[Strange by Celeste]

COMMENT COMMENT COMMENT.

TWENTY: when you hold yourself accountable

PAUL

I hadn't created anything worth anything in too long.

It was almost like my hands were confused of themselves, my mind drawing blanks every time I sat down in my studio. SAIC was expensive, of course, and the facilities clearly reflected it. The studios were the size of two classrooms, completely empty with the exception of drafting tables for each artist. A few easels were lined up against the wall and in other departments such as photo, there were computers, printers and the extension of a dark room.

My apartment was conveniently about five minutes away from the studio building and ten minutes from campus so dropping by and creating on the way too and fro was easy.

In theory, at least, it seemed like it would be easy, that was really why I'd rented out the place, and in tuition and loans, it felt wast to justify the extra thousand a month. It was easy, for the first year but as things in my personal life became less hectic and I -in turn- started to go through more heartache, I hated how one-toned my work had become and my artistic drive had slowed. 

All my pieces started to feel morose, sad really and the lack of inspiration caused me to halt altogether.

I hadn't made anything substantial in months and despite having ample time to decide on a final, I didn't even have a thumbnail sketch that might even kind of work out. "Fuck!"

Nothing worth sale.

It was so silent when I'd groaned, scratching out the sketch I'd been deliberating on, it filling up too much of the page. In heated frustration, I ripped it out, dropping it onto the floor alongside splatters of dried paint. The assignment was to use both natural and man-made materials and assemble a two-foot high sculpture that represented some fucking theme and I both had no theme or idea of materials to use.

What would I say? What did I even have to say recently? I was in such an artistic slump and the other painting majors I shared this studio with probably laughed at the lack of art I left in this room each night.

I made nothing aside from still lifes recently, maybe what my art needed was a change of scenery.

At some point, I started to feel more like Picasso, minus the emotional turmoil, he too had lost love, lost family and stopped creating because of it.

All the greats had periods where they went through blocks, right? What if tortured artists existed but only in a fraction of those creating masterpieces and artists like Van Gogh would be an anomaly? Maybe trudging through grief could influence work that reflected anguish but in less developed artists, a color palette that only reflected inner melancholy.

Maybe I just didn't have the range or the ability to focus on my art when my grandmother was so sick she could barely get out of bed, all my work looked the same just as she did every week I visited. What if seeing her tubed up was the reason it weighed so heavy on me.

But, what if that was just an excuse? Maybe I just didn't have the drive.

I can do this if I push myself.

Sketching out a curve, I went to mimic movement in dance -maybe if I focused in on something that reminded me of Abuelita, there would be an emotion that transcended the fear for her state.  I tried my best to draft out something that resembled a tango, but it quickly turned phallic and I found myself crumpling the page tossing it as well.

If I kept trying, kept coming in here every night and enduring endless hours of fruitless attempts in the pursuit of something more, there could be an off chance that I'd go home satisfied with what I'd done.

And if it worked out, if it actually worked out and I didn't fail my final... I could give her the piece since she was it's muse.

"You okay?" Izzy was always close by, maybe that wasn't so much a good thing. His studio was in the same building and I often had to restrain myself from entering it. From the portfolios he consistently brought home, I knew that it was chock-full of amazing work. He'd been doing creative, editorial-looking shoots recently and I had no interest in making myself feel worse than I already did.

I was envious, so completely and utterly jealous at his ability to pop out photograph after photograph, each more incredible than the last. Just his presence constantly reminded me that he was so talented, everyone here was.

I can do this, I told myself, I needed to stop comparing myself to others because that was when the doubt came. I was talented, had to be to get here in the first place and there was no way I was gonna fail my final.

Izzy's voice was gentle, it always was and he was stepping into the room, carefully carrying some prints he'd no-doubt come down to show me. His arms curled around them, sandwiched in between cardboard and he was walking slowly in my direction.

He always felt the need to get my opinion on the things he'd done, maybe he lacked the confidence to critique it himself but truly he should have trusted his own vision.

When he'd gotten close enough, he cautiously placed his work on my drafting table. Sliding to the floor beside me, he peered over my sketches... or lack thereof. His bottom lip was tucked in between perfect teeth, hazel eyes in a narrowed focused and I scratched the back of my head nervously, hoping he'd have something constructive to say.

Isaiah was one of the most artistic people I'd known, he was gifted, and I knew it was mostly talent. It was like he had it ingrained in his bones, something in him always knew when to take a chance and it always paid off but with that, he wasn't very calculated.

He just... did things, just made art and didn't give much thought to it. He acted on emotion and feeling, paying very little attention to the rules that may apply and it always worked out for him, that was something that infuriated me. Maybe he was more of a Van Gogh, maybe he could turn anguish into passion, if he ever felt anguish that is.

