Page 43 of The Quiet After The Fall

After five minutes of nothing, I get up and pace the floor in front of the bed.

I knew it was a long shot, but something’s not sitting right.

With a deep breath, I text again.

Me: I fucked up. Just please tell me you’re ok.

A few more minutes tick by and both messages are still on delivered.

Fuck it.

I click her name and put it on speaker. It rings once before an automated message starts speaking.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I lower the phone and sit on the edge of the bed, realization hitting me that this isn’t a glitch. It’s not an accident. She’s really done with me. Last night, I pushed her too far and now⁠—

No.

My fingers are tingling before I even notice I'm hyperventilating. Oh, fuck. I can’t breathe. I can’t get air to my chest. It’s stuck and I’m stuck and I know it’s my fucking fault.

I did this. The moment I opened my mouth about Ella and me. I’m such a fucking asshole. I wanted a reaction and I got one and I kept poking the bear anyway because that’s what I do. I push and push until something breaks and then I have the audacity to be surprised by the damage.

I drop the phone on the mattress and press both hands against my knees, staring at the rug. It’s the same patterned one that’s been in here since we were teenagers. White and blue woven cotton in this diamond-like pattern.

I focus on that…the shapes, the worn patch near the desk where he used to roll his chair back and forth.

It’s not working.

My chest is a closed fist. I try to pull air in and it gets stuck somewhere around my collarbone. Useless goddamn breaths that are more and more shallow the harder I try.

My hands are going numb, fingertips rigid, and it’s spreading up through my palms. Soon, it’ll be in my arms, my legs.

Is this what dying feels like?

I slide off the edge of the bed onto the floor. With my back against the mattress and knees bent, I press my palms against the rug and focus on the texture of it. It’s rough and worn thin in places. There’s pulls where the thread’s loose.

I snag a few pieces and roll them between my thumb and index finger.

Breathe in.

It comes in ragged and too fast and I force myself to hold it…to count. My vision is tunneling at the edges but I count anyway.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Breathe out slowly.

The tingling moves up my arms. My jaw is so tight it aches.

In.

I need more to focus on.

The cologne…faint but there. Owen’s room. Owen’s rug under my hands. His blanket behind my back. His hoodie on the chair that I can see from here if I just keep my eyes open and keep counting and keep my mind from focusing on what’s inside my head.

Out.

In.