I was out chilling with my mates when my phone rang.
It was her.
Her voice was shaky, broken, words slurring together. “I can’t do this… I need you… If you don’t come back, I’ll—”
My stomach dropped.
I left without even saying goodbye, sprinting through the streets, my mind racing through every worst-case scenario. What if I was too late? What if she’d already—
I burst through the front door, calling her name. No answer.
Then I saw the bathroom light on.
I pushed the door open and froze.
Knives, lying there on the sink like something out of a horror movie. A bottle tipped over, pills scattered across the floor. She was sitting against the bathtub, her head low, her breathing heavy.
She looked up at me, eyes wide and glassy, and whispered, “You came back.”
It freaked me out big time.
I wanted to be angry, to shake her, to scream What the hell are you doing? But all I could do was kneel beside her, my hands shaking as I checked if she was okay.
After that, everything changed.
I felt like I had to stay close, like I was responsible for her.
I couldn’t even hang out with my friends without worrying about what might happen when I wasn’t there.
What if she called and I didn’t pick up? What if next time, I was too late?
It wasn’t love anymore.
It was fear.