Forcing a small smile, I found myself nodding. "Yeah." Grabbing for my sketchbook, I pulled it onto my lap, writing down the materials I could use as his presence started to make me feel unproductive.

I could use clay maybe for my natural material. Everyone would be using stones, slate, maybe dried leaves.

I hated every single one of those ideas.

"Need any help?" Isaiah asked, tugging at the sleeves of his t-shirt and leaning closer to me. He was looking over my shoulder, arm pressed into mine and when I gave him my confused look, he elaborated. "With a concept."

When he'd turned to meet my eyes, he was close, closer than I really wanted him to be and his eyes were on my lips.

I tried not to allow my smile to turn condescending; he took graphics classes, he had a fashion minor and I just didn't think he could give me any advice that I didn't already know. Maybe the fact that I didn't really think his help would be beneficial was what made me almost reject it but I reconsidered before speaking.

I definitely needed a new perspective.

Sighing, I shook my head, laying back on the ground in defeat. "I don't know what I'm doing." I admitted and his chuckle afterwards rubbed me the wrong way.

Tilting his head back, he stared at the ceiling as if he was already thinking. "What class is this for?"

"It's for my Sculpture final, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing." Tossing the sketchbook to the side, I went to rant to my roommate, hoping he'd just listen. I wasn't sure what I really wanted from Isaiah but I knew I needed to get it off my chest. "I don't have a concept or any real ideas, I-I don't know what I'm gonna make or even what I'm gonna make it out of."

At how fast I was speaking, he shrunk back, words containing a bit of laughter in a situation that I didn't find amusing in the slightest. "You have time, you'll figure it out."

That was it: I didn't have the time to figure it out. We were supposed to have a concept the week before, our thumbnails were due that following Monday and honestly at the rate I was going, I might have had one by the deadline... maybe.

But I can do this. Maybe if I told myself enough, it would be true.

Still, he persisted, something I didn't find all that endearing about Isaiah was his inability to take no for an answer. He always had some confidence that -at times- could feel overwhelming. "Didn't you have some bark that you were working on earlier? I looked and I do still have metal left over from Vicky's film." He tried, recalling the concept I'd been working with the week prior.

But it was sweet, I had to give him that. Even despite how little I'd given him to hold onto, he always found a way to make me think positively especially when I was so pessimistic recently.

This wasn't me, I knew it, I never thought so negatively but all the negatives in life were rushing in and invading and suddenly, I couldn't imagine a scenario where I wasn't in a creative block.

"Scrapped it," at his soft 'aw' I refrained from explaining that not everyone had an abundance of time and money at their disposal, yeah Izzy wasn't rich... he was putting himself through school but he had commission after commission just falling into his lap. He always had work. "I didn't have enough material, could I have the metal, though?"

"For sure." I sucked in a slower breath at that, trying to calm down, to tell myself that I had the time to get everything together. "Paul, it's not due for a month, you'll be fine."

His hand was resting on my knee then, maybe an attempt at making me feel comfortable but it did the exact opposite.

"I really don't wanna be touched right now." Shifting out of his hold, maybe it was too abrupt, because I watched his face instantly turned from nervous to concerned.

Busying myself, I kept my eyes on my paper as to not allude to anything more than that. He always found subtle ways to touch me, found some comfort in cuddling up beside me after a long day or leaning on me when we sat on the couch and it was getting to be months since he'd asked me out.

And it was weird, it was so weird how he seemed so understanding at first, so 'I care about you, I understand,' and there was no change. He was still the same nice guy that he was before I said no and honestly, when I rejected him, I thought the whole boyfriend thing would end.

I thought he'd change a bit when just friends became set in stone, but he didn't.

"Sorry." His perfect brows were furrowed and he went to ask another fucking question. "You want me to go get you a coffee?"

I wasn't sure why but all this talking was starting to irritate me. Maybe I was starting to get annoyed with his overeagerness to please me because I allowed it.

Isaiah wasn't my boyfriend and I already spent every day right next to him, we lived together for god's sake. He didn't have to show up at my studio and ask me to go places and include me in every fucking thing.

I wasn't interested, I made that so abundantly clear, there was no need for him to act so friendly. He wasn't my best friend. But he was a good friend so I bit my tongue, tried not to get too visibly upset because this anger stemmed from a place that had absolutely nothing to do with him.

I couldn't take my fears of failure and loss out on someone who was just trying to help, I wasn't that kind of person.

