Gio

Nothing. I think I can feel the edge of the nothing. 

Just two days ago, I felt so much. My heart was finally whole, and I was flying. But I've crash-landed in a pile of flaming rubble of my own stupid creation. Over the last forty-odd hours, I've dragged myself slowly to the side of the still-burning pyre, watching it scorch the remains while I slipped off the edge into the drink, where the soft, viscous waters of depression slowly pull me down—soothing me. 

I was screaming in pain yesterday, but I believe I've hurt myself so badly now I'm happy to have finally gone a bit numb—to feel the nothing—the edge of the void. It's just out of reach, intangible but vast, and for now, I'm suspended in the burry halocline where the fresh and stagnant waters of emotion mix.

But I'm afraid to dive deeper into the abyss because I've been there before, followed it down till I sunk under the heavy weight of my own density, unable to rise to the surface. Feeling the nothing can be a relief at first, but then it's scarier than anything I've ever known. I like this middle ground, the edge. I'm not ready to come up, but I'm scared to go down.

The pills will help, but last time, things went a little weird after I took them, like a bouncy ball, up and down. My thoughts raced—I sometimes didn't feel real, or maybe overly real. I can't explain it. I've prepared a little stash of things I need to keep close in case I need them. But not yet. 

I watch the sun drag time down my wall in the form of an amber polygon.

It's Monday afternoon, and I've been in bed all day—missed the bus for school this morning—no strength in me to go. But I'll have to conjure some soon. I need to drag my sorry-ass into the house and delete any messages from Ives before my mom gets home, maybe eat, and leave a note that I'm going over to Ren's for dinner. Something like this will buy me at least a day or two.

Ren. I can't believe I was so stupid. Why'd she... I just thought—fuck, there it goes again, the burning in my throat and serrated knife twisting in my chest anytime I think about her. I let the sensation wash over me for a second. Did she do this to you? Or are you doing it to yourself?

Maybe I'm a masochist, but yesterday, sometimes I relished the pain—like a sub getting lashed and begging for more. Feeling love and feeling pain must be a similar rush, and maybe I created my own traps to feel it, and perhaps, weirdly, I deserve it. 

Thoughts of last fall suddenly wash over me like acid, and I curl into a ball, dragging my sheet up over my head. Poisonous. Nothing like the hurt from Ren.

I'm too tired to torture myself with that today—best to think about the void instead. Shut the intruding rush of thoughts out. But unfortunately, they spring like leaks from a dam—just when I think I have one plugged three others form.

I wish I never met Heather. That I ever came back from LA. 

I'm too fucking sober. 

That's what it is. 

I need to get high again—that'll help blot it out. 

I smoked the joint Charlie gave me for my birthday last night to help me sleep and gathered enough shake at the back of my drawers to fill half a bowl this morning, but now I'm out. Charlie has more, but if he sees me like this, he'll alert my mom, who'll insist I take the pills and see the school counselor again and talk about my fucking feelings. 

I don't even want to acknowledge I have fucking feelings! 

How else can I get some... 

Oh yeah, of course. I pull the phone over and get the number out of my pocket from my jeans, which are still crumpled up in a heap by the bed from Saturday night. I page the number and wait. Fifteen minutes later, the phone goes.

"Hello? Hey, it's Gio. Yeah. Pretty shit, you? Hey, I was wondering if you could hook me up with an eighth. Sweet. If I pay you double, can you drop it off at my house? That's dope. You know how to get out to Bayfield? Cool. Turn right on Main and then the second right. You'll see a gate open in a big fence. Come to the small house on the right with the green door. Okay. Thanks. See you soon." 

I hang up, and instantly, my pager goes again. I look at the screen—it's Ren. It's the twelfth time she's paged, and every time, my heart leaps and smacks into a wall and then slides down—feeling like it's being finely grated like the peel of a lemon, the acidity nipping at my eyes.

Deep down, I wish Ren were the one driving over right now. But I'd really be some sort of masochist to let her in again when she was just going to leave me anyway.

♡♡♡

Ren

Last Sunday, with tear-impaired vision, I managed to drive from Gio's house to my dad's without killing myself. I went straight upstairs and couldn't come down for dinner. I explained to my dad through the door that Gio and I had a big fight, and he brought me pasta to my room, but I couldn't even eat. I wished I could've just stayed in there and cried my life away, but on Monday, my Dad forced me out and is making me get on with life.

I hate it. And I know he's right.

All week, I've been dragging myself to school, feeling like a shell of who I was just days ago. Literally feeling like the undead, dressed all in black, I've been walking the halls and attending my classes without expression; my only happiness is that it has been pouring all week—matching my somber mood. I've been eating lunch by myself in the darkness of the theatre and going straight home after school.

