//------------------------------// // Alarm // Story: Cortisol // by TamiyaGuy //------------------------------// I should be happy. I’m out at the mall with two great friends, friends whom I’ve stayed in contact with all this time, through thick and thin. We’re chatting, catching up, sharing stories and telling jokes and just basking in each other’s company, enjoying the time together. The mall’s busy enough to feel alive, but not so busy as to feel overwhelming. Hell, it’s even sunny outside – that most cliché of symbolisms for joy and mirth and contentment. I should be feeling happy. But I don’t feel anything. That’s what worries me. If I felt sad, or angry, or wistful, then at least I’d be able to acknowledge that I felt something. Maybe even process it. At least I’d be able to express myself, even if that expression was done alone. But I’m past that point now. Too far gone. I clench my eyes shut to drown out that stupid internal monologue, praying that neither Twilight nor Rainbow see me and that I don’t have to stutter out some half-baked excuse as to why I’m walking around with my eyes closed like an idiot. Or that I don’t walk straight into a wall. I’m not sure which would be more embarrassing. Yet it’s strange. Any onlookers would only see three friends, three self-assured young women, strolling through a shopping centre without a care in the world. Though perhaps three self-assured young women with an utterly baffling variety in wardrobe choice. For Twilight, it’s like she’s looked up the textbook definition of smart casual and got it down to a published, peer-reviewed science. A modest plum skirt compliments her impeccably-pressed short-sleeved shirt, light pink stripes perfectly co-ordinating with the magenta highlight in her hair. Her trademark glasses – I swear they’re the same pair she was wearing when we first met – top off the whole outfit as quintessentially ‘Twilight’. There’s simply no other word for it. I almost stifle a giggle as I look at the girl next to her. Rainbow Dash looks more like she’s looked up the written-on-the-back-of-a-receipt definition of casual-casual, then ignored anything that could be considered effort, or might prevent her from vaulting over a fence if the whim took her. That’s no criticism, though – ‘effortless’ would be a good way of putting it. A sports jacket covers a thin tank top emblazoned with a lightning bolt across the chest – ‘subtle’ never was a part of Rainbow’s lexicon, after all – while running shorts and sneakers back up her ever-present, ever equal parts inspiring and infuriating cocksure look of being ready to take on the world at a moment’s notice. As for me? I’m pretty sure I embody the textbook definition of ‘whatever the hell I had in my wardrobe today’. Light T-shirt. Jeans. And jacket. Because of course a jacket. But despite the mish-mash of attire, we still share one common thread. The three of us are all wearing our geodes, hung like pendants, their colours merging seamlessly into our outfits. They sit well on us, I think, and serve as a nice reminder as well. Of simpler times. Beneath my jacket, though, something ugly lingers. A fresh bandage conceals a fresh, scabbed injury, and it rubs uncomfortably against the sleeve. The injury’s too neat to have been accidental, and the bandage is too well-dressed to have been done on impulse or in a panic. The brush of cloth against gauze against flesh acts as a constant reminder of my failures, past and present; of how I’ve marred myself, permanently and irreparably, all because I can’t deal with my emotions like a normal person. The hazy fog clouding my brain drags me away from that line of thinking and back into a numbing void of white noise. ‘Haze’ is about the best word I can think of for this… whatever it is. It’s not as though my emotions are unregulated or absent. The feeling is still there, the sensation isn’t blocked out, it’s just obscured. Lost in a thick mist that doesn’t let me see my hand in front of my face, or feel whatever emotion I should be feeling. There’s that word again. ‘Should’. Someone once told me that ‘should’ is a poisonous word, that it sets up expectations you might not be able to meet. That there is no ‘should’ – you either will do it, or you won’t do it. Easy to say. “-nset?” My ears perk and my heart skips a beat. Rainbow’s gaze bores into me, expectantly. Damn it. I should’ve been listening to her. A generic, one-size-fits-all response starts forming in my mind, but