Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I always loved summer - its warmth and its carefree nature that allowed me to express myself in ways I didn’t find possible in other seasons. Alas, it’s the end of summer again, yet it doesn’t feel like it. For the first time in years I feel actually good about the change. Maybe it’s because I am finally with the person that I’m supposed to be with. Conrad. 

I still can’t believe that he chose me. That he chased after me all the way to Paris - something that no one else did. He brought me back home and I couldn’t be happier. It’s the beginning of our life together. Our moment to shine and thrive as a couple. The return of something that was inevitable, but we chose to ignore it for too long. I’m so happy that the anticipation is finally over.

However, now there’s an anticipation for something else. Graduate programme. I gulp at the mere thought of starting it, suddenly feeling anxious and out of place. “You’ve got this,” I hear Conrad’s voice.

We’re sitting in his car, it smells like new leather. Mainly because the car is indeed new. His father bought it for him as a gift when Conrad got paired up in a new medical program that’s actually close to my new university. 

“Yeah…yeah, I know,” I say after a moment of pause, but I’m not convinced. Not yet. I need a hug or some kind of reassurance that everything will be fine, even though I will keep second-guessing myself. Alas, nothing like that comes out of his mouth. Instead:

“Isabel Conklin, you have a minute to get a grip,” he sighs. I can tell that he’s annoyed and rightfully so. I keep stalling it. 

“I just…I need a moment, okay?” I mumble, my hand searching for him, but he’s holding a steering wheel, already checking in his mind whether the traffic will be bad or not.

“Belly…look, I can’t be late for this job, understand?” He tries to reason with me.

I nod. I understand. He’s about to be a doctor. Someone that actually can save lives. His job is important, unlike my studies. At least that’s what may or may not slipped out of his mouth during our last fight. Even though he promised that he won’t belittle my work. But hey, it happens during fights, right? People hurt each other in the heat of a moment, right? It’s not like I haven’t experienced it before. We fought a lot when we dated for the first time. Constantly, actually. And with Jeremiah-

Suddenly I can’t remember a single fight during which he was hurtful towards me. Please don’t put your inferiority complex on me, the words I said during our first fight linger and leave bad taste. Such a bad taste that it helps me to actually get out of the car.

“Atta girl,” Conrad smirks, proud of me and oblivious to what made me actually want to escape the closed space of his car. “See you tonight,” he simply adds and starts the car.

“Yeah, see you,” I mumble quietly and wave at him, forcing myself to smile. He doesn’t see it anyway. He’s already gone. 

I look at the sign that says welcome to Brown University. Here I go. The defining moment of my future. If it goes well I’ll finish a prestigious university, making Conrad proud of me. And my mother. And myself of course. I can’t help, but wonder if becoming a psychologist would finally make Adam accept me as his favorite son’s girlfriend? 

Is that how Jeremiah felt? Never good enough? Inferiority complex, my own words keep echoing in my head as my mind forces me to replay that fight before my eyes. Why do I keep coming back to that painful memory? Why? Just why?

I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll down the contact list to find Jeremiah. My heart throbs painfully as I open our conversation. Conversation that doesn’t exist. He didn’t reach out a single time, except for that one call on New Year’s Eve. I sigh and quickly type: Hope that the end of summer is good for you!

Should I send it? I keep debating it for a while, before finally calling myself an idiot and deleting the message. Why would I even text him? He made it painfully obvious that he doesn’t need to contact me. I should’ve understood that the moment that Conrad showed up at my door in Paris and said that Jeremiah’s fine with him being with me.

My heart throbs again in a way that’s rather uncomfortable. Focus, I tell myself. 

I go through the campus, looking at the faces around me. I don’t know anyone. Sure, I expected it. I knew that it would be like this. That choosing being close to Conrad, means leaving my old environment behind. It’s alright, because I have him. The boy I loved when I was little. Alas, it would be nice to have Taylor here or anyone from Paris. I talked about it with Conrad last night, actually.

“I’m worried that I won’t make friends,” I confessed at night.

“But you’re not going to be there to make friends, right? You’ll be there to study,” he reminds me.

His words are like a knife to my heart. Suddenly I feel like I’m sixteen again and he tells me to look in the mirror. It hurts. But he’s right, isn’t he? I’m supposed to be studying here, not partying and being overly sociable. I went through that phase in Paris as he kept reminding me, saying that it wasn’t a good look on me. That he prefers the calm Belly that couldn’t handle her liquor when she was younger. And for him I’m willing to be that Belly again. Because that’s what love is about, isn’t it?

Suddenly I get a text message. I pull my phone out of my pocket once again, my hands trembling as I unlock the screen only to be met with a text from Taylor. You’ve got this biaaatch, she wrote. I can’t help, but chuckle, even though I hoped for a message from someone else.

Jeremiah. He sure must know that I’m in Brown now, right? I know that he talks with Taylor and Steven and they had to tell him. I mean, why wouldn’t they? Unless…he doesn’t want to talk about me? Or does he? Ugh, I’m doing it again, don’t I? Reminiscing about him. I should really stop, but I can’t. Somehow it bothers me that he did not make a single attempt to contact me after New Year’s Eve. Why? Should I ask Taylor? I avoid talking about him with her. With anyone actually. It’s like a wound that I pretend is healed just so no one would be alarmed. No one noticed so far and part of me hopes it will stay this way, maybe even fade away with time.

I get in the right building where I’m supposed to have my first lecture this academic year. The hallway welcomes me with a sterile scent of detergents, a sign that it was properly scrubbed earlier this morning. Now I can understand why Conrad isn’t bothered by the smell of the hospital. Brown got him used to it. I wonder if I’ll accept it too? I should, right? Since we’re together now, I might visit him at work, just to bring him a sandwich or steal a quick kiss when he’s busy.

The place isn’t as crowded as I imagined it to be. I’ve always pictured Conrad passing through those people, completely unbothered and cool like he always was when in my eyes when we were teenagers. But it seems different now. It looks like he fitted here perfectly with his aloof persona. And now I’m here as well, finally belonging to him and to his life. It’s nothing like Paris, nor Finch.

Finch. My stomach hurts at the mere thought about that place. It’s good that I’m not there. That place holds too many memories that I should leave behind me. Memories that carry a weight that I don’t think I’m capable of lifting, at least not on my own.

The class is about to begin and I take the place in the second row. I’m here to study, after all. Not to make friends, right? I made those as a kid. And at Finch. And in Paris. I don’t need more friends.

