I live in a big house. Full cupboards, spare bedrooms. A big family, too. But I still feel…empty. Nothing really sticks, you know? It's just…life, I guess. A constant letdown, always chasing expectations that never materialize.
I try to find the good stuff, honestly. But all the bullshit seems to magnetize to me. Maybe that’s why I feel so…done. Done with everything. With *living*.
Maybe that's why I was standing here, tonight, hoping for…I don't know…a reason to *be*. With a kitchen knife in my hand, tracing the lines on my wrist, just to feel something. Just to feel…ready.
But I knew I wasn't brave enough. Or strong enough. I’m just…weak. Pathetically weak. I let the stupidest little things get under my skin, and I can't even manage the one thing I’ve wanted for years. I want to do it so badly, so fucking badly. To just…end it.
But I can’t.
The doorbell yanked me back to reality. I walked towards the front door, ignoring the ache in my chest. I threw open the double doors, facing the pizza guy. He gave me a confused look. I snatched the box, tossed him the change. No smile. No thank you.
"Are you okay?" He asked, his brow furrowed. "You look…pale." He pointed at his cheek, like I was some exhibit at the zoo.
"Yeah…I'm fine." *Don't talk to me. Please just leave.* I started to close the door, but he blurted out, “I learned it's always best to ask twice.”
I swallowed, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. I'm fine."
He finally left. I slammed the door shut and stumbled into the smaller kitchen.
This is what I hated about…whatever this is. The social anxiety. Being afraid to talk to people because you're convinced they're judging you, watching you. It's the worst feeling, wanting to isolate unless you're with someone you can actually…*be* with. Except I don’t *have* anyone.
As I sat on the bar stool, tearing into the pizza, I just wanted to cry. So I did. I cried while I ate, while I washed the plates, while I scrolled through Instagram, pretending to be happy, pretending to have a life. I don’t think I'm going to see my eighteenth birthday. I cried myself to sleep, like every night.
I don’t dream. Dreaming is for people who *want* something. I don't even have that.
My alarm jolted me awake. I didn't want to get up. I wanted to stay buried under the covers. But college would notify my parents if I missed registration, and they'd freak. They've had enough "incidents" to worry about.
Grumbling, I dragged myself out of bed and into the en suite. I splashed water on my face, trying to wake up.
After brushing my teeth and avoiding eye contact with my reflection, I walked to my wardrobe and threw on a black top and white mom jeans. Not trying to impress anyone. Just…existing.
I grabbed my books and combed through my hair, then trudged downstairs for water.
I hate the bus. With my parents out of town for months, I’m not allowed to drive. They’re so cautious about what I do, yet they leave me alone for months. Fucked up, right? The anxiety creeps through my veins, making the thought of being around people unbearable. But sometimes I have to force myself.
As I walked down the road to the bus stop, my pace slowed. I kept my head down, trying to blend into the background. I stood a few feet away from the others, hoping nobody would bother me.
That's when the itching started. A prickling sensation on my scalp, begging for release. I fidgeted with my fingers, trying to ignore it.
With a grunt, I let my fingers fly up to my head, scratching slowly. I glanced around, making sure no one was watching before I picked up the pace, digging my nails into my sore scalp. I know it's the exam stress. I know I have nothing to worry about. I do well in school, usually. But that doesn't stop the panic. What if I mess up? What if I get sick? What if I don't know the answer?
The bus pulled up. I pulled my fingers away, reluctantly. I always waited near the back, letting everyone else board first. Then the agonizing search for an empty seat, knowing every eye was on *you*. Convinced the whole world was conspiring against you.
The bus driver was a twat. Didn’t even crack a smile when I handed him my ticket. Not that I wanted to talk to him. It would have been nice if he showed *some* enthusiasm for his job.
I quickly found a seat next to an old lady who smiled at me. At least *some* people had decency. My faith in humanity flickered back to life.
I hopped off a couple of stops before college and walked the rest of the way, avoiding anyone I knew. When I spotted Laura, I cursed under my breath and lowered my head, trying to slip past unnoticed.
But she saw me. Her eyes lit up, and she scowled before stepping in front of me, blocking my path.
I didn’t say anything. I’d probably just choke on my own tongue.
“Aria.” Her voice was sharp.
I kept my head down, unable to meet her steel-blue eyes.
“Cat got your tongue? Speak up, bitch.”
I never could speak around Laura. My hands would shake, sweat would bead on my forehead.
“What do you want?” I managed to whisper.
“Did you even *try* to not look like a tramp today? Are you homeless or something?” Laura knew my parents were loaded, but she loved to twist the knife.
A guy came up from behind her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her back.
“Laura. Don’t start anything.” He guided her towards her friends. He turned back to me, sighing and smiling. “I’m sorry about Laura. She can be a bitch sometimes.”
My eyes widened.
“She’s just looking for attention. Don’t feed into it.”
I slowly nodded and stepped away, ducking my head and walking quickly. *Phew*. Today’s encounter with Laura wasn’t as bad as usual. Maybe because her boyfriend had intervened. But it's the times she calls me a slut or a whore that really break me. And there's nothing I can do about it. Because I'm fucking scared.
Scared of everything.
Hey! I hope you liked this chapter. It took a while to write.
It gave you an insight into Aria’s life and vaguely touches on what she's going through.
We met Laura and there was a small appearance from Jacob ????
Anyways, get ready for the next chapter!
-H ⚫️⚪️⚫️⚪️