it’s too slow and too awkward. The haze is still there, but it’s pulsing red with panic. “Uhh…” Good job, idiot. “You, uh… you doing alright there, Sunset?” Rainbow cocks an eyebrow, halfway between concerned and amused. Oddly, it’s noticing that tiny shift in expression that brings me back to the world. “Yeah, sorry. I just… sorry, just spaced out a bit there.” I respond, and it’s only now that I remind myself to try and breathe. Rainbow’s smile turns into a self-assured smirk. At any other time I’d love it for the challenge that she means it as, the boxing bell to kick off a good-humoured battle of wits, but right now it makes a pit form in my stomach. “Heh, one too many late nights? Something dark and exciting going on in the life of Sunset Shimmer, huh?” I can’t do this right now. I can’t rise to Rainbow’s provocation even though it’s all in good spirit. I’m barely able to hold myself together, hell, by most people’s standards I’m not even managing that, and yet I’m supposed to conjure up some witty comeback and insult my friend? Someone who’s helped me, stuck by me, saved me, and I’m just expected to try and drag her down to my level because apparently that’s how socialising works? It’s like I’m right back where I was all those years ago, tearing people apart for fun. Fortunately, just as the façade starts to crack again, a saviour comes to my aid, dragging me by the hair back up towards normalcy. “Come on Rainbow, go easy on her, okay?” Twilight says, perhaps just a bit more harshly than normal. Her voice is quiet but steadfast, and Rainbow’s face twists into a mixture of mock offence and genuine shame in response. Twilight casts an eye sideways, offering me a sympathetic glance. A knowing glance. In a horrible way, I really wish she didn’t. I want to tell them both that they’ve done nothing wrong, that it’s my fault, but the more rational part of me knows that nothing good can possibly come from going down that path. At best, it’ll only bring the mood down. And at worst… “Don’t worry about it girls, it’s fine. I’m just a bit tired, is all.” I try to offer a cheeky grin, but the mass of skin and sinew contorting around my face feels alien to me, and I’m certain that it looks awkward and forced. “You know me, Rainbow: Secrets, magic and rock & roll, right?” The words come out like I’m pricking Rainbow’s chest with the tip of a knife, and I wish so, so hard that I was holding it by the blade instead of the handle. But it’s enough to defuse whatever mess was about to happen. “Hah! Atta girl!” Rainbow responds, pointing a pair of finger-guns in my direction. I return the gesture and think I see just the briefest flicker of concern across her face, as if she wants to ask a question that no-one really wants to ask. She settles on a genuine smile instead, something reassuring and comforting, and the world comes back to us as we walk on. I take a deep breath in, the first since Rainbow called my name. It doesn’t help. But before long the tension begins to fade into the background, and everything blurs together once more. You’d think that the adrenaline would shock you back to attention, but it feels like I’ve been running on empty for days now. The moment it wears off, everything drains away and all that’s left is exhaustion. Voices blur together, sounds blur together – Twilight’s saying something about something and Rainbow’s responding with a response. The faces we pass all blend into one another, this smudged mass of murky colours that should be a welcoming sight on a lazy afternoon, but it’s all lost behind that hazy fog. Four angry purple slashes against a background of green arms cuts through the haze like a scalpel. I don’t even realise I’ve stopped dead in my tracks until I hear Twilight and Rainbow awkwardly shuffle back to check on me, before a moment later the marks are gone, hidden once more behind a pair of long sleeves. The young woman, sitting alone at a café table, seems to deflate as she lets her breath out through her nose, face twisting into a pained frown. It’s only then that I realise I’ve been staring at her this whole time. You never stare. You, of all people, should know that you never, ever stare. But you’re still staring. You’re despicable. “Sunset, seriously… are you doing okay?” There’s a scratchy voice in my ear that’s almost familiar to me. What’s unmistakable, however, is the hand hovering over, but never quite touching, my shoulder. Credit to her, Rainbow Dash doesn’t force