Mirrors we can’t break

I peel off my jacket and drape it over the couch against the farthest wall. My fingers linger on the fabric for a second too long before I pull away. Behind me, I feel him—watching. Not overtly, not aggressively, but with the quiet, calculated observance of someone who thinks they’re subtle but isn’t.

His eyes track the curve of my black long-sleeve, the way the flared sleeves shift with my movements. The dark blue Lululemon leggings, tight and functional, with deep pockets meant for Bentley Swim and Dive lift but too comfortable not to wear anywhere else. Then there are my socks—red, fuzzy, slightly ridiculous but necessary. My feet always get cold first, the signal flare for my body temperature and, consequently, my comfort. I know the exact moment he notices them—his lips press together in something unreadable. Amusement? Something else?

Behind me, fabric shifts. His socks drag against the beige carpet. The soft clink of the mini fridge door opening sends a whisper of cool air against my calves, raising goosebumps that have nothing to do with the temperature.

"Are you hungry? Do you want anything?"

His voice, low and even, carries an edge I don’t like—deeper, heavier. His eyebrows lift—not in question, but expectation. Like he already knows the answer. Like he’s telling me, not asking.

His dark eyes flick over me, slow and assessing, making something inside me curl inward. I realize—he's looking at me the same way I looked at him outside. Except I stopped at surface level, reading expressions, interpreting subtext. But Tyler? He didn’t stop there. He went further—past fabric, into implication. Past face value, into possibility.

And I hadn’t given him permission.

I shake my head, but my throat tightens, something heavy lodged there. “I’m okay, but thank you.” The words feel insincere, but I say them anyway. Because what else is there to say? That the sight of those takeout boxes makes my stomach churn? That eating whatever’s inside feels like a dare I’m unwilling to take? That I can feel his eyes mapping out where my body used to hold more, filling in the gaps with whatever memories he’s clinging to?

Tyler cocks his head slightly, brows knitting together like he’s trying to do the math—between then and now, between the girl he used to press his hands against and the one standing in front of him.

"You’re okay?" He repeats it slowly, turning over the words, trying to make them fit in a space they don’t belong.

I shift my weight, crossing my arms over my chest as if it’ll make me feel less exposed. His gaze climbs downward before he catches himself. The tension crackles—silent, smothering. I know what he’s seeing, what he’s trying to make sense of.

My broad shoulders, still strong but sharper now, boxing me in like an exoskeleton. My chest, braless, because I can be now—because there’s less to hold, less to support, less of me. My stomach, flat enough that even when I push it out, my ribs are still visible beneath my skin. My jawline, carved where soft, round cheeks used to be. The thigh gap that wasn’t there before. The twenty-five pounds I lost, carved into the space between my legs.

And then there’s the thing he isn’t looking at. The “dump truck.”

He used to joke about it constantly, hand to my bum like it was his own personal privilege. A five-star slap, he’d call it, grinning like an idiot every time he left his mark. That same mark he used to watch recoil, bouncing back like muscle memory. But now it’s still perky, still shaped from years of swimming, but it doesn’t move the way it used to. Doesn’t have the same give. I wonder if that scares him.

"Yeah," I say quietly, the word barely escaping my throat as I swallow—too audibly, apparently—before resting into the couch nearest to the armrest, folding into myself like I can disappear into it. 

Tyler moves carelessly, reaching for the white takeout bag on the second shelf of the fridge, yanking it free without a second thought. The crinkling of plastic is followed by the dull thud of the bag hitting the brown coffee table. He unties the top like it personally offended him, grabs a plastic fork, and drops it onto the table’s glass surface with an unhinged clatter. Then, he flings the bag aside, sending it tumbling somewhere behind him like it doesn’t matter.

A wave of General Tso’s chicken and noodles unfurls through the air, thick and oppressive, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes and seeps into your skin. It crashes over me, heady and overwhelming, hitting the back of my throat like an ambush. My stomach flips violently, nausea creeping in sharp and unrelenting.