“Hey, I’m Beck,” the girl that chose a seat next to me says and I can’t help, but smile. Suddenly I’m feeling lighter, like my time here won’t be as miserable as I feared it would be. We exchange a few words before the professor enters the class and the lecture begins with his laptop bag being thrown at the desk with a loud sound that makes us all freeze in place.

“Good morning. I’m professor Lahey and in this class we’ll learn about developmental psychology,” he begins.

I can’t help, but be excited. I open my laptop and begin to note right away. Conrad would be proud. My mother too. I’m getting one step closer to the career of my dream. I listen to every word that professor Lahey says, writing down every single piece of information about physical development. It’s not that exciting, but the syllabus for this semester looks promising. You have to start somewhere, right? Just like me and Conrad. We had to start somewhere. Just like me and Jeremiah-

No. Just no, I tell myself and keep noting, forcing my brain to stay focused on the actual subject of the lecture. 

“During adolescence, hormones are driving not just physical changes, but also intense emotions and impulsive decisions,” professor Lahey says halfway through the lecture, getting my attention. “Hormones surge, the brain is still developing, and every feeling can feel amplified. You might experience intense crushes, dramatic friendships, or conflicts that seem unbearable at the time. But who am I lecturing? You’re all past that, you know what I’m talking about,” professor continues and many people around me chuckle knowingly.

My heart sinks to my stomach, fingers keep shakingly typing down his words that somehow hit me in a different way that my peers. I don’t feel like chuckling or laughing at myself. I feel…weird, uncomfortable even. 

You might experience intense crushes. Isn’t that exactly what I felt when I was around Conrad? What part of me still feels when we’re close? Bullshit, I immediately contradict my initial thought. If it was just an intense crush instead of the eternal flame it would surely be put down as soon as I started dating Jeremiah, wouldn’t it?

Jeremiah. He keeps coming back in my thoughts. I check my phone discreetly again. I don’t know why I’m doing it. It’s been months since our conversation. I’m not even sure if I remember his voice properly. Do I picture it low enough? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. Conrad does. He chose me. He got me back home from Paris. 

In the meantime, professor Lahey continues dwelling on the subject: “What feels like a deep connection at fourteen may actually be your brain’s way of responding to novelty and excitement, not a rational choice."

Interesting. But it can’t possibly apply to me and Conrad. I mean, come on. We were meant to be, like it was written in stars. Susannah knew it and she knew the best. Our connection is still real, just more mature. Unlike mine with Jeremiah. Our was…was…suddenly I lack words to describe our relationship. The only description that comes to mind is well-rounded. Which is an odd way to describe a relationship that wasn’t meant to be, right? Right?

There are a couple more classes today, but they’re not as interesting as the one with professor Lahey. “Wanna go to the nearby bookstore to check some of the books that professors recommended?” Beck asks and I immediately agree. Two other people join us and we enter the place. The smell is different here from other locations at campus that I visited so far. It smells like mint and raspberries, which is an odd combination that somehow works.

“See anything interesting?” One of the two other girls - Harper, asks. 

“Not yet,” I shrug.

“Keep looking around. You might find something that you didn’t notice at first,” she says and I decide to take her advice. Thank god I did. Otherwise I wouldn’t find Marcel Proust’s book collection on sale. It’s not exactly on my syllabus, but professor Lahey mentioned In search of lost time as an eye-opening masterpiece that might help us understand some of the cases that we’ll talk about during class from a completely new angle. 

As soon as we leave the bookstore, the girls invite me to the nearest pub, but before I manage to agree, Conrad shows up. “Hey,” he greets me with a smile. No hug, no kiss. I’m getting used to it. That’s who he is. He’s never been an affectionate type of person. I just got used to something entirely else with Jeremiah and now I have to unlearn that pattern for the sake of this relationship that we fought so much for. “I’m Conrad, nice to meet you,” he offers a handshake to my new friends and they chuckle at his politeness. “What were you talking about?” He asks.

“We were planning on hitting a pub. You’re welcome to join,” Beck says.

He slightly furrows, even though he keeps smiling. But I can tell that he’s disapproving. His eyes give it all away. He puts his hand around my waist, pulling me closer and it calms me down. He’s showing affection. In public. Maybe I don’t need Jeremiah, after all? Maybe Conrad is actually able to give it to me?

“Belly, I was thinking about taking you out for dinner. Just the two of us?” He looks at me, ignoring my new friends. 

I blush slightly, suddenly I’m this teenage girl that swoons over a boy all over again. I can’t help it. “I…I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?” I barely say and leave with Conrad. Just a few steps towards his car and he retreats his hand, putting it in his pocket. I shiver at the sudden coldness. “Is everything alright?” I ask quietly as we get in his car.

“You were supposed to be studying,” he sighs as he starts the engine, leaving the parking lot. “Not partying. You’re not in Finch nor Paris anymore, remember?” His voice is cold.

“Sorry,” I simply say, looking down. I just don’t want to see the look of utter disappointment painted all over his face. I swear to god that he looks like my mom when he does that - a concerning habit that I choose to ignore for the sake of my happiness. 

“And what’s with the book collection? They don’t look like psychology textbooks,” he says as he keeps driving. The area looks familiar, I wonder whether he’s taking me to dinner at one of those nice restaurants near our apartment. We always said that we would try the menu, but we didn’t have the opportunity yet. I’m glad that it will finally happen. When I was sixteen I often daydreamed about him taking me out to a proper dinner. Just the two of us. Now I might finally get to experience that.

“They’re not, but my professor recommended reading it. Marcel Proust is a genius, at least in his opinion,” I try to defend my purchase, but unsuccessfully.

He clicks his tongue. “It’s a waste of time if it’s not on the syllabus. Not to mention a waste of money. May I remind you that you’re not working and we’re basically living off my and my dad’s money?” He says calmly.

My face turns beet red as he says that. “Sorry,” I say again, hoping that it would improve the already tense atmosphere, but it doesn’t seem to work. Sorry is never enough with Conrad. Apology acceptance must be earned, ideally with a behaviour improvement. “I thought that you were taking me out to dinner?” I say as he parks in front of our apartment building.

“Did I? I meant eating at home together. I bought chicken on my way to pick you up from Brown,” he says. 

I don’t even dare to sigh in response, I’m too tired to fight him on this one as it seems too trivial to be actually worth it. 

What feels like a deep connection at fourteen may actually be your brain’s way of responding to novelty and excitement, I remember professor Lahey’s words. Could that be true? The echo of his voice bouncing in my mind. Suddenly, the memory of him - the rush, the butterflies, the way everything felt so impossibly intense - feels different. Not wrong, just… smaller somehow, like I’m seeing it through a clearer lens. And maybe, just maybe, I’ve been holding on to the idea of him, rather than who he really was. A shiver runs down my spine as we get home. 