contact or press the issue. Or she’s just treating you like an unexploded bomb. Twilight and Rainbow follow my gaze over towards the lone girl, before some vague hint of recognition crosses the latter’s face. “Hey, isn’t that, uhh…” “Wallflower Blush.” I hardly even realise I’m talking. All I can see is that brief flash of bare skin, shooting through my mind over and over again. “Yeah, that’s her! Man, after the whole… what was it with her, the Memory Stone? It was like she disappeared off the face of the planet. Just up and died, y’know?” I find myself unable to suppress the wince marring my face, nor the brief flinch of my shoulders, but fortunately Rainbow doesn’t notice. My guess is that Twilight’s being polite enough to not mention it. “Hey, maybe we could go over and say hi? Swap numbers, maybe get some lunch together or something. What do ya reckon, Sun-” It’s only when Rainbow turns back to face me that I realise my wince has turned into a panicked scowl. It’s only an awkward blink and staring at the ground as means of an apology that stops her from giving me the same look, but really, what am I supposed to say? How is there possibly a way of explaining anything about either Wallflower’s or my own behaviour without giving it all away? Twilight pipes up, ever the voice of reason. “I think, uh… I think it might not be best to overcrowd her, you know? Wallflower always seemed pretty introverted to me, maybe it’d be best if just one or two of us say hello?” Ah yes, that’s the response that a normal, rational person would give. Someone who doesn’t see every tiny little social faux pas as an excuse to project their own failures onto everyone else. It’s agreeable enough to placate everyone, and with shared nods and hugs that feel like needle pricks against my skin, the three of us arrange to meet back up later in the afternoon. But as Rainbow and Twilight leave and I’m left walking towards the lone girl ahead of me, something in the back my mind is telling me, screaming at me, to walk away before I screw this up beyond repair. Depression clouds your judgement. It clouds everything. It makes you certain that what you’re going to do is a bad idea, and then it makes you do it anyway and you can’t explain why. You complete this circle of self-destruction, it turns out to be just as self-destructive as you knew it would be, so you withdraw and use it as ammunition to prove that you’re full of nothing but bad ideas and you should just stop and not try next time. And in the run-up to doing this bad, harmful, stupid thing, that clouded judgement stops you from coming up with anything that could have any chance of mitigating the damage or getting out while you still can until you blink and it’s already too late and- “Wallflower? Wallflower Blush?” I blinked. The girl in front of me is unreadable as she stares down at her coffee cup – immediate recognition crosses her face but beyond that her expression is a mystery. It lasts for all of half a second, before she settles on a warm smile and meets my gaze. “Sunset Shimmer, hi! It’s been quite a while, huh? What brings you around?” I rub the back of my neck sheepishly – an old habit, but you know what they say about old habits. Perhaps it might not be best to open the conversation with how I ghosted her the moment she stopped trying to- “You just caught my eye, that’s all! You’re right, it’s been forever; how’ve you been?” I slowly move to the other side of the slightly-too-small-for-two table, pulling out the cheap plastic chair on the other side. I wonder if Wallflower’s smile flickers for the briefest of moments or whether I’m just searching for a sign of my failure again, searching for that ammunition. But as quickly as the seed of doubt is planted in my own mind, it’s gone from Wallflower’s face – she seems genuinely happy to see me. Seems. We begin the ritual of catching up, the small talk and the life updates, and it’s as awkward as it is well-versed. How life has been treating us, but not really how life has been treating us; what we’re doing with ourselves these days but not really what we’re doing with ourselves. The conversation itself seems to form part of the background noise as we reminisce over who’s kept in touch with whom – a list worryingly but unsurprisingly sparse, in Wallflower’s case – and we go through the motions, rattling off the checklist in an attempt to rebuild a long-lost familiarity. And it works. I think. And all the while, the image of scar