Chapter Text
Abigail—
I love her. Loved?
I don’t know anymore.
The silence felt suffocating, only interrupted by the occasional pothole.
I glanced at the mirror, finding her tear soaked eyes glaring at her own lap. Part of me was happy she was miserable. Part of me wanted to bring her into my lap and coax all the sorrows away.
“Please, love, please. Listen to me, I— I’m sorry—”
Every word made me flinch. It wasn’t safe to be driving right now, with my hands shaking and my eyes stinging and blurry. I slowed the car down, and pulled over.
I clutched the wheel until my fingers went numb, my breath rattling in short, shallow hiccups. When had I started gasping for air? The inside of the car felt like a vacuum, the ceiling pressing down, the dash crowding my knees. I wanted to scream, but my throat was a knot.
She started talking again, her voice shrill and desperate and ugly. “It was a mistake. I— it meant nothing, I swear to God, I swear—” Her sentences kept collapsing under their own weight, every excuse dying halfway through.
I couldn’t look at her. If I looked, I might kill myself, or I might start crying, or both. I pressed my head to the rest, staring out at the fat, wet night, the parking lot lights blurring through the windshield. I tried to focus on the streaks of rain, on the way each drop distorted the world outside.
My lungs spasmed in little rabbit hops. I pressed myself against the door and tried to remember basic biology: inhale, exhale, repeat. It hurt, each breath like a cold slap, but it was better than hearing her. She was still talking, but quieter now, like she was afraid the words might physically injure me. Maybe she was right. Every syllable was a little needle, and I was a pincushion, always meant to have been this way.
“I— don’t know what happened,” she said, and then, “I do, but I can’t explain it.” Her voice was raw, and I hated how it made something inside me ache.
I knew I should’ve be angry, to shout, to blame her, but my mind wouldn’t let me have that. Instead, it started replaying every moment from the last year, searching for the invisible cracks. Was I too quiet? Was I too boring? Did I not touch her enough, or too much? Was it the way I left the lights on, the way I always said “sorry” first, the way my body looked when I took my shirt off? I thought of the last time we’d had sex, barely a day ago—I thought I had done well, she had quivered, mewled, shook and done all the things I thought meant she loved me. Had she been thinking of someone else, even then?
My legs trembled. I dug the nails of my right hand into my left thigh, hard enough to leave crescent moons. I shouldn’t do that. The therapist said it was self-mutilation, a word that sounded melodramatic but was apparently accurate. I did it anyway; at least it meant I was still here, not floating above the car like a ghost.
She reached for me, her fingers brushing my sleeve. “Please, can we talk? Really talk? I’ll do anything.”
I almost laughed. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to vanish. But I nodded, because that’s what I do. I am reasonable. I am calm.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered again, and now she was crying in earnest, snot and all, sliding down to kneel beside my seat. I flinched, not from anger but shame—she shouldn’t debase herself like that, not for me. I didn’t deserve a dramatic apology. But I didn’t stop her. I couldn’t.
“Is it because I’m ugly?” I asked, and the words came out in a croak. She looked up, horrified, and started shaking her head so fast I worried she’d snap her neck.
“No—God, no—”
“Fat, then?”
She clapped a hand over her mouth. “No, no, no, no. Stop, please, you’re not—”
“Then what?” My voice was too loud in the tiny car. It startled me, and her, and I hated myself for raising it. “Why did you do it, then?”
She didn’t answer. Just folded in on herself, hands twisting in her lap, lips moving but making no sound. I felt sick with guilt for asking, but I needed to know. I needed a reason that wasn’t me.
“It was my girl— friends,” she said finally, in a voice so small I almost missed it. “We were all drunk— and the atmosphere. I was so drunk, and it just— I’m so stupid. I’m so, so sorry.”
The word “girlfriends” caught in my teeth and stuck. I remembered all those times she’d gone out with them, how she’d asked me to come along, how I’d said no because I was tired or anxious or just didn’t want to be around people who seemed to live life without worrying about being a nuisance. I’d always assumed she was better off without me there.