"No thanks." I'd settled for a small, polite reply, thankful when he'd stood to walk around the studio. Normally, he'd enter to check in on how assignments were fucking me over, we'd get a coffee and talk it out and he always had a happy-go-lucky attitude that would perk me right up.

But now I just wanted to focus on what I'd been slacking at and he was observing a piece that I'd nearly finished.

"This is coming out nice." He offered another conversation, hand grazing over the skirt that I'd been constructing. "Another final?"

"Commission." Shaking my head, I voiced how ludicrous the request had been. "This girl wanted a fucking skirt made of plexiglass." Commissions were so slow for me recently that I started to say yes just to get some extra cash in my pocket. Retail didn't pay well and I wasn't qualified for anything else except food service. "I think it's for some futuristic party or something, didn't really ask."

"This is made of glass?" Didn't I just say that? "You're talented as fuck, Paul."

When it went silent again, I was exploring the dancing concept that I had before. Maybe the sculpture would be about masculine versus feminine energy entertwined in the tango. I could use the metal rods Isaiah had and maybe somehow contribute a... gentler material to counteract it.

I was thinking of shapes, how to mold whatever natural material I ended up using when Isaiah spoke again. "If you wanna take a break at some point, I was gonna head to the farmer's market... maybe you could find some materials you like-"

"I have too much to do." I dismissed instantly, the words coming out so harsh, they took me back. Squeezing my eyes shut when I realized how mean it sounded, I went to apologize. I still had to live with the guy, I couldn't be so mean."Look, Iz, I'm not trying to be rude but I'm really-I'm really stressed right now, okay? I've just gotta focus."

When it was silent, I tried not to overthink the impact my response might have had.

"Yeah." He answered after a short while. When I turned to look at him, he had a small smile on his face, shaking his head. "Yeah, sure, sorry."

Within seconds, he had all of his things gathered and he was standing there like he expected me to change my mind. "I'll head out then."

"Thanks."

And he was almost out the door when he spoke again, he always did have a pep talk brewing. "Um... good luck, I know you'll make something amazing."

JULIAN

My head was hurting when I woke up the next day. I always had chronic headaches, the only time they really didn't disturb me was when I'd been on my medication consistently, it made me numb which, in hindsight, was what I preferred over this.

My brain felt like it was rattling around in my skull, the light gleaming in my eyes and I'd taken a nap mid-day. I wasn't sure when exactly I'd fallen asleep, my anxiety keeping me up well throughout the night with problems that I couldn't even solve while I was supposed to be awake let alone in the middle of the night.

Waking, I threw an arm over my face, a part of me hoping to suffocate or at least fall back asleep before the day set in. When I finally had the energy to check my phone, wondering what the time was, it was well past two p.m. and I'd done absolutely nothing.

Throwing myself back in my bed, I grabbed the covers, hoping that I could just got back to sleep and try again the next day and when an hour passed, I forced myself to get up.

I was just laying in my bed and that was what happened before, I didn't force myself up before and I started to sink into depressing thoughts and if I did that here, I definitely wouldn't hear the end of it.

Sluggishly, I sat up, pulling a tee over my frame and trudging to the bathroom, pill in my hand again.

This would be the third day since I'd started back and I tried not to place too much importance on it.

My bags had only gotten worse, acne persistent and dotting the freckled skin along my chin and I tried not to stare too much at the spots. Sucking in a breath, I brushed my teeth, eyes focusing in on my reflection. I didn't even have the energy to care about my messy hair and dead eyes, my face had hollowed out and my complexion had gotten a bit pale.

Since living in California, I'd somewhat developed the tan but when I stopped actually going outside for long periods of time... my skin returned to it's natural hue, and when I spent everyday in bed, it turned milky.

I looked like I'd been in a casket for three months and truly, it reflected how I felt on the inside.

Splashing water in my face, and swallowing down the pill, I rubbed underneath my eyes, hoping hopelessly that it would un-dent the bags that sat there. I sighed when it proved impossible instead running wet hands through my hair, I hadn't washed it in two days and I made a mental note to make sure that I didn't go to bed in this same outfit.

I sucked in a breath before walking back over to my dresser, hand shakily reaching for the top drawer. I bypassed the jewelry that sat there, I wasn't sure why Jade had done so -maybe she didn't have enough space- but she was using the drawer space in my room and her jewelry and clothing that probably didn't fit in her room was now in here.

I dug around the earrings and necklaces she had resting in little dividers looking for my own stuff. Upon lifting a divider, my breath caught in my throat.

I tried not to react too much, tried to take it out with minimal reaction. I was holding my purity ring, sliding it onto the silver chain alongside a tiny little crucifix. I hadn't worn this since she'd disowned me and truly, I wasn't sure why the urge had sparked to hold it in my hands but I was looking down at the small chain.