Tyler doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

"More for me," he says, plastic fork in hand, stabbing into the takeout box like it’s some kind of prize. The first bite disappears into his mouth, and he barely takes a breath before he speaks again, voice muffled around the food. "What, is fast food gonna ruin a varsity athlete’s performance overnight?" His tone is teasing, but there’s something more knowing underneath it, a hint of judgement, maybe. Like his exercise science background is kicking in, running silent calculations he isn’t voicing. Metabolism. Energy expenditure. Deficit.

I force a chuckle, pretending like I find it funny.

"Yeah, that’s it," I play along because it’s easier than explaining the truth. The truth is that it isn’t about fast food, or performance, or anything logical. My body has stopped trusting food altogether.  

"What are you eating these days?" he asks, his fork scraping against the styrofoam.

"Umm…”

I hesitate for half a second.

“Chicken."

Tyler nods approvingly."High protein meals are important. I’m doing the same for track." His eyes flicker toward me again, this time landing on my arms—lean, wiry, more defined than before but still carrying the ghost of something smaller. Something thinner.

"Yeah. It’s light," I say, stretching my fingers absentmindedly, like I can feel the muscle there and prove something to myself. "And I feel more effective in my workouts when I eat it." Tyler tilts his head, chewing over my words. "You’d benefit from that for sure."

It’s true. I do eat chicken a little too much. Sometimes, Taylor—my roommate, teammate, and part-time chaos agent—will walk into our dorm after spending a few days at home, only to find me perched on my bed, tearing into a rotisserie chicken with my bare hands like some kind of feral creature. She finds it ratchet as hell, in her words. Hilarious, but concerning enough that she’s started calling it my goblin era. I let her laugh about it. It’s easier than explaining that chicken is one of the only things I can force down without my stomach threatening to revolt. That chewing anything else—anything heavier, anything real—feels like a battle I don’t always win.

Sad truth, but I’m still working through it. 

Through the fact that my body still doesn’t feel like mine after what happened at that frat house. After a date night that, in hindsight, was a bad choice—a week after the breakup, three years of my life erased in a single conversation, like just a draft waiting to be deleted. I was still raw and untethered, trying to convince myself I was fine. I walked into their house like I belonged, like I could pretend I wasn’t unraveling. I should’ve known better.

The hazing started early. Booze pushed into my hands before I could refuse, slurred dares disguised as tradition. Bodies packed into every corner, the floor sticky beneath my shoes, laughter mean at the edges. It was all a blur until it wasn’t. Until my mind started recording in fragments—hands on my waist, words I wish I don’t remember, the sense of being steered somewhere quieter. I haven’t said the words out loud. I can barely think them without feeling like I’m falling.

Bentley’s therapy program is the only reason I stay above water. That, and the long car rides to practice—crying alone in my car because the one person who had been my rock is gone, gripping the steering wheel like it is the only thing holding me.

The aftermath? Lack of nutrition.

But—toxic silver lining—I’m still somehow kicking ass in the water. I don’t know if it’s pure adrenaline, survival instinct, or something else entirely, but I’m posting some of my best times. A hollow kind of success, but one that keeps me going. One that makes me feel like, in at least one aspect of my life, I’m still in control.

"How’s swim life anyway?" Tyler asks, his voice slicing through my thoughts.

I snap back to the present just in time to see him drop his fork into the General Tso’s section of his takeout box, like this conversation is just another casual topic of interest.

"It’s good," I say automatically. "We had our mid-season invitational last weekend."

"Did you win?"

I laugh. That’s not how swimming works, but people who don’t know the sport always ask that question. It’s not their fault, really—it just makes more sense in sports like soccer or basketball, where there’s a clear winner, a scoreboard that tells you exactly where you stand. Swimming isn’t like that. We went up against several different schools, half of them from other conferences, which means winning isn’t even a concept at meets like this. Our NE-10 champinonship in February matters, because that’s when we’re actually racing people in our conference.

I open my mouth to explain, but before I can, Tyler cuts in with a smirk.

"I always find that question funny because people who don’t understand track ask me that."

I blink. The dude just read my mind. "That’s funny. Yeah, personally, I improved in the 100 freestyle."

Tyler raises his eyebrows, interest sparking in his expression. "Oh shit, no way."

"I broke 55-mid, now I go 55-low."

He lets out a low whistle, impressed. "Hey, that’s great. I’m sure your boyfriend was happy with that." He says it so casually, so easily, as he closes the white takeout box, like it’s just another comment.