A hot, shameful pulse went through me as I pictured her with them—her mouth, her skin, her laugh, all the parts of her I loved, being shared with her girlfriends. My cock twitched, traitorous, and I wanted to vomit. I pressed my palm to my jeans and tried to think about anything else.
She reached for my hand, but I drew it away, curling it into a fist. I didn’t trust myself to touch her yet. I didn’t trust myself to do anything except sit there and breathe, and even that felt like a monumental task.
“I’ll do anything,” she said again, and this time she sounded like she meant it. “I don’t want to lose you.”
I wanted to say something noble and mature, something that would make her feel better, but my mouth was dry and my heart was a stone. I closed my eyes and leaned my head on the window, letting the cold seep in.
“Let’s just sit,” I said. “For a minute.”
She nodded, folding her arms around herself and shivering in the passenger seat.
The silence threatened to fill the car with black water. I could see her wanting to reach for me, but she kept her hands in her lap, knuckles white. I could hear her swallow.
I wanted to ask, but I was afraid of the answer. I wanted to not know. I wanted to rewind to before, to a version of myself who didn’t have this image in his head, who could pretend everything was fine, that love was something you could just… do, like a trick, over and over, without ever running out.
I wanted to ask who it was with, who started it, but I was afraid of the answer. My tongue pressed against my teeth, counting seconds and heartbeats, until the question forced itself out: “Was it you, or them?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Me,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it. “I started it. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what was wrong with me.”
I remembered, then, the first time she’d told me she was bi, how I’d grinned like an idiot, made some dumb joke about threesomes, and then immediately felt guilty for being a cliché. I’d never asked if she missed girls, or if I was enough, because I was afraid of the answer, too. Maybe I’d wanted to pretend she was satisfied, even though I’d always known I wasn’t.
A new theory sprouted in my mind, poisonous and ugly: maybe the cheating was just about the thrill. Maybe I was a prop, a stand-in, someone to hold her hand while she got off on the idea of being bad. Maybe she’d never really wanted me at all.
“How long?” I asked, and my voice didn’t sound like my own.
She curled up tighter, knees pulled to her chest, as if she could fold herself down to nothing. “It stopped two years ago. I promise. I haven’t— I wouldn’t—”
Two years ago. We’d been talking about getting engaged then. I let the arithmetic tumble around, thinking about all the little lies that must have built up, the stories I’d believed, the nights she’d come home late smelling like pussy and lust, the times she’d begged me to fuck her into the mattress.
My body slumped back into the seat, all the tension gone in an instant, replaced by a cold, sludgy exhaustion. I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and saw a hideous, puffy wreck: red-rimmed eyes, weak chin, the baby fat that never left my cheeks, scruff that looked more like neglect than rebellion.
Of course she cheated. Who wouldn’t?
She was still crying, but softer now, as if she’d already moved on to comforting herself. How dare she? No, I’m being unreasonable. Am I? The rain on the windshield thickened, and the world outside was just a blur of sodium light and black water. I thought about opening the door and walking away, just letting the rain soak me until I dissolved. She could drive herself home. She’d be fine. She’d always been fine.
And me? I could just keep walking, keep moving until my legs gave out, until I was so far from here that the pain was a rumor. The thought was stupid and melodramatic, but it was the only comfort I had left.
She reached out again, just her fingertips grazing my wrist. “Please don’t leave,” she said, and her voice was so small, so breakable, that I almost laughed.
“Why not?” I said. “You don’t need me.”
“I do,” she said. “I do. I’m sorry. I just— I don’t know how to be alone.”
I stared at her, trying to find some trace of the girl I’d loved, the girl who used to drag me out of bed for midnight walks, who made up stories about strangers in coffee shops, who once painted my toenails while I slept just to see if I’d notice. Maybe she was still in there, somewhere.
Or maybe she’d never existed, and I’d just been in love with my own idea of her.Her hand held mine tightly. I didn’t squeeze it, just let it sit there, cold and limp, while we both listened to the rain. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do next. I didn’t know if I’d ever know.