Chapter Text

I wake up in the morning with Conrad by my side. It feels good. Feels right. I have dreamt about it since I was a teenage girl and now I get to have him for the rest of my life. My stomach hurts thinking about it. Probably because of those famous so-called butterflies. Or maybe it’s because he’s on the other side of the bed, separating himself with our grey bedsheet. I like its colour, it’s so Conrad. We actually had a fight about it when we first moved in here.

“It’s just a bedsheet,” he sighed.

“It’s our bedsheet,” I point out. “Why can’t we buy a blue polka dot one? It would make the whole room more…bright? It will bring it to life, trust me,” I smiled at him and he smiled back in return.

For a brief moment I actually thought that he’d agree with me, but soon his smile turned into a smirk that I remember from when we were teenagers. The very same smirk that made my heart both flutter and throb as it usually showed when he disagreed with me.

“Don’t you think that it would look silly? Come on, Belly. Grow up,” he chuckled, probably thinking that he was actually funny at that moment. But he wasn’t. 

He saw the look on my face and the tears that I tried to hold back and he sighed again, his shoulders hunching slightly. That’s how I knew he still cared. That’s how I knew he didn’t mean to hurt me. It’s just part of his persona, it always was. Alas, he left our apartment with a simple “I have to go back to hospital, residency,” he mumbled, even though he still had two hours for his shift to start.

He bought the blue polka dot bedsheet the very next day. Now we use it every other month and I think he complains less and less about it each time. A win is a win, right?

“Morning,” he says as he gets up. He always wakes up before his alarm gets a chance to go off. When I asked him about it he actually said that it’s because he wants me to be able to sleep longer, but I never do. How could I? I want to be a good partner for him.

“Can’t you stay in bed longer?” I asked him one day after we came back from Paris. I knew that things would change after we left France, but I didn’t expect them to start changing so fast, the bed cold when I got up, not even a sense of his body warmth lingering. 

“You wouldn’t get it, Belly. You still get to sleep in and play student. I have to be up at six because people actually rely on me to save lives.” 

“Play student? Am I on glue or something, because last time I checked I thought I’m studying to become a sports psychologist?” I furrowed, crossing arms on my chest.

“I’m not saying your classes don’t matter, but there’s a difference between sitting in a lecture hall and being responsible for someone’s life. Don’t you agree?” He said and I immediately regretted my outburst.

From that time on I try to be a good and supportive partner. I get up right after him and when he showers I prepare breakfast. Nothing fancy, just plain toasts with ham and cheese. I add a few slices of tomato for a better taste, but it still looks underwhelming. I bite my lower lip nervously, a habit I nurture since I was a kid. I just hope that he won’t be mad at me. He works so hard and I can’t even cook a proper meal. I never had to. In Paris I used to eat out and at Finch I-

My heart throbs again and I sigh deeply to calm myself. Jeremiah. He cooked for me. He was always trying his best and encouraged me to try doing it myself, but I never fully got a grip of it. Now it seems like I might to, since Conrad is too busy to cook himself. 

I hear that he’s still in the shower, so I grab my phone and open the conversation with Jeremiah again. No text from him. It’s stupid of me to still check that. He didn’t wish me a happy birthday nor responded to my previous texts. Seems like that one phone call was just a glitch in what’s my current reality. It makes sense, right? Then why does it sting so bad?

I wonder whether I should reach out, but I ultimately decide not to. Instead, I check whether the shower is still running and I open Instagram. My hands are shaking, which is stupid, but I can’t control that reaction. I type down his username, but I don’t find anything. I furrow as it seems weird. He used to be so social, always posting stories that often included me. Why did he disappear from the internet? Did he change this much? It’s been a little over a year since the wedding fiasco happened. It’s too short a period of time to completely rebrand yourself, isn’t it? I didn’t change a bit. Conrad says so. 

“You’re still that girl that I fell in love with,” he declared proudly and his smile was everything when he said it in Paris.

And he’s still the same boy that won Junior Mint and bought me the infinity necklace. Is it possible that Jeremiah is not the same boy that I knew my whole life? Could he change that much? Somehow it’s a thought that’s too painful to bear and so I decide to double check. I open Taylor’s profile and check her posts. I sigh. Nothing. No Jeremiah in sight and she’s not pinned in any post, she’s adamant about deleting every single tag. “You posting my drunk ass is bad for my PR career, bitch” she said once. I get it. So I decide to check Steven’s account and scroll through it. Bingo!

I find a post in which Steven is tagged and it seems like the account belongs to Jeremiah. He just changed the username, he didn’t disappear. It brings me great comfort, as if my heart is being released from a painful grip consisting of ropes. Now I wonder…should I check his profile? Find out more about his current life? 

I don’t get a chance to do that as Conrad leaves the bathroom and kisses my forehead. I fake a smile and he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too far gone in his own thoughts, probably thinking about the recent cases at work. Probably. He doesn’t like to talk about work, always brushing it off even though I can see clearly that it bothers him and it makes him lash out at home. 

“Toasts again?” He smirks and shakes his head in amusement. “We should’ve bought a cook book instead of that Proust series, don’t you think?” He asks. I open my mouth to say something, but I’m speechless. Besides, he doesn’t give me a chance to reply properly anyway. “Go get dressed. I’ll drive you to Brown,” he adds as he takes a bite of the toast and puts the rest of them in his bag. 

The drive doesn’t take us long, which I’m grateful for as Conrad already complains that he might be late for work if the traffic won’t decrease. “A stressful day ahead?” I ask softly.

“Every day as a doctor is stressful, Belly,” he sighs, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. “Can’t that fucking car just move faster?” He groans as he furrows, looking ahead.

“The light’s just red,” I remind him, trying to calm him down. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about your work? Since we’re already stuck in traffic?”

“We wouldn’t be if you dressed up faster,” he sighs again, pressing his lips in a thin line. “By the way, are you dressed like this?” He asks, pointing with his head at my black silk dress shirt and my nicest pair of jeans. 

“Mom texted me that she’ll visit. She’s on a tour with her new book,” I explain and start worrying that something’s wrong with the way I look. Look in the mirror, his words from when we were teenagers still linger in my head.  My mind immediately jumps to conclusions. 

“Laurel visits? Great. Say hi to her from me,” he says and I almost sigh with relief that he didn’t mean anything bad with the comment on my look. If he did he’d already dwell on it.