On Tuesday, I thought the anxiety from going to Study Hall might actually kill me. I didn't know how I would face him. It would be hell being in the same room with him for a whole hour. I walked into the class with my head down and wearing my baggiest sweatshirt to hide in. But in the end, he wasn't even there. He probably felt the same way and ditched the class.

I must have paged him two dozen times by now, sitting nervously by the phone for a return call or page that never came. But I needed to talk to him—to tell him how sorry I am. To lay myself down at his feet and beg him to forgive me. He has to; he just has to. He's everything to me. The best part of life is being with him. I need to tell him how much I love him and that I'll never keep anything a secret from him again if only he'll let me back in.

 But yet, I haven't gone back to his house. I'm so scared of rejection. My heart has overflowed with anguish and been wrung out so many times now under my own internal conversations, it's aching and exhausted.

But today, the shock of it all is starting to subside. Outer layers of grief surrounding my heart are drained and dissolving, and I'm surprised to find a shady film of bitterness underneath. I feel hurt and unjustified. In the back row in the left corner of the auditorium, I force myself to take a second bite of my sandwich and stew as I chew it. 

I've been beating myself up every day for the decisions I've made, and rightly so. It's hard to remember why I was so scared of the uncomfortable conversation. Yes, I hid it from him, but I never lied, and what happened wasn't my fault. Everything is ten times worse now. 

But Gio needs to hear my side. 

Ryder made the whole situation seem like more than it was, that I know for sure. I remember hearing his skateboard out front just after and probably didn't hear my reaction or Jace apologizing straight after. Ryder got it all wrong and is probably smiling smugly to himself right now, happily knowing he succeeded in breaking us apart. 

A strange buzzing sensation fills me—like a kettle just beginning to simmer. I stand up and pack my things back in my bag as little bubbles of anger rise up. I didn't want to confront Gio during school, but he needs to hear what really happened—then, and only then can he decide. 

Stalking to his lunch table, my eyes scan for him, but he's not with his friends. I wait behind the tall hedge to ambush him before Study Hall, but again, he doesn't show. 

Suddenly, a new anxious feeling blows over me like a chilling winter wind that temporarily freezes me to the sidewalk—Is Gio not coming to school at all again?

The thought haunts me throughout Study Hall. After class, I race to find his English teacher on the second floor of the main building before she leaves. I peer through the wire mesh in the tiny slit of a rectangle window. Luckily, she's still in her classroom grading papers, and I softly open the door.

"Hello? Ms. Simpson?"

"Yes?" she motions to me with her hand, still grading the papers in the soft afternoon light at her desk.

I clear my throat, "Hi, um, I'm Giovanni's... friend. I just wanted to check... uh, has he been in class this week?" 

"Um, no, as a matter of fact," looking over her reading glasses, unsmiling but not unfriendly.

"Okay," I mumble. "Thanks." 

"Well, wait, I've—"

Without waiting for more, l spin on my heel and let the door bang shut—I'm already halfway down the stairs.

Steam should be plainly visible coming from my head as the kettle inside me rolls at a full boil now, and I stomp toward my car. I'm more furious at Ryder than ever and more determined to talk to Gio, realizing I care way more about him than what's going on with myself. 

If Gio wants to end our relationship, fine, but he can't just screw over his entire future at school over it—all the hard work he's done to get his grades back up!

Speeding down the country roads, I take the turns sharply and fly down the straightaways. When I arrive, I slam the car door shut and march across the road, my purpose strong. But the closer I get to his house, the more apprehensive I become, and my pace slows. My heart rate ticks up step by step, and now it beats frantically in my chest, the memory of the last time I was here still so fresh.

I whisper to myself why I had come like a mantra: This is less about me and more about him. This is less about me and more about him.

I will not knock this time and give him a chance to shut me out. I'm just going in.

My gut is snaking into a tight coil around my stomach as I quietly approach his door. I can hear 'Hurt' by Nine Inch Nails playing softly from inside. I take a few deep breaths to strengthen my resolve, then quickly fling the door open, relieved to find it unlocked. 

My whole face slackens as my breathing halts—in shock at what I see.

https://youtu.be/gEQNAZGoZrw

••• A/N •••

Thank you for reading!

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Poor Gio and Ren. This breakup was so dramatic and hard on them. Although I've dealt with anxiety in my life, I've never dealt with much depression. Let me know your thoughts on Gio's POV for this chapter. Any what worked or what didn't.

Who do you think Gio called for weed?

What do you think Ren sees inside?