My heart drops straight to my ass. "What boyfriend?"

I watch the shift in real time—the moment the realization clicks, the moment his lips curve, just barely, fighting against something smug but keeping his expression flat, neutral. But I see it. That flicker of delight buried beneath his attempt at empathy.

"Oh, sorry to hear. But congrats on the PR."

He leans forward, his palm settling against my thigh, warm and firm, fingers giving a quick shake in some masculine attempt at recognition, like I just won an award. But the touch—God, the touch. It sends a tingle down my spine, past my stomach, and lower, to the places I don’t want it to. A silent electric current that reminds me exactly who Tyler is and what his hands are capable of making me feel.

I swallow hard, suddenly hyper aware of everything—the weight of his hand, the deliberate pressure of his palm, the fact that my neck is currently caked with foundation, hiding a hickey from a senior captain of Bentley swimming, who decided last week’s holiday party was the perfect time to lay claim to me in a way that wasn’t reciprocated.

Get it together. Get. It. Together.

"How’s track for you?" I ask, needing to redirect, needing to breathe.

I shift, crossing my legs quickly—too quickly. His hand slides closer, skimming the back of my thigh, stopping just where the curve of my bottom starts.

And then he starts rubbing. Small, subtle strokes. Slow, deliberate movements, the kind you use to soothe a dog, like I’m something to be calmed. 

Oh my God, am I a golden retriever to this man?

"Indoor sucks." His voice flattens, his hand going still.

"I was out for a bit in the beginning of the season this year, so I’m bad."

"You’re not bad, Tyler."

"Why were you out of the season?"

His fingers drum against the back pocket of my leggings, quick, impatient. 

"Because I’m not a good person." 

The words hit like a brick to the ribs.

"And it’s why women fear me."

I blink. "That is also irrational and not true," I say, tilting my head, trying to read him, to see him. But he immediately shakes his head in disapproval like I don’t get it, like I can’t get it.

And I don’t.  

Then he smacks his lips together, scoffing like he’s mad at himself.

"I hate women."

The words are careless, but the tension in his shoulders isn’t.

"Who hurt you?" I ask, half-joking, trying to pull him out of whatever pit he’s sinking into.

His eyes flick to me, piercing, unreadable.

"I hurt her."

My breath stills.

"Did you date?"

"No."

I feel something tighten in my stomach.

"Did you hook up?"

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drops to his hands, rubbing at his calluses from the gym like there’s something he wants to rip off but can’t.

"Yeah." His throat bobs, his voice strained. 

"And then I got in trouble."

His eyes—red-rimmed, glassy, refusing to meet mine.  I watch the way his hands curl into fists against himself, the way his chest rises unevenly, like he’s trying to breathe through it, push it down, make it smaller. But it isn’t small. And for the first time since I walked into this basement, I wonder if Tyler is afraid of himself.

I don't know the full story, but I can put two and two together—whatever happened this year, it has everything to do with him wanting to start over. I can feel it—the pressure under his skin, the way it’s ready to boil over if I press too hard. I know if I do, if I try to force it out of him, there will be steam coming out of his ears and then he’ll bolt. Because that’s what he does. He runs before he erupts. But before I can change the subject, he pivots first.

"So how’s business treating you? Any noteworthy stocks I should invest in?"

Like a performer slipping back into character. It’s textbook Tyler—deflect, divert, entertain. Always keeping the energy light, always redirecting when things get too heavy. I let out a laugh, big and easy, playing along. "I’m in marketing, I don’t study stocks like that."

"Ohh. Marketing. Is that your decided major?"

I nod, and for a moment, something lights in his eyes—something maybe even approving. But it’s gone before I can make sense of it. "I made some cool art in my Photoshop class this semester. I’m currently working on creating a flying cow. Look."

“Oh my.”

Tyler snatches my phone, his fingers brushing against mine for half a second—long enough to notice, short enough to pretend it didn’t happen. His hands dwarf my camera roll, meaty palms cradling the device as he studies the screen, like a professor that requires deep, intellectual analysis.

His whole face fights a losing battle with itself. The betrayal is in his nostrils—the slightest flare, like he’s physically holding back a reaction, as if trying to process why a cow is soaring through a poorly masked-out sky. He chokes on an exhale, making a noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh.