“Won’t you go out with us?” I ask.

“And crash your mother-daughter time? No, Belly. You two should catch up alone. Besides, I need to study for the upcoming surgery. Remember?”

“Surgery?” I ask. It’s the first time he shared something about his job with me. “They’ll let you perform one?” My eyes almost shine with excitement for him, but those sparkles are quickly put down when he clicks his tongue in irritation.

“Of course not. It’s my first year of residency. I’m just going to assist.” His grip on the wheel tightens as he says it.

“Alright,” I simply say, finding myself dumbfounded. “You didn’t tell me that before,” I try to defend my train of thoughts, but he cuts in.

“I thought it was obvious,” he rolls his eyes and I feel ashamed of my own stupidity. I don’t say anything in response. He doesn’t say anything either. We just drive in complete silence that’s only being broken by the sound of other cars. Why does this whole situation seem so…awkward? I thought that being with him now would be different than in the past. Could I be…could I be wrong? The mere thought is terrifying.

I get out of the car when we arrive at Brown. I don’t even get to kiss him goodbye properly as he already drives away. Typical, isn’t it? I should get used to it. It's our normal. When we were together the first time around it was the same and somehow it worked, right?

“Hi, Belly! Oh my god, are you okay?” Beck asks as soon as she sees me.

“Beck! Hi! Yeah, I am. Why?” I ask, completely taken aback by her question and I can see how my response made her uncomfortable.

“Oh, nothing. Just…you look tired, that’s all,” she shrugs.

“Yeah, I just…I didn’t sleep well tonight. That’s all,” I quickly brush it off, even though I slept more than okay. Conrad wore me down last night and I slept very peacefully.

“Are you sure?” She asks after.

“Yeah, I am,” I clear my throat awkwardly. “Let’s go to Lahey’s class, alright?” I change the subject and thankfully she drops the previous one.

Today’s lecture is a bit different from the last one as we’re moving on with topics, but it’s still somehow connected. At least I think so. I can’t focus properly today,  unfortunately. My mind drifting off to inescapable thoughts of Jeremiah. My hand hangs above the phone on my lap, my palms sweaty and pulse slightly increased as I think about him. Is it because of guilt? It must be it, right?

I’m snapped back to reality as professor Lahey’s words finally get to me, crushing the wall of memories that I hid myself behind today. “Let’s talk about the rosy retrospection,” he introduces another topic. “Have any of you heard about it before?”

A couple of hands raise up and professor Lahey picks Harper to give an answer. "So, rosy retrospection is basically when you look back at something from the past and remember it as being better than it actually was,” she explains.

“Correct,” professor smiles at her approvingly. “That effect is especially powerful when it comes to adolescence. Does anyone know why?”

Hands raise up again, while I check the syllabus again, trying to find a position that dwells on this subject as I didn’t notice it on the list before. In the meantime, professor Lahey picks a student named Owen to answer. “It’s because the brain during those formative years feels more intensely than that of an adult. That’s why those years become so easy to romanticize later in life,” he says. “Your brain basically edits out the boring or negative stuff and focuses on the parts that felt good at the time.”

My interest piques, I can’t help it. Suddenly I’m invested in the topic, my passion for knowledge consuming me completely. Alas, it’s not only knowledge that keeps me on my toes, ready to memorize every single piece of information about that effect.

“Exactly,” professor Lahey nods at Owen. “In some, particularly bad, cases a person can even flip the whole narrative, thinking that those bad events were actually good, simply because they were intense at the moment. Isn’t it fascinating?” Professor’s eyes light up as he keeps talking. 

It certainly is. Part of me thinks about Conrad. He certainly did some questionable things in the past, but I still fell for him. Could it be because it felt intense and that’s what made it good? Was it not really good?

“Professor?” Beck raises her hand suddenly.

“Yes?”

“Does it also apply to first relationships?” She asks the question that I am too afraid to voice out. Part of me is mad at her for bringing this question up and part thankful. 

“Certainly,” the professor says right away and the quickness of his response shatters something inside me. “When we think back to a first love or an early crush, the memory often feels larger than life. But what we’re recalling is not just the person - it’s the rush of hormones, the novelty of the experience, and the emotional intensity of being young.”

Holy fucking shit.

Is that…is that something that can be applied to Conrad and mine’s relationship? The mere notion is heartbreaking. I mean, I’ve always been in love with him. It’s part of me. But it can’t be just because I fell for him when I was young, right? There has to be more to it, right? Otherwise I wouldn’t be with him now as an adult, right? Right?!

“From a developmental psychology perspective, this makes perfect sense. Adolescence is about identity formation, and our early relationships become symbolic. They represent freedom, possibility, and discovery. Years later, we don’t always remember the arguments, the immaturity, the mismatches - we remember how alive we felt,” professor Lahey continues, further breaking the bubble I’ve been in. “This is why many adults find themselves drawn back to someone from their past. Not because that person is truly the right fit, but because they represent a frozen snapshot of who we were at a formative time in our lives. That’s why rosy retrospection is dangerous and we can easily fall victim to it. It blinds us to reality. If we idealize the past too much, we risk making choices in the present that are based on memory, not truth.”

I stay numb, completely frozen in my seat, unable to take more notes. It feels as if writing the professor's words down would make it real. And it just can’t be real. It can’t. It really can’t. Right?

As the lecture ends I get up, my mind filled with all the scenes from the past. Scenes that made me chase after Conrad and daydream about him on a daily basis. I keep wondering why I haven’t felt this obsessed with Jeremiah. I have known him as long as Conrad. We also fell in love when we were young. Yet I don’t perceive our memories like those with Conrad. Why? Is it because…it’s not really a rosy retrospection? Maybe it means that I’m not a victim of this effect and my feelings for Conrad are actually real and valid. Right?

And yet I can’t entirely convince myself, still sitting on a fence about this. It makes me feel like there’s not enough air, as if every single breath chokes me and will continue to choke me until I feel at peace. And just like that, I’m back to thinking about Jeremiah, wondering what his life is like now. Should I check?

I don’t get a chance to do that as Beck catches up with me on the stairs, when we climb up them. “It was a great class, wasn’t it?” She beams and it annoys me for a reason. She notices my irritated look. That’s a side effect of being around future psychologists. We notice the tiniest things and we don’t pretend that there’s nothing like some people tend to. “Are you alright?”

“Why did you bring up past relationships at Lahey’s lecture?” I ask as we walk towards the other wing of the building for another class. I decide to be upfront, I have to be somewhere. 

