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But I can feel Damien’s eyes, watching me, like he promised. And the thought of him keeping an eye on me is weirdly attractive.

“Yes,” I nod, grabbing my drink to take a sip. “There was just a huge queue by the bathroom, I wasn’t long was I?”

“No, not at all,” he says with a wide smile. “Listen, I hope I’m not being too forward but what do you say we take this little party back up to my room?”

“Sure, I don’t mind.” I drain the remains of my drink before grabbing my clutch and slipping it underneath my arm. I can feel his hand at the small of my back leading me towards the elevator, and just before the doors close, Damien appears.

His eyes meet mine and I smile to reassure him, although it feels like I’m trying to reassure myself…

66

Mireya

Play - My Angel by Adrianne Lenker

Morals Over Reality

I hear the robotic sound of the door automatically locking behind us as we enter his room. It shuts with a soft click when I turn around to face him.

“It’s a bit muggy in here, no? Perhaps we should sit on the balcony,” he says, gesturing towards the small terrace.

The mild breeze blows over me as we step outside. It’s strange. I’ve been here all my life yet this view still guts me. Cliffs that have seen me beg for them to split open so I can fall and escape this world. Ocean that crashes violently against the rocks whenever I’m losing my mind.

“Here we are,” he adds as he slips next to me. His eyes follow my collarbones, before sliding down at my chest. And I want to throw up.

It's a job, nothing more. A role, a name I don't use in real life, a version of myself that knows how to get through things without clinging to them. I know how to do that. I know how to stay in it. I have to succeed to avoid being excluded.

For a while, it holds. I answer when I have to, I smile when it's appropriate, maybe then he’ll understand that I’m not myself anymore whenever someone comes closer.

But then his hand reaches out, and my body reacts before I do.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers.

“Thank you,” I reply, trying to create more distance. But he still doesn't understand it.

Can’t he see the shadow I’m seeing behind him?

The man who never left me. The man who’s just behind him, begging me to remember what it felt like to be quiet whenever it was too painful to feel. Never a face, never a person.

I think… I think only I can see him.

He follows me back in the bedroom. His hand on my waist, his breath on my neck and for a moment I’m somewhere else entirely.

“You've been playing with me this whole time,” he says.

And already, the two realities begin to separate. In his mind, nothing has really changed. In mine, I’m still fourteen again, begging to be seen and not bruised.

I back away too quickly. Something bumps against me from behind, but I don't really feel it. His voice continues, a little less gentle now, a little more confident, “You came up here with me.”

My breath catches. “We can take our time…” I say, trying to smile, but my breathing quickens. I feel hands tighten around my neck. The hands of the man who haunts my deepest sorrows. I see him, even though I close my eyes to remind myself that it's not him.

No, it's not him. No. It's not him.

Why does it feel like him all over again then?

“Relax,” he says, moving closer and pressing me against the bedside table. “It's going to be okay, I'll take care of you.”

No. I can't. I can't.