Blinking, I didn't realize there were tears in my eyes until I was running my finger over the figure and memories of sitting in the pews at church flashed through. Guilt hit me then, overwhelming and suffocating, I pushed her away.

Memories of my mom standing at the front, her blonde hair tied back into that low bun and she always wore floppy skirts and chunky heels with blouses. She always highlighted her bible with a smile, speaking firmly, as if she knew something we didn't.

I remembered Sunday mornings fondly, she'd be awake hours before church, staring at the cross on the wall with her hands clasped in front of her, elbows on the table. There'd be days when I'd wake up early to sit with her, days before my fifteenth birthday.

When I turned fifteen, things shifted, I started to realize how much of my time was dedicated to being someone that I wasn't. I would go to church, assist with Sunday school afterwards with no real recollection of any of the lessons we were assigned to teach. I stopped paying attention, stopped caring much for it because the sermons felt so one-toned.

Maybe her resentment started then, when I stopped praying with her. Maybe she noticed something had changed in me before I'd stopped attending church, there was something in me that told me she knew. She had to have her suspicions, there were plenty of pretty girls in the church choirs and I had absolutely no inclination towards them.

I would opt for sleepovers with my best friend, I didn't go on dates with girls.

When Calum and I got closer and crossed boundaries that normal friends just didn't, I stopped going to church because very time I did, I'd feel that same guilt. It would twist in my gut, rip me apart from the inside.

Maybe we drifted apart when I realized that being content with myself was more important to me than making her happy. I'd spend days at a time at Calum's, I was extended family then, looking after his little sister and eating with their family.

I would hold Calum's hand tightly under the table when his dad wouldn't come home for dinner.

Biting at my lip, I unclasped the necklace, pulling it to rest over my sternum. I could see myself four years prior, debating on whether or not to get ready for church, eventually packing a bag and sneaking out. I would pretend as if I slept over Calum's and just slept in too late, she never really paid much attention when she was planning her sermons on Saturday nights.

I'd apologize after church, walking through the front door to a grimace, locking myself in my room and for the rest of the night, I'd try to ignore the sin.

Smiling softly, I clasped the necklace, letting it rest on my chest and placing a hand over it, purity ring laying beside Jesus and I tried to figure out if it felt right.

: : :

I was in the kitchen when my dad noticed, pouring myself a glass of orange juice and he'd simply walked over. He froze for a second at the sight and I stood still, maybe to make sure he'd seen it. Maybe it was spiteful.

"You're wearing it again."

His hand reached out, holding the figure loosely and ever so slightly, he smiled. He sucked in a shaky breath, nodding and his eyes were on mine then, letting go of the necklace and he pressed it into my chest for a second.

He wasn't looking at me then, eyes faltering under my gaze and he'd dropped his hand, it shaking as well. My dad stood next to me, silent, placing the glass he'd grabbed back in the cabinet. He'd forced another smile, it falling as soon as it lifted and he'd rubbed a hand under his eye.

Stepping back, he went to leave, not sparing a glance towards me. He'd grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and disappeared through the door.

Maybe it was an act of rebellion, maybe I was trying to avenge their marriage or something because my heart felt heavy at the look he'd given me. Jade was sitting at the table, doing homework and she'd probably been watching. When he was gone, she crossed her arms over her chest with a huff and I avoided her eyes, trying to hide the satisfaction on my face.

"You could be nicer to him." She offered, her eyes barely flickering up to mine before she was looking back down at her textbook, continuing to type on her laptop as if what she said held no weight. "Dad's had a hard time."

I tried to pretend like what I'd done wasn't somewhat out of spite, I had felt something missing and the cross did make me feel a little more serene.

And if it also succeeded to make him rethink this rash marriage, that wasn't so much a bad thing. "I don't know what you're talking about." I was shrugging now, going to grab a banana out the bowl on the counter. Maybe it would help my headache.

Jade laughed then, it sarcastic and she was sighing when she met my eyes again. "You hate church." Just because I didn't enjoy church didn't mean I didn't have religious views and there was no way that I was obligated to hide them in fear that my dad might have been uncomfortable because his new fiancé was anti-christ or something.

"They took down the cross and now you're wearing your cross, you're unbelievable, Jules." She was shaking her head now, judgement in her eyes and I hated it.

Even if I understood her point, I hated how she acted like she was better than me in the situation. Just because she hated Mom didn't mean I had to as well.

"You don't get to dictate what I believe."

And she didn't respond to that, only sighed. "He deserves to be happy." I know.