“Curiosity,” she shrugs. “I want to focus on couples therapy after we graduate, so it's like a habit for me to ask about this stuff. Which reminds me, I haven't asked you what you want to focus on after we get our degree?”

“Sports psychology,” I reply right away, my tension slightly deflates as we change the subject.

“Cool,” she replies as we finally reach our classroom. “You should put some attention on relationship stuff as well, then.”

“Why?” For some reason I sound more defensive than I intended to, tension back again. I realise that I get irritated easily now. Which is something new about me, a change that I’m not sure I like. I wasn’t like this in Paris, nor at Finch. Maybe when I was still a kid.

“Um…because sportsmen get into relationships too? I mean come on, it's the universal experience for the majority of people. It only makes sense to understand better how that aspect of life can affect their performance.”

“Okay…you may be right,” I say slowly, seeing some truth in her words. “Any recommendations where to start?”

“Books and paying attention to professor Jones’ class,” she smiles at me, actually content with my approach.

“Right,” I nod in response. I didn't put that much attention into Jones' class before, but now I make a mental note to improve my performance during her lectures. “And those books you mentioned?”

“Hm…there's so many of them, but I've recently read The Darcy Myth: Jane Austen, Literary Heartthrobs, and the Monsters They Taught Us to Love by Rachel Feder. It was a real eye-opener. Want me to lend it to you?”

“Sure, why not?” I smile at her. “The title sounds promising,” I say as we enter the auditorium. It’s time for a class that focuses on personality. The subject isn’t as interesting as Lahey's class, so I discreetly take my phone out of my pocket and I click on Jeremiah’s profile. My heart pounds in my chest so hard that I can hear it in my ears. 

He looks…happy. 

I check his recent photos. Lots of posts of him in the kitchen with an apron on. I zoom in at one of those pictures and he’s smiling wide open. It evokes something in me, causing my heart to pound less nervously and more…how it used to? In that sweet, steady but strong way that was exclusive for him. Not like a heavy, wild pounding that I get around Conrad. Could it be because I fell for Conrad so young and it was my first crush? Is that the famous rosy retrospection? 

I check the description of Jeremiah’s photo and my heart sinks in my stomach as it reads: I can always count on Denise taking a good snapshot. Denise. Is that the same Denise that worked with him and Steven at Adam’s company? I squirm in my seat as I think about it. I check the comments and her profile pops out: I still think it would be better if you kept your shirt off lol. My fingers clench on my phone involuntarily. Are they…a thing? I feel sick to my stomach at the thought.

I keep wondering why I didn’t see all of his new posts. Why didn't I notice that he and Denise are on such good terms? Could I really be so lost in my relationship with Conrad that I didn’t pay attention? No. It’s not that. The answer comes right away when I notice that there’s one sentence present at the start of his profile. Sentence that shatters me: Follow this profile.

I’m not following him. And I could swear I did. Did he…did he remove me from his follower list? Or did he make an entirely new profile? Should I follow it now or would that be too much?

I don’t get a chance to think about it further as the lecture ends and I must go to the meeting with my mom. We chose a cafe near the campus, but I’m in a rush nonetheless. I won’t let her wait for me. We haven’t seen each other for so long and somehow I’m anxious about what to expect. 

“Here’s my beautiful daughter, give me a hug!” Mom's whole face lights up as soon as she sees me. I give her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Let me look at you,” she beams. “Being with Conrad works well for you.”

I blush at her words and look down. I didn’t expect that. She never reacted like this to my relationship with Jeremiah, even though my face was hurting from how much I smiled around him. She never noticed that, instead she chose to focus on the wrinkles around my eyes, associating them with him instead of the true reason behind them - late night study sessions and even that she could flip in his disfavour. 

“I told you that you shouldn’t be partying like Jeremiah. Focus on your study, you’re not a kid anymore, Belly,” she used to say. It always infuriated me. 

“Really?” I ask, furrowing. “Don’t I look tired? My friend from university, Beck, said I do,” I point out.

“Oh, what that person can possibly know,” she brushes it off, her eyes never leaving mine and somehow I feel uncomfortable. We order a coffee as she continues. “You’re in a serious relationship now. Of course you’re tired sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with it. Speaking of, where’s my future son-in-law?”

“Son-in-law?” I choke on my coffee as she says it. “We’re not there yet, mom.”

“Oh, I see,” she furrows slightly. Which is odd, since she was so against me marrying Jeremiah. And now she’s calling Conrad her future son-in-law? What on earth?! I feel like it’s surreal. I feel…somehow sad? She never acted like this towards Jeremiah and he never skipped a meeting with her. Even when she decided to visit during midterm exams. “But you will be?” She asks after.

“Don’t you think it’s too early? Besides, it would be insensitive towards Jeremiah,” I whisper, my voice trembles as soon as I say his name.

“Oh, please,” she shrugs it off. “He’s fine.”

He’s fine. It leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth and I feel ashamed.

“How can you know that?” I ask. “I mean-”

“Conrad told me before he went to Paris,” she cuts me off. It tracks. He said the very same thing to me and even back then it seemed…unreal and soul-crushing. I thought that it would feel better with time, but surprise, it doesn’t. It’s still not okay and I feel stupid and wrong for that. Especially since he probably moved on already. My mom’s next words seem to only confirm that: “Besides, he’s dating,” she sips on her coffee carefreely as she says it. She’s not even looking at me, as if it didn’t feel like a punch in my gut. I mentally slap myself for feeling like this, but I can’t help it. I can’t help the fact that I’m still affected by what happened. It’s hard to believe that he’s not. Does it mean that I…that I should try harder?

“Can we change the subject, please?” I mumble awkwardly, my whole face is burning red. “How are you?” I ask her and thankfully she dwells on that, saving me the trouble of avoiding her questions that feel slightly intrusive. 

At the end of our meeting I have a massive headache and all I think about is getting back home. 

Home. The word doesn’t sit well with me for some reason. I reluctantly enter our apartment, or should I rather say Conrad’s apartment as nothing here seems like me. Except for the blue polka dot bedsheet that’s currently in the washing machine. The place is empty and quiet, nothing like I imagined it. Thinking about it, I’ve never imagined my dream home. All I ever cared about was to have Conrad in it. I always thought that it would be enough, that all the rest is not important, just plain and unnecessary details. Alas, now it feels important. I try to think about it and all the stuff that comes to mind seems unlike Conrad. But it seems like Jeremiah.

Back in the day I thought that the person I get to spend my life with is the most important part of my future. But suddenly…it doesn't feel that important, or at least not more important than other elements of life. 

