Lori

The TV flickers in the dim light of my apartment, casting a dull glow across the room. I don’t even know what’s on—some sitcom with canned laughter that grates against my nerves, but I don’t bother changing the channel.

The remote sits somewhere on the floor, buried under a mountain of crumpled napkins, empty chip bags, and the remains of a pint of ice cream.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here. Days, probably. Time feels meaningless when you’re holed up in the same four walls, avoiding the outside world.

My phone’s been off since that night. The thought of turning it on makes my stomach churn, so I don’t. Whatever’s waiting for me out there—texts, missed calls, or, worse, nothing at all—I’m not ready to face it.

I shove another handful of popcorn into my mouth, barely tasting it. It’s stale, but I don’t care. Food has become less about enjoyment and more about filling the emptiness, even if it doesn’t really help.

The ice cream was better—sweet and cold enough to numb me for a while—but I ran out hours ago.

The sitcom’s laughter rings out again, too loud and too bright for the dark pit I’ve sunk into. I fumble for the remote, finally finding it wedged between the couch cushions, and turn the volume down until the voices are little more than a murmur.

I don’t know why I’m still watching. It’s not like it’s distracting me. Nothing is. No matter how much junk food I eat or mindless TV I consume, my thoughts keep circling back to Marcel.

Did she feel something for me?

The thought hits me like a gut punch, and I let out a bitter laugh that quickly turns into something closer to a sob. Stupid, right? Thinking someone like her could actually love someone like me.

I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them as if I can hold myself together.

The apartment feels too quiet, even with the TV on.

I’ve been here before. Not this exact situation, but the feeling. The hollow ache in my chest, the overwhelming sense that I’ve screwed up something good—again.

It’s a pattern, one I can’t seem to break no matter how hard I try.

Not that I tried very hard this time.

I bury my face in my hands, the shame bubbling up like acid in my throat.

Julian. God, what was I thinking letting him stay over, letting him talk his way back into my life even for a night—it was stupid. 

Reckless.

I should have let him drunk drive to his place, I should have let him go. But he was so vulnerable and I had to let him sleep here. But Marcel thought something happened.

But I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t think Marcel would show up, or that seeing him there would rip everything apart.

But she did, and it did, and now I’m here, alone and falling apart.

I thought things would be different. When the universe threw us back together, it felt like a second chance, like maybe I wasn’t as unlovable as I’d started to believe.

She saw through me, my sarcasm, my mess, and still wanted me. Or at least, I thought she did.

Now, I’m not so sure.

Because if she really loved me, wouldn’t she have stayed? Wouldn’t she have fought for us, instead of walking out without waiting for my explanation?

Or maybe that’s just another excuse. Maybe I’m the one who’s impossible to love.

The thought settles in my chest like a stone, heavy and unyielding. I’ve always been this way—pushing people away, sabotaging anything good before it can even start.

It’s easier, in a way. Easier than trusting someone, letting them in, and risking the inevitable heartbreak when they leave.

But Marcel is different. She made me want to try, to be better, even if I didn’t know how. And now I’ve ruined it, just like I always do.

I reach for the half-empty bag of chips on, but the sight of it makes my stomach turn. I push it away and sink back into the couch, staring blankly at the TV.

The sitcom has ended, replaced by some crime drama with brooding detectives and ominous music. I let it play, the noise filling the void even as my mind drifts.

What am I supposed to do now?

Apologizing feels pointless. Even if I could find the right words—which I can’t—it wouldn’t change what happened.

Marcel doesn’t want to hear from me. I can still see the way she looked at me that night, her eyes full of hurt and disappointment, like I’d managed to break something in her that I didn’t even know could.

I’ve never been good at fixing things.

The tears come suddenly, hot and unwelcome, and I don’t bother wiping them away.

What’s the point?

No one’s here to see me fall apart. No one’s here at all.

I thought I loved her.

I thought she loved me.

But love has always felt like a game I don’t know how to play. The rules keep changing, and no matter how hard I try, I always seem to lose.

I sink lower, my head resting against the back cushion. The ceiling above me is cracked, a faint spiderweb of lines spreading out from one corner.

I trace the pattern with my eyes, trying to focus on something other than the aching emptiness inside me.

I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at the ceiling and drowning in my own thoughts.

At some point, I drift into a restless sleep, my dreams filled with images of Marcel. Her eyes, her smile. The way she used to look at me like I was worth something.

When I wake up, my head throbs

I glance at the coffee table, at the empty containers and the mess I’ve made over the past few days. It’s pathetic, really.

I’m pathetic.

But as I sit there, staring at the wreckage of my apartment and my life, a small, stubborn part of me refuses to give up completely.

Maybe I’ve screwed things up beyond repair. Maybe Marcel will never forgive me, and maybe I don’t deserve her forgiveness.

But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep wallowing in self-pity and hoping the world will magically fix itself.

I take a deep breath, the air catching in my throat as the tears threaten to spill again. “Get up, Lori,” I whisper to myself, the words shaky but firm. “Just… get up.”

I push myself off the couch. The first step is small—clearing the trash from the table, stacking the empty containers and carrying them to the kitchen.

The next step is harder—turning on my phone, the screen lighting up with missed calls and unread messages.

I don’t open them.

Instead, I stand there, clutching the phone in my hand, and take another deep breath. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, or how I’m going to fix the mess I’ve made of my life.

But maybe it’s not too late to try.