He nods, solemn. “That’s… some cool art.”

He forces a throat clear to maintain composure, hands the phone back, his fingers grazing mine again. "You’re really out here pushing the boundaries of modern design."

"So Jenny?"

A boyish grin stretches across his face. "Did you see her in the driveway?"

I nod, smiling back, and in that moment, his excitement is infectious. His fingers sliding toward the loop of my leggings, curling around the fabric like he’s anchoring me to him. "I just got her the other week," he continues, voice taking on that casual flex undertone guys get when they’re talking about their prized possessions. "She’s gonna be awesome in the summer, on the drives to the lake. Here."

I barely have time to react before he’s shuffling in his pocket, whipping out his phone. His grip on my leggings tightens—and then, in one smooth, effortless motion, he pulls me in. My body collides against his waist, and holy shit, I nearly see white. My brain short-circuits from the heat of it—the sheerforce of the move, the ease, the possession in it. It’s stupid. It’s just a tug. But it knocks the breath right out of me, and suddenly I’m fighting to stay conscious like I just got wrecked in a final turn at the wall.

I don’t even have time to process before my head is resting against his shoulder, the scent of his hoodie filling my nose—clean, crisp, something faintly musky underneath, like he’s fresh out of a shower but still Tyler. And then, as if none of that just happened, as if I didn’t just nearly black out from proximity, he lifts his phone and tilts the screen toward me.

Jenny!

A Jeep. Jet black, parked in front of a sunset, the sky bleeding warm oranges and pinks behind her. The grass surrounding her is obnoxiously green, the kind of summer green that looks like a Windows XP desktop background.

"Isn’t she prettyyyy," Tyler says, dragging out the last syllable like he’s introducing me to the love of his life. His thumb swipes, and now Jenny is in the dark, her headlights glowing against the night.

"Wow, change of scenery," I say, still trying to regulate my breathing, my entire existence after that smooth ass move. "She is a beauty, Tyler."

"I can think of other beauties."

His voice drops an octave. It’s rich. His index finger presses the side button on his phone, and the screen goes black, the glow vanishing into nothing. The phone lands next to the white takeout box with a muted clack. I turn my head slowly, like my body is buying time for my brain to catch up. But it’s too late. His face is already there—his dark beard inches away, the shadow of it just grazing my skin before his lips find mine.

Soft. Insistent. Consuming.

Legs tangle, limbs knot, heat surges.

And goddammit.

One second, I’m grounded. The next, my black long sleeve drapes onto the floor in a forgotten heap. My leggings slip away like they were barely there to begin with. My socks follow, stripped with the same effortless ease that Tyler does everything.

And then he’s on me.

His weight pins me down, solid, unshakable. His broad, thrower-built frame engulfs mine, every inch textured against me—the coarse dark chest hair meeting my bare, clean-shaven skin in a contrast so stark it steals my breath.

His thumb hooks beneath the band of my underwear, and in a single, slow movement, the dynamic shifts. Tyler works on me like he’s always had the blueprint to my body, like every sway, every press of his hips is designed to pull me deeper into something I can’t control. His grip is firm, fingers digging into my waist, anchoring me beneath him as he thrusts—slow at first, teasing. A pull, a push, a rhythm that makes my breath stutter, makes my spine bow against the cushions.

Every roll of his body sends another ripple of heat through mine, a rush I can’t stop. My nails press into his back, tracing over the ridges of his shoulder blades, feeling the tension, controlled precision in every movement. His hands drift lower, fingertips skimming the sharp lines of my hip bones, the delicate ridges of my ribs, pausing at the space between my thighs. A place I see as absence—he touches like it’s something waiting to be found. His grip tightens, not like I might break, but like I might slip away. Like he needs to hold on. His palms map every curve, committing me to memory. His beard grazes the hollow of my throat  like he’s savoring this, savoring me.

And for a second, I let it happen.

And then oneness.