As a little girl and even as a teenager I only thought about Conrad. Things like the decor of my house or my daily routine never crossed my mind. Could it be because I didn't know any better? Could it be that I only pictured Conrad because he was my first everything and my heart and brain reacted to it like this simply because it was a new feeling? A rosy retrospection?

Chapter Text

Another week of Conrad working the night shift at the hospital. I sigh as I flip to the other side of bed, gripping the bedsheet tightly. The apartment is completely silent, but I’m slowly getting used to it. I no longer expect chirpiness and lightness. That is what I had with Jeremiah. Not with Conrad. Love with Conrad is mature, soul-binding, isn’t it? That’s what it’s supposed to be like. I’m sad when I’m alone, so it means that I love him, right?

Alas, part of me keeps imagining that I’m not alone in this king sized bed with perfectly grey decor that I’m getting sick of. I close my eyes and I try to imagine someone by my side. My hand goes to my waist, trying to recreate the feeling of intimacy when someone puts their palms there, teasing the flesh. 

“I love you so much, Bells,” Jeremiah murmured as he kissed my shoulder, his hand on my hip. I smiled and pressed myself against him, craving more of his affection.

“Good morning to you too, Jere,” I chuckled as he flipped me to face him. 

My heart throbs and my stomach squeezes as I think about it. I shouldn’t have those thoughts. I shouldn’t be…missing this. And yet I do. Maybe it’s because Conrad never touches me like that. Not unless he craves sex. With Jeremiah it was a standard - constant touches and kisses whenever he wanted to show me love, which was all the time. With Conrad…it’s not given. It’s rare. Maybe that’s what makes it so…unique? I furrow as the word comes to my mind, it doesn’t seem to fit anymore.

I close my eyes again and another image of Jeremiah pops in my mind. This time it’s just nuzzling with him at night when we were about to fall asleep. I don’t want this night to end, he said. He just wanted to hold me in his arms. I didn’t know that it’s not a standard. I tried to bring it up once with Conrad.

“I mean…I’m tired, but we can get at it,” he said awkwardly, trying to touch me between my legs, but that wasn’t what I meant.

“Conrad…I just want to cuddle,” I said, stopping his hand. He retreated, but looked ultimately confused.

“Alright, okay…then sleep. Like I needed from the start, cool,” he just replied and turned his back at me.

“Can’t we just…I don’t know…hold each other?” I tried to explain what I had in mind from the very start. “You know…like couples do?”

He furrowed, his mind processing my words. I could see how dumbfounded he was, it was like a revelation to him. As if he didn’t understand what relationships look like. And to be fair, he didn’t. I was the only girl he’s ever had.

Sometimes it feels like being with someone who’s just learning how to walk while you’re capable of running a marathon. Furthermore, that person feels comfortable with stumbling every other step. I know it’s part of every relationship to pick up the other one when they fall, but…is it normal to fall this often? I don’t think that Benito required this much help nor did Jeremiah and we’ve spent four years together. There were only a few slips throughout our relationship. Big ones, weren’t they? That tiny voice in my head immediately pictures the Lacie Barone situation and, of course, the cancelled wedding. So far nothing that Conrad did would rise up to such a level, which is good, right?

I look at the watch and I realize that I still have plenty of time till my classes start. I pick up the In search of lost time book by Proust and start reading it. It feels boring and first, the long paragraphs and his chain of thoughts lose me at times, causing my mind to wander back to Jeremiah. 

Jeremiah.

I can’t help it. It’s like the longer he’s gone, the more I begin to notice all the things that I miss about him. Things that maybe, just maybe, I took for granted, thinking that they’re what every relationship would give me. Turns out they're not. 

I put the book aside and click on Jeremiah’s profile again. I feel pathetic for doing that, but it’s stronger than my pride and reason. I see that he added a new story and I tap on his profile picture immediately. It’s not his face, which is disappointing, but I can see his legs. He’s at the gym and the caption reads: Quick workout before work. He tagged a friend in that story. I feel relieved that it’s not Redbird, but someone else. I wonder where he met that person. At work? Through Denise? Entirely else? And is he still in touch with Redbird?

I realize that he might see that I watched his story and my heart pounds heavily. I don’t think much about it and click the follow button. It might look better, less…stalkery? I get up and focus on preparing myself for the whole day at campus. It helps me to soothe, to redirect my thoughts. 

Leaving the house. I left lunch for you in the fridge. Love you, I text Conrad as I lock the door and go to the bus station. I miss having a car, but the engine in my old one died and Conrad said it doesn’t make sense to fix it. It would cost too much, besides I’m going to drive you anyway, he said. At the time it made perfect sense, but I didn’t think it through. I didn’t think about the fact that his schedule at the hospital can be all over the place and quite unpredictable. 

Thanks, he texts me back and my heart pounds heavily. He texted me back. He actually had time to put effort into writing a message, even though he’s busy at work. It’s things like this that show me that he cares underneath his cold demeanor. It’s just who he is. The boy I fell in love with all those years ago was exactly the same and I still loved him. Alas, part of me would love to get more from him and I hate myself for this need.

I get another message and my heart speeds up its beating for a second as I think that my need was finally noticed by him, but no. It’s Taylor. She’s going to facetime me in the evening. I smile slightly, seeing her text. I miss her incredibly. And Steven. And Jeremiah. And Conrad. I furrow at the last thought. Why on earth do I miss the only person that’s actually present in my life? The only person that I share a flat with? The person that I’m in a relationship with? Is that my brain still getting used to the idea of finally getting the Conrad Fisher? Or is it something entirely else? Lately I begin to doubt my reasoning and it’s more than uncomfortable. It’s…wounding. As if my whole perception was being broken.

My mood slightly improves when I meet Beck at the campus, already waiting for professor Lahey’s class to begin. “Hi, I have something to you,” she says and it’s The Darcy Myth: Jane Austen, Literary Heartthrobs, and the Monsters They Taught Us to Love book by Rachel Feder that she mentioned earlier this month. “Sorry it took me so long. I was too preoccupied with writing a paper for Jones' extra assignment to look for it,” she apologizes.

“No worries,” I smile at her. “Thanks, Beck.” I look at the cover, it already has my attention and I find myself in need to read this work. Maybe it will be easier to follow than Proust’s work? 

We take a seat in our usual spot and Harper joins us right before the lecture starts. Professor Lahey enters the auditorium in his usual confident manner, getting straight to the point. “Morning, today’s a very important lecture,” he says right away.