I needed to get out of the car, or move it, or set it on fire. The thought flickered through my head, bright and sickly, and I almost laughed at the image: me, standing by the side of the road, watching our little metal casket go up in orange and blue. It would be so easy. I could blame the rain, say I hydroplaned, or that I was tired, or that I just didn’t see the turn. Everyone would nod and say how sad, how tragic, and she could go back to her friends and tell them she’d almost died with me, but survived. Maybe it would even make a good story.
Instead, I put the car in gear and started driving. The motion was automatic—hands at ten and two, blinkers for every lane change. I fixated on the green glow of the dashboard, the way the speedometer needle trembled at every bump. There was a hotel up ahead, the one we’d reserved, to give us some privacy. I wondered if it was the same hotel she’d used before. I wondered if I’d ever be able to sleep in a bed with her again, knowing what I knew.
She didn’t say anything for a while. The only sound was the click of the wipers, the hum of the tires on wet asphalt. I caught her glancing at me, quick, darting looks like she was afraid I might veer into traffic on purpose. I wouldn’t get her caught up in my suicide attempt, so she was safe at least.
My right hand was sticky. I looked down and saw little red beads leaking from between my knuckles—my nails must’ve broken the skin at some point. I wiped it on my jeans. She saw, of course, and made a strangled noise, but I shook my head before she could say anything. I didn’t want her to touch me. I didn’t want her to care.
We parked in the lot behind the hotel, under a flickering streetlamp. I killed the engine and sat there, the keys digging into my palm, staining with blood. She made no move to get out, just stared at the dashboard like she was waiting for instructions.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I said. My voice was gentle, like when I coaxed her into bed after her finals. “You can go in. I’ll sleep in the car.”
She shook her head, hair sticking to her cheeks. “I want you to come up. Please.” I almost said no. I almost sat down in a puddle and cried against the lamp post. I almost started the car and drove away. But I was tired, and I didn’t trust myself with a metal death machine, if I killed someone, it would be me and only me, so I followed her into the lobby, through the wet neon glare, up the elevator that smelled like old cigarettes and bleach.
The room was beige and anonymous, with a king bed and a flat screen that cycled through weather warnings. She dropped her bag and stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest, looking down like she was ready for punishment. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried not to look at her.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said, not quite looking at me. I wanted to say, “You deserve it.” But even now that felt too cruel.
“I’m— here.” I said. She turned, her eyes swollen and raw. “Do you hate me?” I thought about it. I thought about how easy it would be to say yes, to make her the villain and me the victim, to turn all my pain into righteous anger. But I couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me, I never had. I was a coward. “No,” I said. “I— probably did something wrong.”
She made a sound—half gasp, half sob—and sat down next to me. I could feel the heat of her thigh through my jeans, and I wanted to pull away, but I stayed. I stayed because I didn’t know what else to do. She took my hand, the one with the bleeding knuckles, and pressed it to her lips. Her mouth was warm and soft, and I could feel the wetness of her tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over, like if she said it enough reality would change.
We didn’t fuck, that night. We didn’t even kiss. We just lay there, side by side, not touching, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. I thought about all the ways I’d failed her, all the times I’d chosen silence over honesty, comfort over truth. I thought about how maybe this was what I deserved, maybe I’d always known it would end like this.
I waited for the sun to come up, and when it did I still didn’t feel clean. I still didn’t feel anything, except tired.
She was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, her phone in her lap. She looked at me, eyes red but clear. “Do you want to talk?” I shook my head. “Not yet.” She nodded, as if she’d expected that.
She offered to get food. “Room service?” she said, voice soft and tight, as if she was apologizing for the existence of eggs. “Or I can run down, get you something. They have a breakfast buffet. I checked.”
I said don’t bother. I wasn’t hungry. My stomach was a pit, gnawing itself against my spine, but the idea of eating—of chewing, swallowing, digesting—felt obscene.
She stood there for a moment, hands fluttering in front of her like startled birds, then mumbled another apology and left, the door closing behind her with a rubbery sigh.
I lay there, feeling my head pulse with the headache that always came when I was stressed, a white-hot band squeezing at my temples. The room was too hot, but I bundled up under the blankets anyway, cocooned in polyester and regret. I could hear the elevator ding through the wall, the faint, cheerful Muzak that sounded like a parody of happiness. I pulled the covers over my face and tried to smother myself with the hotel scent: industrial laundry, cheap soap, the faintest undertone of mildew.