tissue tearing across her arm sears itself into my memory more and more. Eventually, we reach a natural break point – whether we can’t think of anything else to say or we’ve both wordlessly agreed that it’s not worth trying to think of anything else, it doesn’t matter. Wallflower keeps that pleasant smile, but it’s clear that something’s eating at her. She toys with a lock of her unruly forest-green hair, tilts the cheap, disposable coffee cup clasped in her other hand towards her, either craving the caffeine hit or needing something to hide her face behind. The cup’s empty. “So, anyway…” Wallflower still takes a sip of the dregs. “What, uh… what brought you around here, anyway?” I blink, and suddenly find myself having to concentrate very, very hard at keeping the friendly smile on my face. “How do you mean?” “I mean… look, I don’t want to be a bitch about this, but…” Her pained expression, just for a moment, flashes to something guarded. Something angry. “Why are you really here?” “I just thought that it’s been a while, you know? Figured I’d pop over just to see how things have been.” Wallflower’s silent. Her deadpan stare tells me in no uncertain terms that she doesn’t buy it at all. “I…” I’m trying to look anywhere except at her. It’s a good point – why the hell am I here? Once again, I’m in a situation that I can’t back out of. Or rather, I put myself in a situation that I can’t back out of. “I just thought I saw something on… on your arms a few minutes ago. It looked like you had an injury or two, just… just wanted to, I dunno.” The words are falling apart before they’ve even left my mouth. “Make sure you were okay.” Wallflower’s expression immediately changes, and she locks me with a glare. Panicked tension shoots through her face. Her voice is quiet, cold. Teetering. “What did you see.” It’s taking everything just to keep a level head, but I don’t think I’m even managing that. “Nothing much, I just thought-“ “What,” she interrupts, “did you see.” My mouth has gone completely dry. This is stupid. This always was stupid. Stupid idea, stupid execution, stupid… what? Empathy? My arms are burning. “They looked…” For all I’ve done to myself, I can barely even say the words to someone who’s already there. “They looked self-inflicted.” Wallflower’s entire body tenses up, her breathing grows shallow. But credit to her – she doesn’t so much as blink. That cold, analytical stare still pierces straight through me, but not to judge. Just to gauge my reaction. A cornered animal, eyeing up its attacker. “They are.” It’s only now, five minutes too late, that my brain gets the signal to shut up. But something ugly has been set in motion, and from Wallflower’s expression of barely-contained anxious contempt, it’s not looking to get bottled back up any time soon. “So…” The green-haired girl casts her eyes downwards, scanning the space between us, searching for the words to kick off this shambles. “So what? You’ve waltzed over here to tell me that I shouldn’t be doing it? As if I don’t already know?” There’s a hurt in her voice that’s tearing me apart. “To tell me how they’ll be permanent, that it’s dangerous, that I could go too deep or hit something important?” Not just hurt, though – disappointment. Wallflower sounds as though she expected me to be better than this. To be fair, I expected me to be better than this. “Or maybe you wanted to offer some paper-thin platitude about how ‘there’s always another way’? Oh, or even better, to give me advice? Tell me to draw on myself in red pen like I haven’t tried that a dozen times already, or hold an ice cube like that’ll make all the self-hatred just disappear?” Wallflower continues her dressing-down, voice growing from scathing to fevered, and to be honest I can’t blame her. I almost wonder if this has been a long time coming for her, simply the culmination of years of others' well-intentioned advice thinly veiling their woeful lack of understanding. In a way, it’s almost reassuring that she at least feels confident enough to tear me apart. But among the maelstrom of shame and guilt and fear, an idea begins to take form. It’s a stupid idea. I know it’s stupid. But it’s the only thing I can think of and now that I’m focusing on it it’s forced every other potential idea out of my head, like someone telling you to breathe manually so now that’s all you can think about and you hate that you’re thinking about it which just makes you think about it more. It’s a stupid idea, a