“He always says that,” Harper chuckles quietly and Beck nudges her playfully. 

“You should know by now that developmental psychology is far more than dwelling on puberty. It’s a key to a better understanding of people. It’s about how we form our identities, how our memories shape who we think we are, and how the choices we make in adolescence echo, sometimes too loudly, into adulthood,” professor Lahey continues. “One of the questions we’ll return to again and again is this: are you truly choosing who you are, or are you simply replaying an old script handed to you by your parents, your culture, or even your sixteen-year-old self? Because if you don’t ask that question, you risk living someone else’s life instead of your own."

Someone else’s life? I begin to wonder who that someone might be. The answer comes right away.

“That person can be anyone that was of great importance in your formative years - your parents, first partner, even teachers or your peer group,” he says. “Do you know which one of them imprints their ideals onto us in most cases?” He asks.

Lots of hands raise up. I want to answer the question as well, but I decide to keep my head low, afraid that I might actually know the right answer.

“Parents, obviously,” Owen says as soon as the professor lets him speak. “We depend on them in everything basically. If it wasn’t for them we would’ve probably died along the way, so many people associate their opinions with the unbiased truth, because, you know, they always know best. That’s something that many of them want their children to think,” he shrugs.

“Correct,” professor Lahey nods approvingly. “Parents give us our first script. Sometimes it’s explicit: ‘Be a doctor, marry someone respectable, live close to home.’ Other times, it’s subtle: approving one friend over another, encouraging certain behaviors, quietly disapproving of others. By the time you’re an adolescent, you might already be rehearsing a role you didn’t choose. And the real challenge of development is figuring out if that script is truly yours… or just the echo of someone else’s voice. Which brings me to today’s topic - Erik Erikson’s theory about identity formation and James Marcia’s exploration of that theory” he says.

I type that down on my laptop, but for a brief second my mind is elsewhere. I think about my mom. I always looked up to her. I always wanted to satisfy her. I always feared that she’d be disappointed. I could deal with that better or worse, of course, but even when I rebelled against her…part of me was still sad that she didn't get me, wishing that I’d do something to make her proud of me. It was especially obvious during my preparation for the wedding with Jeremiah. She was so…furious. And cold. It felt like in order to get a husband I had to lose a mother along the way and it rubs me the wrong way that she never apologized for that. It’s like it never happened, but it certainly did. She was never really supportive of my relationship with Jere, unlike my relationship with Conrad. Sometimes it feels like she’s our biggest supporter and of course, I’m happy about it, but I’m mad that she couldn’t offer that previously. Could it be one of the reasons why I had doubts about the wedding? Why I couldn’t be truly happy about it? 

Where’s my future son-in-law? Her words from our last meeting still linger in my mind and leave me wondering. Is she acting like this because she learned from her mistakes? Or is she suddenly supportive because it’s Conrad? Could her behaviour influence my wants and needs? The mere thought is deeply saddening.

“That theory is part of the concept of life scripts - unconscious “stories” we inherit about how life and love should play out,” Professor Lahey continues, snapping me back to reality. “As teenagers we experiment with roles, values, relationships, and beliefs. If everything goes right we form a strong, coherent sense of ourselves, if it doesn’t our identity is rather shaky and we often depend on other people’s expectations.”

Owen raises his hand. “Professor? How can we know if the identity was formed successfully?"

“Great question! And actually an easy one to answer. You just have to ask yourself if you have doubts about your choices. Of course, doubts are something normal. But if we are constantly accompanied by them, it usually means that someone’s values interfere and are clashing with our true needs,” he explains. “That’s why many people make choices in life and later regret them, because those choices aren’t truly theirs. They were simply familiar and expected to be made.”

I gulp quietly, my hand freezes above the enter button on my keyboard. It’s like I’m stuck at the professor's words. And…perhaps stuck in the script that belongs to my mom?

“Marcia further developed the idea and grouped them into four categories: identity achievement, foreclosure, moratorium and diffusion,” Lahey writes them down on the chalkboard. It’s actually very nice of him as most of the professors just put on a slide show. “So, let’s go from the end, shall we? Diffusion is basically no exploration and no commitment. The person is drifting, avoiding decision making. Moratorium is what we call a phase of exploration of identity that hasn’t ended yet. As for the last two ones…foreclosure happens when we commit to a certain identity without proper exploration of our options. It usually happens when we simply accept what parents and society forced upon us. And last, but not least - identity achievement, an ultimate goal of everyone. It happens when we explore our options, search through scripts and make commitments based on our true needs and not outside expectations. So, what does that tell us?”

Harper raises her hand immediately. “Real growth comes when you build identity beyond someone else’s gaze,” she says confidently.

“Exactly,” professor Lahey smiles at her. “Strong influence, especially the parental one, can lead to foreclosure — adopting a path that isn’t truly yours.”

“Professor?” Owen raises his hand again.

“Yes?”
“Does the parental figure that you’re referring to only mean our parents or could it also mean people that we see as parent figures?” He asks.

“Both,” and with that being said he ends the lecture. 

I quickly write down my notion on the subject in my word document. Diffusion = doing nothing. Moratorium = me in Paris. Foreclosure = Conrad? Identity achievement = ?

I get up from my seat and follow my group to the next class, walking at the back, lost in my own thoughts. Once again, I reach for my phone and open Instagram. Jeremiah added a new story. It’s just a repost of someone’s story where he’s tagged. The caption says: Chef Jere on a break. My heart beats in a familiar way and I smile slightly as I see his face. He beams, his apron dirty and he’s drinking a cherry cola, showing a thumbs up. He looks good. And happy. His eyes shining like Susannah’s once did.

Susannah. A parent figure in my life. Could she also influence who I am today? I mean, she and my mom were always so close. She was basically a second mother to me, more present in my life than my dad at times and definitely more warm than my mom ever was.

“Belly?” Suddenly Beck calls for me.

“Yeah?”

“Wanna go for a drink with us after cognitive psychology class?

“I don’t think I’ll have time-” but before I manage to finish my sentence I get a text from Conrad: I might be late. Don’t wait with dinner. “You know what? Sure,” I change my mind.

“Alright! We’ll finally see tipsy Conklin,” she chuckles and I do the same. I don’t remember the last time when I got drunk. Perhaps it happened during my last night in Paris. God, it seems like it happened ages ago and not a couple of months. 

Soon professor Jones enters the auditorium and a lecture in cognitive psychology begins. “Good morning, students,” she says stiffly. Her style greatly contrasts with that of professor Lahey’s, but I honestly don’t mind. As long as I learn something. “Today we’ll cover the cognitive dissonance. Do any of you know what that is?” She asks, looking as if she’s bored as hell, which is probably the case.