There was a way back from this. There had to be. People survived worse. But the idea of climbing out of this hole—of forgiving her, or myself, or both—felt as impossible as lifting the whole building with my bare hands. I could almost hear my therapist’s voice, plodding and gentle, reminding me that feelings were not facts, that time was a solvent, that I was not irreparably broken.
I laughed, a little, at that. The sound was ugly, the kind of laugh that should only happen in hospital waiting rooms or parking garages at three a.m. I’d spent years learning to talk about my feelings, to name my needs, to be honest and present and all those things that were supposed to make relationships work. And here I was, hiding under a hotel blanket, wishing I could turn off my own brain.
I should get up. Shower. Eat breakfast. Take a walk. Be a person. Instead, I stayed in bed, limbs heavy and useless, staring at the popcorn ceiling and tracing the cracks until they blurred together.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew, she was back. She’d brought a tray—eggs, toast, fruit, little plastic cups of jam—and set it on the table by the window. She didn’t say anything, just paced the room, opening and closing drawers, folding and refolding her clothes. The silence was thick, but not hostile. Just—tired.
I watched her, the way her shoulders hunched, the way she kept brushing her hair behind her ear even though it didn’t need it. I remembered the first time I noticed her, how she’d leaned against my desk, borrowing a book she had forgotten from me. She’d been so alive then. Or maybe I just thought she was, because I wanted to believe in someone who could be happy.
We sat there, the food untouched between us. The TV was on mute, showing some kind of cooking show. I watched a chef slice salmon into perfect little cubes, then arrange them in a neat row. Everything in its place. I wondered if the chef ever cried while he worked, or if his hands ever shook so badly he had to sit down.
She sipped her own coffee, staring at the steam. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, finally.
“Me neither.”
“I wish I could take it back.”
I laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “You can’t.”
She nodded, eyes shining. “I know.”
She moved closer, her body a trembling line, and I felt her cheek brush my shoulder. The contact sent a jolt through me—I jerked away, just a fraction, but enough that she noticed. The air thickened with her hurt. She sagged back, hands clutching at the hem of her sweatshirt, eyes bleary and raw. I hated myself for flinching. I’d practiced all those loving touches so long ago, to accept her love with open arms. I thought I had fixed my flinching.
She made a wet, desperate sound and leaned in again, this time grabbing my face in her hands, pressing her forehead to mine. I could feel the heat of her skin, the salt of her tears. “Please,” she whispered, “please, look at me. I’ll do anything. I’m so sorry, I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, I don’t know what else to say.”
She waited for me to move, to yell, to sob, but I just sat there, frozen. She clung to my face like it was the only thing keeping her from floating away. I felt her thumb smear a tear across my cheek, and I realized I’d started crying again, soundless and involuntary. She slid her arms around my neck, hugging me with all the strength she had left. I hugged her back, but it was the kind of hug you give a child who won’t stop screaming—a desperate attempt to quiet the noise. She melted into me, sobbing into my collarbone, her whole body shuddering.
I stroked her back, slow and mechanical, not sure if I was comforting her or myself. Her hair smelled like rain and the cheap hotel shampoo, and her breath was hot against my neck. I tried to remember a time when I’d held her like this and not felt like I was about to break.
She pulled back, just enough to look at me. Her eyes were swollen and red, her mouth trembling. “Let me fix it,” she said. “Let me try, please, I know I don’t deserve it, but let me—” She didn’t finish. She kissed me, sudden and clumsy, her lips rough and salt-wet. I wanted to push her away, to tell her it wasn’t that simple, but my body betrayed me, mouth opening, breath catching, hands still tangled in her sweatshirt.
She kissed me harder, teeth scraping my lip, as if she could force forgiveness out of me by sheer will. I let her, too tired to resist, too hungry for something that felt like love, even if it was just an imitation. Her hands were everywhere—my hair, my jaw, my chest. She climbed onto my lap, straddling me, and I felt her thighs press against mine, the warmth of her through the thin cotton of her shorts. Her hips ground down, desperate and insistent, and for a second I forgot everything except the heat between us, the animal comfort of her weight.
