The Bikini Syndrome | WATTYS2019

» forty-one: a slap

"You're late," Oliver remarked observantly when Holly walked into first period statistics the next morning.

"Shut up," she said, slinging her bag over the side of her seat. "I was talking to Sadie last night."

Oliver raised an eyebrow and smiled.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said, though he was hiding his mouth behind the palm of his hand. Holly knew he was smiling.

Holly took a seat and took out her notebook for the class. As she riffled through her bag for a pencil — literally any pencil, she was always losing hers — she accidentally took her nightmare notebook out.

Holly quickly put it back, hoping no one had seen. It wasn't as if she had written the words "Nightmare Notebook" on it or anything, but to her, it felt as if even having it was screaming I'm mental, I'm a big mess, I go see a therapist because I have 99 tricking problems and I can't solve a single one of them.

Halfway through class, Olivrt slipped her a note. It didn't even register to her at first that it was a note. While neither of them were star students, this wasn't something they'd done before either.

Lunch?

Why? she scribbled back.

Just because.

Fine.

By the time lunch rolled around, Holly thought she was about to throw up just from nerves. How ironic, she thought. Just when she was trying to get better — whatever that meant — she couldn't even eat, even if she wanted to. Just the thought of eating food with someone else made her want to hurl.

But she couldn't exactly tell Oliver that. She couldn't exactly figure out how to, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to either. The way Holly saw it, if she started saying the words, it would feel like opening a can of worms she wasn't ready to face yet.

Maybe one day, she thought.

When did that happen? When had the gaps between her and other people grown so wide without her noticing?

At what point had life happened?

It was easy to blame the things that had happened. They were definitely part of it. But Holly realized she had definitely withdrawn herself in the last few months, suddenly afraid of something she couldn't express.

Not just something out there.

Not just Rohan.

But everything. Holly had grown afraid of even ordinary things, like talking to new people, or striking up conversations with old friends. She'd become insecure in those relationships, afraid to say something she couldn't take back.

After all, when people asked "How are you?", how many actually wanted to hear the real answer?

How many wanted to hear, "I'm not doing great. My life kind of sucks, actually. I've been feeling really shitty lately because of XYZ"?

Besides Dr. Inho, Holly couldn't think of anyone off the top of her head who would listen to something like that and not think she was weird.

She met Oliver in the parking lot. He opened the door for her, like a gentlemen. Holly tried to smile. It was a nice gesture. Once upon a time, she might've swooned.

She couldn't help noticing his hand on the gear shift as he drove. The steady way his eyes focused on the road. His long fingers, wrapped in nine and five on the steering wheel.

But when she thought about weaving their fingers together, something she had probably fantasized about a thousand times before — BR, before Rohan — she couldn't. She couldn't imagine getting that close to someone ever again. She couldn't imagine a big hand to be warm and comforting, instead of frightening and demanding.

Despite the warm weather, when they pulled up in front of a kitschy sandwich shop, Holly had goosebumps when she stepped out of the car.

Holly was starting to feel numb. Numb and cold. Like she was underwater, deep, deep underwater. Not like she drowning, she could breathe just fine, but more like she was submerged. Everything around her sounded dull, the colors faded.

"You are going to eat, aren't you?" Oliver teased when they sat down. He was referencing the sandwich Holly had ordered without even paying attention. It had olives, parmesan cheese, turkey breast, and marinara sauce.

Even if Holly had an appetite — which she didn't, and hadn't had for months — she didn't think the sandwich looked very appetizing.

"Here," Oliver said, handing her half of his.

"No, it's okay," Holly mumbled. She shoved it back towards him.

He grabbed her wrist.

It was a gentle action. It wasn't much of a grab so much as a light wrap of his fingers on her skin. It should have felt warm. It should have given her tingles.

But it was the last straw.

She felt cold, clammy, anxious, like she was going to sweat out of her own skin.

Holly slapped his hand away. "Sorry, I'm going home. I don't...I don't feel well."

It wasn't a lie. But Holly still felt horrible as she walked away.

A/N: I revisited this story recently & reread it on my phone and realized that I was actually so close to finishing. Painfully close, in fact. I really be sippin' my lazy bitch juice three meals a day lol.

But honestly, it's not just about finishing (I mean, it is, but also it isn't). It's about what I meant for this story to be — it wasn't supposed to heal wounds or be a therapist for anyone. But it was supposed to be a story of personal growth and self-love that people on Wattpad could read and maybe relate to, as they're facing their own tragedies and making their own journeys.

I want to see this through to the finish.

So, here we go. We're at the home stretch!