risky shot in the dark. It could be invalidating; it could be triggering. I never was one for half measures. But as I reach for my own sleeves, alarm bells are ringing. This is so, so dangerous. “Look, Sunset, I know you mean well. But to come here on a high horse and try to preach to me is a waste of your time. So you can take your good intentions and give them to someone you can save, because…” Wallflower trails off as she sees me roll up my sleeves, exposing my own scars. Some older, some newer – she’d definitely be able to figure that out. She remains silent, be it in shock or contemplation, which if nothing else starts to clear the chaos in my head. Breathe, Shimmer, breathe. Breathe, calm down, and choose your next words very carefully. “I… I’m sorry, Wallflower, that- that wasn’t my intention. I’m not going to offer unsolicited advice, or try to take some kind of moral high ground, or Goddess forbid try to ‘fix’ you. Because I’ve been there myself. I am there myself.” I raise my hands slowly, partly in surrender, but partly so she doesn’t have to stare at my own mangled skin. “So, honestly, no judgement. I just… I don’t know. I just thought you deserved to know that you’re not alone.” There’s a palpable timidity that suffuses the air, the kind that only comes about when a conversation hasn’t ended so much as it’s been forced to stop. It feels like there are so many words unspoken, but nothing left to say. I almost smile – I could really do with a cheap coffee cup of my own right now. Wallflower’s face returns to being unreadable. Either that, or I’m too worried that I’ll just project my own thoughts onto her and so I don’t even try. But the one thing I can tell is that her eyes are locked onto a spot on the table, and it makes a knot of anxiety work its way up my chest and into my throat. “I’m sorry.” What? “I’m… I’m really sorry.” She repeats, muttering only just loud enough for me to hear. Her grip on the cup tightens, almost imperceptibly. “So stupid…” My eyes widen. Oh no. “Wallflower, I… no, I’m sorry. You’ve got nothing to apologise for, seriously. I…” What the hell am I supposed to say, that I messed up and hurt her and I knew I would but did it anyway? “I came about this in completely the wrong way.” The girl bites her lip, but otherwise remains stoic. No, not stoic. Coiled. Her voice changes, hardens, and that anxiety in my throat sinks deeper and shifts towards dread. “Except I do.” “Honestly, this was completely my-“ “Except. I. Do.” She punctuates each word, halfway between heaving each syllable out and not breathing at all. “I mean I… what, went on some stupid, hateful, self-destructive rant, tore you apart when all you wanted to do was come over and talk. We haven’t seen each other for I can’t even remember how long, and the first two things I regard you with are suspicion and hate. I assumed you were another holier-than-thou moron who wanted to spit solutions at me, and I didn’t even realise that you… Can’t even hide my own shame when I’m wearing a stupid ugly sweater, I mean for God’s sake, I do this to myself in the first place!” She barks out a laugh, and it’s as bitter as burnt grounds. “I’ve got a lot to apologise for in just the last five minutes, I reckon.” I ponder over what’s been said. In a way, it’s worrying how much truth there is behind her words, even though there’s a tell-tale hysteria that’s blowing everything out of all reason. What’s even more worrying is how familiar it is. It really does cloud your judgement. A thought enters my mind and brings an odd half-smile, half-grimace to my face. “So… I guess I’d better apologise for the same, then.” “Wh- what?” Wallflower paints the very picture of gobsmacked silence on her face, and my expression tilts further towards ‘smile’. “I mean, you said that you… yeah. And, well…” I shrug my arms, just a little, but it’s all she needs to jog her memory. Of course it is – we both know what we’re talking about, even though neither of us have been able to say the words. It’s like I can see the gears turning in her head, working through what I’ve just implied. Then it clicks, suddenly, without warning, and she smiles. Actually smiles, for the first time since we started talking. It’s a bit wayward, it’s a bit self-deprecating, and it’s very, very well aware at how messed up this whole situation is. But it’s genuine. “You got me in a bit of a checkmate there, Sunset.” It’s what you’re good at: Manipulation. Even that stupid inner monologue