily. Just...quietly.

Every stroke is slow and orderly. Not because it's working, but because it's something to do. Something I can control.

My reflection blurs a little from the tears I refuse to shed. Get it together, I whisper in my head. You have to, you have to toughen up.

The brush drags through the knots gently. I don't even wince at the snags. I just keep going.

Fixing my hair, straightening my wrinkled clothes, and wiping my face dry. Trying to piece myself back together like a broken rag doll someone tossed aside.

Toughen up, I tell myself again, softer this time. It's more like a prayer than a command.

Because if I don't, no one else will do it for me.

Because if I don't, I'll keep breaking.