She broke the kiss, panting, and pressed her forehead to mine again. “I love you,” she said. “I love you. I fucked up, but I love you.” The words fell between us, heavy and sticky. I couldn’t bring myself to say them back.
Her hand drifted to my crotch, tentative at first, then certain. I felt the familiar squeeze through denim, the way her thumb pressed and rolled, like she was checking the ripeness of fruit at the grocery store. For a second, I almost laughed—how many times had we done this, in cars, on couches, in the back rows of empty theaters? But now it felt hollow, like replaying a joke you knew too well. She fumbled with my button, my zipper, the practiced awkwardness of two people who knew each other’s bodies better than their own.
I didn’t help her. I just sat there, hands limp at my sides, watching her work me free. My cock stood up, traitorous, eager in a way I wasn’t. I hated it, this body that always wanted, always needed, no matter what my mind was doing. She looked up at me, a ghost of a smile flickering at the corners of her mouth—relief, maybe, that I could still get hard at all.
“Let me,” she whispered, and slid down to her knees. The carpet was cheap and scratchy, but she didn’t seem to care. She nuzzled against me, cheek pressed to my thigh, her hair making a curtain between us and the rest of the room. Just a few days ago we did this so eagerly. She’d look up at me, laughing, her mouth full, and I’d feel like the center of the universe. Now she didn’t look up. She kept her eyes on my skin, like she was afraid of what she’d find if she met my gaze.
She kissed the head, soft and slow, then ran her tongue around the rim, the way she knew I liked. I tried to focus on the sensation, the wet heat, the gentle suction, but my brain wouldn’t cooperate. I kept thinking about the girl who had done this for someone else, the lips that had wrapped around one of her friends pussy lips, the tongue that had learned tricks I never asked for. I wanted to stop her, to push her away and say, “Enough. You don’t have to do this.” But I didn’t. I just watched, detached, as she bobbed her head, taking more of me each time, her hands squeezing the base with just enough pressure.
She was good at it. She’d always been good at it. I remembered the first time she’d tried, how she’d gagged and sputtered and laughed, spit dripping down her chin. Now she was a pro, breathing through her nose, humming low in her throat, her jaw relaxing in a way that made me feel guilty for being impressed.
I came fast, too fast. Maybe that’s why she cheated on me. There was a brief, electric spike of pleasure, then the numbness rolled back in, heavier than before. She swallowed, wiped her mouth, and climbed back onto the bed without saying a word. She curled up next to me, small and shivering, and tucked her head under my chin. I let her. I didn’t know what else to do.
“I’ll make it up to you,” she said, her voice muffled against my chest. “I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
I wanted to tell her that wasn’t possible, that some things couldn’t be fixed with blowjobs and apologies. But I was so tired. I just stroked her hair, slow and automatic.
We lay there for a long time, not talking. Her breathing slowed, evened out. I wondered if she was pretending to be asleep, or if she really had managed to drift off. I couldn’t. My mind kept running in circles, replaying every conversation, every argument, every little moment that might have been a clue.
I slid out from under her, careful not to wake her, and went to the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror, cock still half-hard, and studied my reflection. I looked like shit. My hair was plastered to my forehead, my eyes bloodshot and sunken. I splashed water on my face, but it didn’t help. I categorized every flaw, every scar, pimple, ingrown hair, visible pore, soft pudge, wrinkle, and sign of age.
I tried to imagine a future where this didn’t hurt. Maybe I’d meet someone else, someone who didn’t cheat, someone who actually wanted me. Maybe I’d learn to be alone again, like I always thought I’d be. Maybe I’d forgive her, really forgive her, and we’d grow old together, and this would only be a small sting in a lifetime of love. All of it seemed equally unlikely.
When I came back out, she was sitting up in bed, knees hugged to her chest. She looked at me, eyes wet but clear.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
I lied. “Yeah.”
She nodded. “Do you want me to leave?”
I shook my head. “Just… let’s just be quiet for a while.”
She crawled over and rested her head on my shoulder. I let her. I always did.