I know he deserves to be happy, I know that he's just trying to get back to his old life and replace everything that I screwed up.

Maybe the fact that I'd opened up to her the day before was the reason she felt so inclined to add her opinion in but it was annoying me now. "Andria's nice and she makes him happy. Let him have that."

"So him being happy is him changing everything to make some woman comfortable?" Jade was giving me a deadpanned look when I stopped biting my tongue.

Andria had no right to come in here and alter everything and he somehow allowed her to be comfortable enough that she assume the roll of a fucking mom. Jade had more compassion for this woman than the woman who birthed her.

My sister paused, her words calculated and drawn out then. She was staring at me, eyes unwavering and this was a side I hadn't seen before. She never reasoned with me, always too much or not enough, my sister had two levels. She seemed calmer now and I wondered what had changed in her approach and why.

Looking over, I paid attention to the fact that she was flexing stiff hands, wringing them as if she was uneasy. "Look, I get that you get... angry and I-I get that you're not taking your meds. But-"

I hated that, how obvious it seemed and how her realizing somehow made her unable to talk to me like a fully functioning human being. She had to justify my actions and try to understand me and honestly, her saying things like this felt like she was blaming all my problems on my depression.

"Leave it alone-"

She shut her laptop then, it effectively cutting me off and she was staring now. Green eyes took in my appearance, scrutinizing me as usual and I curled my arms around myself. "I'm trying to understand you."

"Well, don't."

"You have to tell Dad that you're not going to therapy, you-you haven't dealt with any of it, I'm not stupid." And she was right, she knew it too. "You're saying you're fine but you clearly don't know what fine is."

Even despite my droopy eyes, my loose clothing that fit normally months prior, and the fact that I woke up an hour prior from hours of sleep and still felt tired, I debated it. I always did because once you admit to feeling shitty, it gave everyone a free pass to start treating you as less of a human.

That was why I didn't call, that was why I dealt with shit on my own and she didn't understand so I needed her to stop acting like she did and just let it go.

"Why are you wearing your cross?"

"Because I want to." That should've been enough for her hut it wasn't. "You're saying that I can't wear-"

Jade shook her head, eyes on mine and I wasn't sure where this was heading but I'd been so defensive recently, I wondered why she even attempted to have a conversation with me. "I didn't say anything like that, I asked why."

When I kept quiet, she found another question to ask. "Julian, how'd you sprain your hand?"

"Practice." I wasn't sure why I lied, I went home with the intent of telling them, right? I had the intention of letting my guard down and telling my family what was wrong with me, I promised it to myself and I promised it to Wren.

I remembered in therapy, I would have to make commitments outside of myself. The idea that other people were counting on me would make me want to accomplish what I was striving for more than it would if it were just for myself.

In order to force myself out of my bed, I got a job. In order to force myself to stay active, I would make plans with my friends and have them pick me up so I didn't have the option of not going. Now, in order to tell people about me, I promised someone else, a friend, that I would.

And I intended to stick to it.

"Are you hurting yourself?"

I didn't consider punching a wall hurting myself, it was an act of anger. "No, Jade, I'm not hurting myself."

My sister stayed concerned, eyes staring up at me and she bit at her bottom lip. She blinked for a second, looking down at the table for a second and she gulped, twining her fingers around her pen. "I hate what she did to you."

"She hurt you, a lot." Jade always had something against her, some deep hate; they never had a good relationship. I couldn't remember Jade and my mom ever spending time together or talking about things that were exclusive to them... she always had something against her. "And you don't even realize it."

"She's a pastor, Jade." How could I expect my pastor mother to be okay with something that her religion condemned? I was too hard on her, we all were, and we tried to force her to agree with it, that's why she left.

"Why are you defending her?"

She loved me, she had to, there was no way you birthed someone... raised someone and then just... decided you didn't love them anymore.

My sister was standing, stalking over to me and I tried to keep the distance, tried not to acknowledge just how much that stung. Jade's eyes were glossed over, tears building in them and normally, she hated hugs.

When I was in a deep depressive state, she'd hug me tightly. She'd sit down on the couch beside me when I sat there for hours at a time. In the silence, she'd wrap her arms around me and we'd sit until I'd ended up with my head in her lap, her fingertips brushing through greasy hair.

I hated that, I hated that she always got so close when she felt me slipping, that no one treated me like I was before. I was breakable and she wouldn't let me forget it.

Jade's eyes were on mine, lips parted as a sigh passed through and I found myself walking away. Spinning on my heel, I left the banana on the counter, hand curling around the necklace and I was jogging up the stairs before she could speak again.