It’s chemical, biological.  My body betrays me, oxytocin surging like a flood, drowning me in the illusion of closeness, of permanence. It’s hitting so fast it’s dizzying, knocking the air from my lungs, setting my veins alight. My brain, for half a second, plays its cruel tricks—frames around his face, softening the edges, sculpting him into something more. It doesn’t just make me feel close to him—it makes me believe in something bigger than us. It hijacks my brain, hijacks me, blurring reality, twisting logic, rewriting the script.

It rewrites me.

This isn’t just sex.

This is bonding. 

I see it—I feel it—so clearly it steals my breath.

Tyler, standing tall at an altar. In a black suit at my wedding.

Waiting for me. 

And fuck, I believe it.

Drunk on the illusion, lost in the way he folds over me, the way he nudges his forehead against mine between breaths— like he means this. Like he means me. I swear I hear it. The soft murmur of a crowd, the whisper of fabric as I walk toward him, the slow, sure pounding of my own heartbeat telling me that this moment—this life—is ours in holy matrimony. And in this moment, as his body moves against me in a way that feels sacred—I believe in him. I believe in the way his hands grip my thighs like they’ve held me a thousand times before, like they will never let go. I believe in the way he buries himself inside me, in the way he feels like something written in stone. 

The way his lips wander lower, reverent, marking kisses along my legs, like he’s carving a path he’s walked in another life. Like he’s worshipping every inch, claiming every curve, kissing the soles of my feet like even that part of me deserves devotion. Like he’s trying to etch himself into me so deeply that I will never be able to forget this.

And I don’t want to forget.

I want to stay in this, to let this moment stretch on forever, to stay tangled in him, wrapped up in the way he makes me feel like I belong to something, someone.

But then—

Then he thrusts harder.

And the illusion breaks.

My body tenses before my mind can catch up, every muscle locking up like a full-body alarm system going off at once. My breathing goes shallow, ragged, like I’m running out of air. I can feel my heart hammering against my ribs, a frantic beat caged against my chest. 

The couch isn’t soft anymore. It engulfs me, suffocates me. His hands, his heat, his breath –its everywhere. His weight, unbearable. Too strong. Too familiar. I turn my head, searching for space, for air, for something that isn’t him. But he’s still moving. 

And suddenly, my body isn’t mine. 

My chest tightens as the fratty past collides with the present, blurring the line between them until they are the same. Tyler’s steady pulse, the damp warmth of his skin, the way his breath ghosts over my collarbone—it all warps, twisting into something else. Something I don’t want.

Something I never wanted.

The sensation turns violent. Like he has a blade, and I am the thing being split open, carved apart, left raw and exposed beneath him. Each movement slices deeper, reducing me to flesh to be taken, to be broken. It’s grotesque in a way that isn’t loud, in a way that doesn’t leave bruises you can see—but I feel it. God, I feel it. The way his body forces mine to yield, to open under him. Like I am not a person, not something soft or whole—just something to be entered, broken, emptied. There’s no stitching. 

The memory slams into me without mercy. A door inside me kicks open without warning, spilling out what I thought I had locked away. Too dark. Too loud. One too many hands that weren’t mine, weren’t his.

My fingers twitch against his skin, itching to push him back, to break the moment before it breaks me. 

Get out. Get out. Get out. 

My throat tightens. So does everything else.

I go dry.

The air shifts.

I feel it in the way he hesitates, the way his rhythm falters just slightly, like some part of him senses it. His palm drags over my side, down to my thigh, as if he can butter me back into this, but the second his fingers dip into me again, a full-body freeze takes hold.

I can’t breathe.

I can’t move.

Tyler’s kisses turn feverish, hungry, like he’s trying to devour every inch of space between us. His lips skim from my ears to my neck, slow at first, then more urgent, more relentless, like he’s following some primal instinct that he can’t stop. When he reaches my mouth, he takes his time, kissing me with an intimacy that makes my stomach flip. But when he pulls back, staring down at me, his body still slapped against mine, I don’t meet his gaze. 

I stare at the ceiling.

I feel the last thrust like an echo, my body catching up to my mind. 

I need to leave.

Like, now.

My hands find his knees, pushing him back, forcing distance between us. Instinct takes over, yanking me upright against the armchair, away from him. "I’m… I’m sorry." The words spill out fast, breathless, and I reach for my phone, desperate for something, anything to anchor me back to reality. 