isn’t quite enough to rip the smile from my face, as hard as it may be trying. Instead, the tension drains from my shoulders, and the rest of the world slowly comes back into focus. And with it, the clock on the far wall, just above the café’s entrance. Damn it. “Listen, I’ve gotta meet back up with the girls, but it was honestly really good to see you again.” I can’t help but squirm in my seat – given everything I’ve screwed up with her so far, I can’t believe I’m about to try this. “Look, this is a long shot, and feel free to say no, but… you wouldn’t happen to want to share numbers, would you? We could meet up some other time or just, you know,” Stop digging yourself a hole, “chat and stuff.” To my surprise – no, amazement – Wallflower’s face brightens at the idea. More than that, she agrees. Self-criticism and pessimism are asking why in the world she would, but sheer pragmatism is counter-attacking with that old proverb about gift horses. We both take out our phones and peer down at the tiny screens intently, and for just a moment, we look like a couple of completely ordinary, tech-obsessed young adults. Contact details exchanged and test messages sent – a lukewarm but perfectly curated ‘Hello, it’s Wallflower’ from her and a… well, a rather me ‘sup’ from me – and things almost seem okay. I reach out to rest a hand on her upper arm. Only as something innocent, of course – a friendly reassurance for when a full-on hug isn’t practica- The moment my fingers make contact, Wallflower flinches as though she’s been shot. Her entire body jerks backwards so violently that it sends her a foot and a half away from the table, and the dreadful screeching of her chair on the hard flooring might as well have gouged a ravine in the ground between us. It’s pure reflex – I instinctively reach my hand out towards her. Fortunately, I catch myself at the last minute, locking up like a deer in headlights instead as I realise what I’m doing. Hand frozen in mid-air, it takes all my self-control to not clench it into a fist and punch myself in the face for doing something so stupid. You touch her once and this is what happens, and your first instinct is to reach out and do it again. That’s not idiocy. That’s malice. “I… I’m so sorr-“ A raised finger is all it takes to silence me, and I can only watch, heart hammering in my throat, as Wallflower clenches her eyes tight shut and takes a forced, painful breath in through her nose. It’s like the air needles through her as it comes back out in a staccato, her tightened chest doing its best to crush her lungs in on themselves. She breathes in again, almost imperceptibly smoother this time, and that knowledge is the only thing that stops me from completely freaking out. It takes too long, way too long for Wallflower to regain control of her breathing again. “Wallflower, I… I’m so-“ “I’m sorry.” Wallflower shoots back, an ice-cold glare locked on the floor, pointedly staring at nothing. It’s scary – not for how I’m worried by it, but for how the anger is very clearly not meant for me at all. All that hope, all that work to rebuild the faintest glimmer of confidence, shattered in an instant. And we’re both left sitting here, holding the shards. “I’m sorry, because I shouldn’t have reacted like that, and I know it’s weird and frightening to see.” If this were any other situation, it’d be impressive just how she can take anything and use it to blame herself. Here and now, though, she’s right – it is frightening. “Wallflower, it wasn’t right of me to… I should’ve asked you first-“ “You weren’t to know.” Again, there’s an anger, an acidity that burns in her voice. Her arms have crossed over her hunched form, knuckles whitened from gripping her elbows. “You couldn’t have known! How could you have known that my first reaction would be to fling myself backwards like some-“ Eyes tight shut. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. I stay silent. Something’s not right. “I just…” The girl deflates a little, collapses a little, trying to offer an explanation rather than spit it. “I’m sorry. You just took me by surprise, and I don’t really do, you know, physical contact. I never really have. It’s not your fault.” A slow nod of understanding is all I can give. Sympathy, not empathy, but hopefully better than nothing. “That’s okay. Thank you for telling me, I’m sorry that I invaded your space, and I’ll remember from now on.” She smiles a little in response, lifts her face up but… pauses. Or perhaps not ‘pauses’. Perhaps ‘hesitates’. When did I completely forget how to read people? “Thanks, Sunset, I appreciate it.” Wallflower offers a small murmur of gratitude in response, before her face turns. “It’s more than most people would do…” Social skills or not, there’s no ignoring the resentment in her voice, and it tells a painful story of its own. But it’s gone barely a moment later, replaced with her characteristic sheepish smile that lifts and… stops, again. Instead, her focus settles on my neck and stays there. It’s like she’s trying to meet my gaze, but can’t bring herself to look me in the eye. But there’s something in her expression beyond the shame. Wait… I can’t keep track of all the minute changes in her face, what they might be implying, what they might mean or affect down the line, but this particular one sits with me heavily. “I should probably let you go, anyway.” She’s right – I’m already late to meeting back up with Twilight and Rainbow, but that’s the last thing on my mind right now. “Honestly, I’ll be fine. Dose myself up with another cup of coffee and I’ll calm right down again. Because, you know, that’s what a bunch of caffeine does to you, right?” Wallflower’s lack of enthusiasm for the joke matches perfectly with the way she remains rigidly focused on my neck, but it’s still worth a chuckle. In a way, her half-stare feels like an appropriate compromise and seems rather indicative of the situation as a whole – not quite a casual chat between friends, but a long shot from the awkward, stilted, hostile thing that it could have been. No… her stare, it’s not a compromise… “Only if you’re sure, Wallflower.” It’s worrying how quickly I acquiesce. Maybe I’ve finally learned exactly where my saviour complex leads more often than not. But it seems to calm her a little. “Thanks.” There’s a brief cock of the head, an internal debate, ending in a smile that hopefully indicates I haven’t completely screwed this up. “You know, if it’s okay, I would actually like to meet up again, this was…” Wait, there’s no way she’s actually going to say- “Hm… Yeah, it actually was nice. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after perhaps? Catch up properly, you know?” It takes a solid five seconds for me to finally extract my jaw from the floor, though the incoherent, dumbfounded babbling lingers for a bit longer. I really didn’t give Wallflower enough credit – to go through this and not just withstand it, but ask for more? Subject herself to this again? She’s a damn sight more resilient than she appears. Even though she’s still looking at my neck. Except, of course, she’s not. “Y-yeah. That, uh, that sounds good, Wallflower, thanks!” At long last, I stand up from the table, but there’s a lead weight in my stomach that refuses to move with me. “It was good to see you again, and, well, I guess I’ll hear from you soon, yeah? Send me a message!” The girl nods in acknowledgement with a bob of her hair, a nod that only goes down and not up. I think the movement is making me feel seasick. So I leave, finally and hastily, concentrating instead on meeting back up with the girls, where to go and how long it’ll take me to get there. What we could do afterwards, when I need to be back home, or maybe the idea of staying out for the afternoon and getting some dinner at that diner Applejack keeps talking about. But the distraction fails, and I’m dragged back to thinking about Wallflower’s expression as I was leaving. That pit forms again, deep inside. How violently she startled when I rested an arm on her shoulder, meaning nothing by it; how she couldn’t look me in the eye afterwards. How hard she had to concentrate to not fall into the depths of an uncontrolled panic attack, and how heartbreakingly familiar the whole process was to her. How that one stupid, thoughtless little action from me tainted the whole conversation from that point onwards, consigning Wallflower to pain and anxiety, only able to bring her gaze to look at my neck. No. Not your neck. The world stops. You got it. Wait. No. Took you long enough. Everything erupts in a sickening lurch, and it’s all I can do to not stumble and collapse right there. Or maybe I’d laugh instead, though whether at my stupidity or my callousness I’m not even sure. It all fits together now, a puzzle that was better left unfinished. It wasn’t that she couldn’t look me in the eye. She was looking somewhere else. At something else. Not my neck… Your necklace.