I wasn't sure how long I thought I could get away with bottling it up, especially at home. Eventually, they'd force me to talk, my dad would notice a shift -moreso than he did- and he'd take me to a clinic. We'd then fall into a cycle of endless doctor's visits and I'd go a few months before my next slip.

Still, I found myself storming into my room, Jade's hand on the door before I could fully close it and she was pushing in. And she wouldn't let me forget again. "She used church and God to make you hate yourself."

"She was religious." She was, she loved me, she just had an obligation.

Shaking her head, she looked as if what I'd said was so unbelievable. "She was a shitty mom who didn't love her kids. She tossed you to the side because you're gay, you know that, right?"

And I did but something in the way she said it felt like it was hitting me again and I could feel my heart racing.

Screwing my eyes shut, I tried to calm myself down, knowing that getting upset would accomplish nothing. The way she was looking at me made my breath catch in my throat, it settling and suffocating me, Jade was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. "When she kicked you out, who stood up for you? Dad did."

Her eyes were narrowed into slits and her jaw stayed clenched.

"Get out, Jade."

At that she laughed, shaking her head again and I wasn't sure what it was but we barely had a minute without fighting now and I didn't know if I could stay here if it would consistently be like this. "Grow up, Jules."

My head was in my hands now and I was trying not to freak out, trying to stay completely sane but the necklace was now weighing against my chest and all I could think about was why she left. "Jules-"

I made her leave, she left because I was so adamant on being gay that I didn't think of how it would affect her. I only ever thought about myself, I was so selfish and it reflected in everything I did. That was why everyone left... because every time they got close, I retreated and in that, made everything about myself. I became so self involved that I didn't think about how my actions would affect someone else.

"Get out!"

I made her leave. I made her leave. I made her leave. I pushed her away.

And yelling at Jade was never my intention. I didn't want to take my anger out on her but the prodding was starting to make me uneasy. My heart was racing, pounding in my ears and I tried to calm myself.

I tried to relax, fingers flexing over clenched knuckles.

I just wanted to lay down again, to curl up and stay there for weeks, months. Her voice was softer now, words more calculated and she looked nervous now. She stepped forward slightly before thinking better of it and this time she didn't try to hug me. "Look, I-I know that you're going through a lot and you don't have to talk to me about it but-" she sucked in a sharp breath then, "but bottling it up and acting stupid and hurting yourself is not the way to make it go away."

I could feel my chest tightening, sweat bearing on my forehead and I tried to relax. Sucking in a long breath through my nose, I closed my eyes, letting it go through quivering lips.

She was stepping closer then, flinching back only slightly when I pushed my head into my hands. "Jules..."

Fuck. "Please leave." It would be so much easier when she was gone, I was fine, I told myself. I was gonna control this, I wouldn't fall into a panic attack over absolutely nothing.

But I was drawing too much attention, it was obvious when I lifted my head to look in her direction and I could see her piercing green eyes alert. She was nervous, eyes honing in on my buckling legs and aware, so aware. "Are you-are you okay?" she was trying to figure out what to do and I was trying to relax.

Trying to calm myself down would've been easier if she wasn't there just staring at me, it would've been so much quicker without her seeing just how fucked up I was. I made her leave. I made her leave. I made her leave. I pushed her away.

I pushed everyone away and the words were playing in a chant now, building up to a constant loop. I tried to count my breathing, keep it steady.

Jade was still there, she was lingering at the doorway and I decided to sit, knowing that if I seemed fine, she would leave it alone. She would leave me alone.

"Are you having a panic attack?" Not yet. "Y-you need to talk to me, Jules." Her words only succeeded in reminding me that she was there and her being there only made me more nervous.

Her seeing me falling apart and shaking and the realization that I couldn't hide how anxious I was only succeeded in making me more anxious. Clenching my jaw, I tried to relax, bones jumping underneath the skin.

There was an urgency in her voice now and I didn't realize how close she was until then. I didn't realize how erratic I was breathing until I'd screamed at her and the stutter in her voice gave it up. But I was fine, I was fine, I was going to be fine and there was no real reason for her to still be there.

Jade was scared, so scared she was talking me down as if I was panicking. I'm not going to panic. "Jules-"

Shut up. Shut up, shut up.

She didn't know the first thing to helping me, she was never good at it because I never let her see me so fucking broken. I was choking on my own breath now, trying to push out a "Stop," and the sound of it, quiet, cracking on the end, I knew it was too late.

Jade shook her head, stepping back through my open door and she was rushing out before I could object too much "I'm-I'm gonna go get Dad, okay?"

"No." I didn't need my father over this. "I'm f-fine... 'm fine, r-relax." just go, please leave.