The screen flashes—12:00 AM.

"It’s getting late, I need to go home."

Tyler shakes his head, a flicker of disappointment darkening his expression. His jaw tenses, his lips part slightly like he wants to argue, but he exhales through his nose instead. 

"Come on… stay."

His voice is smooth, enticing, but there’s something beneath it—something pleading. He lifts his arm, an open invitation, and brushes his lips over my fingertips. Soft. Slow. Persuasive.

And then moves lower again.

His mouth trails from my palm to my wrist, breath warm against my pulse. His lips skim over the curve of my forearm, drifting toward the hollow near my elbow, then further still. Normally, the touch would trigger an involuntary shiver through me, the kind of reflexive ticklishness that makes me laugh, that makes me squirm. But I don’t.

The sensation barely registers. His touch moves over me like a shadow, fleeting, insubstantial. Stirrs nothing underneath my skin. Everything feels distant, like I’m watching from behind glass, like my body is responding without my permission. My limbs slacken, my head light, floating. His mouth nears my shoulder, but it’s as if my nerves have dulled, sensation smoothing into nothing.  My heartbeat stumbles, racing so fast I swear he can hear it, feel it beneath his lips. My breath staggers, but my thoughts are louder. A realization slams into me so explosively it nearly knocks the air from my lungs. 

I don’t know what he sees when he looks at me. But when I look at him, I see it so clearly it almost makes me sick.

I see someone trying to erase.
Trying to reclaim.
Trying to forget.

And I know because I am doing the exact same thing.

But we are not blank slates.

We are aftermaths.

“I can’t.” 

The words come unsteady, but final.

My nails, painted deep red, weave through his hair, fingers threading at his nape. The weight of my decision settles over both of us. Tyler lets out a low, faint moan in response, his body reacting before his mind can catch up.

And then—I move.

My legs hook around him, instinct taking over, pulling me into him like a second skin. His body tenses, and I feel it—the way he throbs against my waist, excitement pulsing between us because he loves this. Loves when I wrap around him like I’m his to unravel, like I’m something to be unwrapped. A gift tied in ribbons. He chuckles, low and boyish, before his grip tightens, biceps flexing as he lifts me effortlessly. The shift is seamless, fluid—one moment he’s slouched against the couch, the next I’m weightless, his strength adjusting me into his lap. Now, I’m straddling him, thighs spread over his hips. And God, it feels too easy, too natural. His hands latch onto my hips to steady me, his breath faltering. I take one last look at him—his deep brown eyes, his sharp slope of his nose, his thin lips.

Warm. Inviting.

Like Sundays in sundresses, setting the table for him. 

Like kissing scraped knees and packing school lunches with his last name on them. 

I lean in and press a final, lingering kiss to his lips—soft, fleeting, almost gentle. 

His fingers hesitate, an almost-movement, like they want to pull me back, like they want to fix something. But before he can, before he deepens it—

I twist. In one swift motion, my ankles slide off him, his hold loosening just enough for me to untangle myself. I step off his lap, reaching for my clothes, my breath tight in my throat. My fingers curl around the fabric like armor. I pull my leggings over my hips, my movements steady but I feel anything but. I feel like I’m slipping on ice. 

And Tyler is silent.

I hear him shifting on the couch, his hands resting on his knees. His fingers tap—restless. His eyes flick toward me, then away—then back again. Like he doesn’t want to look, but he can’t help himself. It’s the same expression he wore when he told me women fear him. The same flicker in his face when he admitted, I hurt her.

Like he’s waiting for me to see something bad in him.

Like he’s afraid I already have. 

I feel his stare trace the slow drag of my sweater as I pull it over my head, the way his lips part slightly, like there’s something he wants to say, something he almost does. I step toward the door, but before my fingers touch the knob, I hear him shift again—his body leaning forward, hands clasped. 

"You don’t have to go," he says, and his voice is low, rough, tired. Not a command. Not a plea. Just barely anything. I hesitate, fingers grazing the doorknob, caught in the space between staying and leaving, between wanting and knowing better.

I could say something. I could turn back.

But I don’t.

Instead, I press the door closed gently, the cool metal slipping from my trembling grip. 

The latch clicks into place—

And behind it, a breath.

