After the sketch done, I just sit there and stare at the wall, hollowed out and cold. The silence after a breakdown always feels deafening—like a performance ended and now there's no one left in the audience.
I get up, strip fully, and step into the bathroom. The mirror there is fogged before I even turn on the hot water, but I'm grateful for it. I don't want to see myself anymore tonight. Not in this pathetic state.
The shower is scalding. I let it burn. Let it peel the invisible layers off me—the tears, the memories, the guilt, the questions. I scrub until my skin turns red, until my fingers wrinkle, until the water isn't enough to make me feel clean but I pretend it is anyway.
I stay in the shower longer than I need to. I wait until my head stops spinning. Until my breath evens out. Until I can put on a mask.
And when I finally step out and towel off, I already know what I'm going to do. I text Felix right away.
If you're free tonight, pick me up in 30 minutes?