But my voice cracked halfway through and she was already moving, already jogging down the stairs when I went to lower myself onto my bed. This is so stupid, her concern was and I tried to keep telling myself that. Forehead pushed into sweaty hands, I closed my eyes again.

I'm fine, I'm okay, everything's okay.

PAUL

My phone had started to ring halfway through a Friends rerun. Throwing my head back, I paused the television, searching through the couch cushions and hoping that Jamie wasn't stupid enough to call on my day off and demand I come in. I'd spent the entirety of the day staring at empty pages of a sketchbook and when I'd gotten home, I found the scrap metal sitting on the kitchen counter.

My eyes darted that way, wanting to work longer but I forced myself not to, knowing that desperation would do nothing. I'd scrolled through Grindr for a half hour, trying to find someone to distract me and maybe force Isaiah to come to terms with the fact that our friendship would never blossom into a relationship.

I certainly didn't want to have that conversation again and I was very pleased that he still hadn't made his way home.

The throw blanket was over my legs and I'd now watched about four episodes of the sitcom, laughing in time with he studio audience and eating pretzels that tasted like the bag had been open too long.

I was comfortable, finally releasing some stress and I tried not to think of the opened bottle of wine in the holder. I didn't need a drink, I'd be fine, weeks before was a slip, I wasn't going to drink. Nothing was that bad, I could control my urge, I wasn't that bad.

Instead, I sat there and I binge watched this show that I'd seen a million times over.

Living with Isaiah was fun, even when it felt a little suffocating, he was cool to be around, everything felt artistic and serene from his collection of vinyl records to the art that adorned the walls.

When decorating the apartment, we'd thrifted for weird trinkets and the space was somewhere between an 80s basement in color palette, some forest, and a minimalists' bedroom with open spaces but it worked. Our couch was a cute little mustard color, baby blue blanket draped over the back with numerous colored pillows and our television sat mounted across.

I curled into the blanket, it soft on the bare skin of my arms and legs exposed by cotton shorts and a big t-shirt. Finally, I found myself releasing all the pressure I'd put on myself all day, glasses replacing contacts that I often wore when I left the house and the last thing I really wanted was to be on the phone.

Still, I found it sitting underneath my feet and smiled at the name and heart emoji beside it. I answered, instantly warming. "Hola, mama."

"Nino!" Her voice was excited and slightly static, she was speaking fast as usual, it incoherent and I wasn't sure if she were speaking broken English or not.

"Mama..." I interrupted, laugh in my voice as she continued. Her voice had drifted then, almost as if she were both five feet from the phone and in a tunnel. "Ma, I can't hear you."

It was silent for a second -only the soft pulse of music in the background, it turned so far down I could barely hear- before,"Micheal, eso no es diretido!" She was giggling, then, and I smiled at the fact that she and my father were still so very much in love. "Pablo?"

"Yes?"

She was still laughing but it was at my confused tone now. Her laugh was infectious, a fond smile pulling at the corners of my lips. "Where are you?" She'd asked then, my smile dropping and I furrowed my brows, them knitting together. "Peter said you are coming today."

No, no, no, no...

"No... Lo siento, mami." Rubbing at my forehead, I sighed, trying to figure out how I completely forgot. "I was going to call to let you know, really, I-I forgot."

Her huff then hit me in the gut and I tried to find excuses. "It's just- it's too close to exams and I'm really, really busy right now." I would visit the next weekend, that was going to be my next promise when she grunted out an exasperated groan.

"You said that last time."

I had absolutely no idea how to respond to that, it wasn't right to flake so much. The truth was I didn't want to visit, didn't have the energy when I knew Abuelita wouldn't be there. Maybe I didn't want to see Pete's face when I finally showed up, he'd yelled at me over the phone for leaving so early after she was admitted.

Fucking cancer, how do you take the news that it's back? She was old, she'd lived so fucking long already but cancer had to come for her now? Maybe I knew that if I went home, I'd be expected to go see her, patch up things with Milo since that was what she wanted.

Going home would mean accepting it was coming to an end, getting ready for the inevitable. They said the cells were dormant for now, that was something the doctor had emphasized, that it was only temporary.

She'd beaten cancer for six years, it was back now and she was fine for now. But it would be back with a vengeance, another round chemo only did so much and I'd have to be there holding my mother, holding my brother, telling them that everything would be okay when I knew it wouldn't.

I didn't want to think about it.

"Julian's home." Ever since the break up, my mother had been trying to get us back together. Her efforts, although sweet, had an ulterior motive. She knew I needed him to hold me together when everything eventually fell apart.