Uneven. Sharper than it should be. Pulled in too quickly, like he’s trying to catch something before it’s gone, then forced out through his nose, slow and controlled—but not really controlled at all.

It’s not loud. Not dramatic.

But it’s weighted. Strained.

Like he was holding onto something, and I just walked out the door with it.

I don’t turn around.

But I hear him.

The drag of his palms over his face, rubbing at his jaw, pressuring into his temples, fingers grazing his lips like he’s trying to wipe me away. A swallow—thick, rocky—the kind that catches, the kind that fights its way down like it doesn’t want to be swallowed at all. 

And then—nothing. 

No movement. No rustling. No words. 

Just the heavy stillness of him sitting there, alone.

I tip my forehead against the cool wood for half a second, just breathing, just letting my body register that I am out.

The night air is sharper, biting against my skin as I step into the driveway, wrapping my arms around myself. My feet move on autopilot, carrying me past Jenny and toward my car, but my mind is still in there—trapped in that dimly lit basement, tangled in cushions that aren’t mine, in hands that still feel like they’re on me. 

I fumble for my keys, my hands still trembling, still buzzing, still marked by him. The oxytocin high fades like a drug crash, leaving behind a strange hollow ache in its place that I wasn't ready for. 

I should have gone home sooner.

I should have never kissed him back. 

I should have stopped before he pulled me under— before I let him. 

I slide into the driver’s seat, slamming the door harder than necessary. The car trembles with impact, but the feeling inside me stays, rattling through my ribs, clawing at my insides like it refuses to be left behind. My fingers lock around the wheel, gripping the leather like it’s the only solid thing left—something that isn’t him.

But I still feel him.

The sob detonates inside my chest, a seismic rupture sending shockwaves through my ribs, shattering everything I’ve been holding in. It rips through me, violent, a sound I don’t recognize. Then another. And another. Each one heavier, like I’m being torn apart from the inside, like I’m sinking in quicksand and I can’t stop myself from going under.

The streetlights outside streak and melt, as if the whole world is bleeding out through my tears, distorting into something unrecognizable. My breath stumbles, jagged and wrong, like I’m trying to inhale through crushed glass, like oxygen itself is turning against me. My body shakes, my hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me from disappearing completely. The tears won’t stop, and I can feel what they carry—each one dragging something with it, something I’ve been trying to hold together for too long.

One dissolves the last remnants of a three year love that should have saved me but only left me hollow.

Another slips down for the night in that frat house, for the hands that weren’t mine, for the silence that swallowed me whole when I needed my voice the most.

A tear for the boy who still calls me Bird Girl, for the way he can make me laugh until my stomach aches, for the wrestles on his dad’s lake house carpet when the world was nothing but summer nights and breathless joy.

A tear for the way we still fall into old rhythms and for just for one second, nothing changed.

A tear for how we still hurt each other in ways that go unspoken but sink deep—because we are the same.

A tear for the heaviness of familiarity, for the comfort that feels like a trap, for the nostalgia that keeps pulling me under.

I clench my fists until my nails carve half-moons into my palms, tiny crescent scars marking the places I refuse to let go. Ice spreads through my fingers, my hands shaking so hard they barely feel like my own. My body is failing me, trembling beneath the weight of everything I’ve buried. My throat tightens, a thick, immovable lump rising, swelling, pressing—it feels massive, like a mountain I’ve already fallen from.

And I’m still falling. Plummeting at full speed into a dark hole.

The air turns thick and choking in my lungs, heavy as smoke, like I’m breathing in ghosts I don’t want to name. My heart slams against my ribs, wild and erratic, a caged animal thrashing, trying to break free. I can’t slow it. I can’t stop it. I can’t breathe.

I gasp—quick, desperate. The world tilts. My vision tunnels, pinpricks of light exploding like shattered glass at the edges. My stomach knots, my skin feels stretched too tight, like I’m unraveling at the seams. My hands scramble blindly through the empty air, reaching, searching, grasping for something—anything—to hold onto.

The bag.

My fingers close around the crumpled paper in the backseat, shaking so hard I can barely drag it forward. I press it to my lips, my breath rattling against the paper, expanding, collapsing, expanding, collapsing. My hands won’t stop trembling, the bag rustling with every broken inhale, every shattered exhale.

Breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

I force my eyes shut, gripping the wheel tighter, anchoring myself to the here and now.

Not the past.

Not him.

Just me.

But I still feel him.   

I reach for my phone, turning it over in my palm. 

Tyler.

"Text me when you get home?"

I should. It would be polite. The easy thing. The thing that keeps the door cracked open.  

I let the phone fall onto the passenger seat, his name still glowing against the dark interior. I press my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling through my nose, forcing air into my lungs like it might steady me. But it won’t. It never does. Because this feeling—this gnawing thing—won’t be exhaled away.

Because leaving should feel right. It should be easy. 

But it isn’t.

No matter how much time passed, no matter the distance, no matter everything that had changed, we always found our way back. Before life fractured us into versions of ourselves we barely recognized—before the weight of experience settled into our bones, before regret, mistakes, and time carved their scars—we were something simpler. We were familiar. We existed in the same spaces, filled the same memories, moved through the world knowing we had a place in each other’s lives. We were safe in each other’s presence before we even understood what safety meant.

But time has a way of sharpening things. Edges that were once soft turned jagged. Innocence hardened into something unrecognizable. And when we found each other again, we weren’t just old friends reconnecting.

We were mirrors.

Not just of who we had become, but of what had been done to us.

And what we had done. 

Tyler took something from a girl. And I was the girl who had something taken from her. Same timeline, opposite roles—two people walking away from separate nights that left them wounded in ways they didn’t know how to mend. Wounds don’t heal just because time moves forward. They scab over too quickly, harden before they are ready, leaving something raw beneath the surface— aching, tender waiting to be reopened. I never told him about my assault tonight. Not in the way he told me his. I let him spill his regret, let him choke on the weight of it, let him sit with it in that dimly lit basement where we had become two people trying to outrun our own reflections. But I felt it in the way he looked at me. In the way his jaw tightened when I reached for my clothes. In the way his fingers twitched against his knees —like he wanted to stop me, like he was grasping for something before it slipped away. 

He didn’t just want me. He needed me to stay. Because if I still wanted him, if I still saw him as good, then maybe he wasn’t the thing he feared he was. And I needed him too. Because if he could still touch me gently, if he could still want me without force, without taking, then maybe I wasn’t just what had been done to me. Maybe I was still whole. 

Love—real love—isn’t about pressing yourself into someone else’s skin, hoping they can absorb your guilt, your shame, your broken pieces, so you don’t have to hold them alone. It doesn’t exist to take us back to who we used to be. It doesn’t rewrite the past. Healing doesn’t happen in someone else’s arms; it happens in the quiet spaces, when there’s no one left to make you feel better—when you finally stop running. When you sit with the worst parts of yourself, not to erase them, but to understand them. That’s what we are doing—clinging to each other, hoping that if we hold on tight enough, we can undo everything that came after. But healing isn’t about undoing. Some things can’t be erased. Some things have to be faced.

Tonight, we reach for each other instead of facing ourselves.

The road stretches ahead of me, dark and empty, the low hum of the engine steady beneath my fingers. My hands are still unsteady on the wheel, but the further I drive, the lighter the weight in my chest becomes. It doesn’t disappear. It won’t. But it shifts—settles into something quieter, something I can live with.

Tyler is still behind me, still sitting in that basement, still waiting for a text. Maybe he’s lying back on the couch, arms crossed over his chest, exhaling slowly, letting the silence swallow whatever words he never got to say. Maybe he’s picking apart every moment from tonight—the way I touched him, the way I pulled away. Maybe he’s wondering if he should have stopped me. If he should have said more. If it would have changed anything.

The glow of my phone screen catches my eye, his name still there, still waiting. My fingers twitch, the smallest instinct to reach for it, to tell him I made it home.

But I won’t. 

Tyler says he wants to start over, but you can’t start over until you face yourself. That mirror has been sitting there for weeks, waiting. And tonight, I think I finally showed him why he has to put it up—because I was his reflection. I showed him everything he’s been avoiding.

I push harder on the gas, feeling the road open up ahead of me, feeling the weight of this night settle into something final.

Tyler will wait for my text.

And I will keep driving.