"How do you know this, Ma?" That question had me biting my tongue, keeping the malice out of it. As much as I appreciated them looking out for me, it wasn't her call to bring him back into my life. I didn't need updates, not when the last time I'd called him, he sounded like he'd never want to see me again.

He gave my ring back, that meant something, we were over and I had to look Abuelita in her little old face knowing that everything she'd told me about soulmates were lies. I tried to keep that from my mind, tried not to think about anything like that because I was having a okay day.

And maybe that was selfish but I didn't care.

I tried not to care. "Your papi... Jason is getting married, you know." They'd called me when they heard, my mother's penchant for gossip and I had to push away the urge to check in on Jules. I dreaded it, knowing that my mother would bug me when the time came to go to the wedding. I didn't want to hear about my ex boyfriend's family from my parents and the realization that that was the reality now, it hurt. "We really liked him, no lo sé why he leave."

"I don't wanna talk about this right now." I tried, eyes on the screen, Chandler and Monica embracing and I tried to keep down the lump in my throat.

"You know, Abuelita being sick should be a reminder." She offered and I wanted to hang up then. My mother was speaking in the voice that said she knew more than I ever would, "vive la vida mientras puedas."

I didn't speak just sat there really, and I tried to keep my breathing regulated.

"El que no arriesga, no gana." Those words felt familiar, something out of a greeting card and I choked out a laugh, it hoarse. Standing, I made my way to the kitchen, hands trembling. Leaning on the counter, I closed my eyes. "I know he's why you don't visit, he's the only reason you visited before."

"Mama-" I tried, it cracking and my hand tightened around the countertop. It was so easy to get to this point, so easy to let myself walk over here and I was staring at the same bottle of wine.

I was fine, maybe that was the problem: I wasn't a depressed drunk, I wasn't the person who would need to drink to escape. That was the thing about being an alcoholic, the way it was portrayed in the media was so uncontrollable and angry and aggressive and maybe that was the way it was for some people but it wasn't like that for me.

The way I drank always started small scale.

It would start with one glass with a friend and then I'd find myself having a glass at night. That would add a comfortability, I would feel in control and that was when it got dangerous. A glass mid-day then, and then I'd go out maybe, get drunk one night and let loose of all my inhibitions. It would then spiral out of control.

That was what happened the first time: a few sips when fifteen year old Brandon would steal a bottle from his parents' bar. It would turn to him pouring vodka into a water bottle, watering down the bottle and putting it back.

I remembered sipping from it when he wasn't looking, watering down his own bottle and that turned into being wasted at high-school parties when Brandon was too preoccupied with the redhead from chorus class.

We'd party consistently, my relationship with alcohol became so good but I never abused. It didn't seem like a problem then, not until I'd been drinking every weekend and I'd started dating some guy three years older that dropped out of highschool. He was nineteen with a fake ID and he bought beer for parties he was too old to attend.

Then it was every night, it was bringing liquor in thermoses to school.

I'd been clean for three years now, at least that was what I was telling myself. I refused to count that night I called Julian, that was a slip. If I counted it, I would make room for another night like that and then another and then I was a drunk with emotional attachment and control issues again.

I kept myself stagnant, listening to my mother instead, knowing that while she was on the phone I wouldn't do anything I'd regret. A lot of the self-blame started that way: I had control, I always did, I had restraint until I indulged.

"Don't let bad memories get in the way of good ones." She said, her voice wistful and I tried to remember that. "You're young, mi amor, don't waste your life in fear and sadness."

Sucking in a breath, I walked over, dodging the bottle and I opened the fridge. Sipping from a water bottle, I screwed my eyes shut, trying to sniffle back the tears that threatened to spill.

I tried to think of the sponsors and the AA chips and the year of going to meetings. Remembering that I wasn't the only person I would let down, that I had obligations was always helpful.

"I am not getting any younger, I want to see my son."

A/N:

SORRY FOR NUMEROUS NOTIFICATIONS! I'VE ADDED A PART THAT WAS ACCIDENTALLY DELETED FROM JULIAN'S POINT OF VIEW AND IT KIND OF MADE THE NEXT PART NOT MAKE MUCH SENSE. THAT STARTED A CHAIN REACTION THAT COMPLETELY FUCKED UP THE PART POSTED LAST NIGHT (chapter 21 will be revised and reposted)

Don't forget to vote, babes, issa recession out here! x
Also, if you love this story, you might also love my other stories!

P.S. have any of you watched Beautiful Boy? It's great, and Timothée Chalamet is actually, absolutely an angel.

Also, the guy who plays Paul has a big role on Netflix's show: The Order. And I 10/10 recommend 

Updated: Sunday, September 15th