One of the students that I don’t know yet answers her question. “Cognitive dissonance is when your thoughts and your actions don’t match, and it makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“Mhm,” professor Jones barely nods. “And what do people do about this discomfort?”

“They change their way of thinking instead of the action that causes the problem,” another person answers.

“Any examples?”

“Like… if someone believes they’re a good person but they treat their friend badly, they’ll come up with an excuse to explain it away, just so they don’t feel guilty?”

“Do you know or are you just guessing?” Professor Jones’ eyes are piercing and for a moment everyone holds their breath, until that student replies their answer more confidently. “Alright, then. Moving on, when reality doesn’t fit our story, our minds don’t rewrite the story - they twist reality. That’s what cognitive dissonance truly is. In what kind of relationships do we tend to apply it the most?”

“With parents?” Owen asks.

“Certainly,” Jones nods. “How does it work…miss Conklin?” She reads my name from the list and my heart stops for a second. I don’t think I know the answer. I never feel smart enough to speak up in class. Well, not exactly. I didn’t feel like that at Finch. But it was Finch, not Brown. Now everything’s different and I’m no longer sure if that’s a good thing.

“Well…um…when we think that our parents want the best for us and they do something that shows otherwise…we start telling ourselves that it’s because they love us and see things better than we do?” It comes more as a question than an answer, but thankfully Jones accepts my words.

“Yes, it happens often when it comes to what exactly…?” She asks after.

“Um…careers and relationships,” I say quietly, but the room is so quiet that Jones can hear my answer anyway.

“Yes,” she nods. “Speaking of which, how does cognitive dissonance work in romantic partnership?”

This time she asks Beck and I almost sigh with relief. Why do I feel so stupid lately? Why do I feel like I don’t know the right answer? Like I’m completely lost?

“If you believe your partner is ‘the one,’ but they keep letting you down, you’ll say, ‘They’re just stressed,’ or, ‘This is what real love looks like, it’s not easy.’ In essence, you’d rather change the way you think than admit you picked the wrong person,” she says right away and Jones is clearly pleased with her answer, unlike me. Because it really does sound like my relationship with Conrad lately.

He…acts different from what he showed me during my preparations for the wedding with Jeremiah, and different from what I saw in Paris. It’s like he’s back to being that teenage boy that repeatedly broke me, even though he insisted on being a changed man. Is me defending his behaviour part of cognitive dissonance? Or is it not? Is the fact that I’m on the fence with it a sign that I’m stuck in foreclosure?

But I love him.

Don’t I?

“Belly, let’s go!” Owen pats me on my shoulder as our group heads towards the closest pub. They’re all acting chirpy and bubbly and I can’t force myself to match their energy, it’s like I have no energy left in me. 

“Oh, come on. You survived Jones’ interrogation! That deserves at least five shots!” Harper chuckles as the bartender pours our drinks. “Cheers!”

I grab one of the shot glasses and fake a smile. “Cheers,” I reply and drink the liquor that makes me cough, that’s how strong it is. “Holy shit, you wanna kill me?” My tension slightly deflates.

“Nah, just want to see a tipsy Belly. I bet she’s fun!” Harper gets louder with each shot, but I don’t mind. She makes it easy to forget about the heavy stuff that I’d rather not think about. Cognitive dissonance. Cognitive dissonance, that tiny voice in my head keeps saying, causing me to drink more and more in response to muffle it.

“Oh no! Tipsy Belly just keeps texting, boring,” she sighs at one point and she’s right. I’m back at checking Jeremiah’s account. I’m really pathetic. I see that he posted another story. He’s surrounded by people that I don’t know and he’s grinning. He’s happy. He must be. Without much thinking I open our messages and decide to text him. My heart beats fast, my palms are sweaty and I can almost hear blood in my system, but I don’t care. Liquid courage never fails. 

Hi! You look happy, I’m glad, I click the send button and put my phone down. I empty another two shot glasses to erase it from memory, but I can’t. Why on earth did I text him?! 

By the time I get home I’m more sober. At least I feel like it. I’m thinking for a while if I should delete my message to Jeremiah and I open our chat. He still didn’t read my message. I blink rapidly, but the sting in my eyes doesn’t fade. At that moment Taylor calls me and we begin our weekly facetime session. 

“Damn, are you okay?” It’s the first thing she says and it makes me almost chuckle bitterly.

“Yeah, just um…had a few shots. That’s all,” I quickly say, clearing my throat as I try to summon a smile.
“Good for you,” she smiles slightly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes for some reason. We keep talking for a while when Conrad gets home.

“Hi, Taylor,” he nods at her and she replies in the same manner, but they don’t even look at one another. “Hi, Belly,” he leans to kiss me and furrows immediately. He smelled alcohol on me, but he doesn’t comment on it yet. Now I’m determined to keep talking with Taylor as long as possible as I can sense that it will turn into a fight. Because what hasn’t lately.

Suddenly Steven joins Taylor and brings in his bubbly attitude that helps us all relax. “When will you visit? San Francisco is waiting for you! And my company launch time is closer with each hour,” he chuckles.

I exchange looks with Conrad, waiting for his response. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to squeeze in a visit. First year of residency, you know. And Belly is very focused on studying, aren’t you?” He smiles at me as he places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it a little stronger than usual. Or maybe I just imagined it because the alcohol makes my senses stronger and more sensitive. Liar, that voice in my head speaks up again.

“Yeah, uhm…I guess I am,” I fake a smile and his grip loosens a bit.

“Really, huh?” Taylor says flatly.

“Oh come on, my sister must visit me in San Francisco. Besides, I need at least one Fisher brother to be present at the launch of it.” Steven says.

“Jeremiah won’t be there?” I ask.

“Fine, we’ll be there. Count us in,” Conrad says before I get the reply from Steven. “Gotta go, bye!” He taps the end the call button for me. Our bedroom gets silent for a second, but I know that it’s just the calm before the storm. “So that’s what you’re doing when you’re supposed to be studying, huh,” he says, his voice flat but eyes full of anger that he tries to control for now. 

“I was studying,” I try to defend myself quietly. “It’s just-”

“Belly, you’re smelling like a fucking liquor factory,” he snaps suddenly, cutting in. “Is that what you’re doing when I have to stay at the hospital, saving lives and working my ass off?” 

Maybe it’s still the liquid courage or maybe I’m tired of this, but for once I don’t back down immediately. For once I try to speak my truth. “Was I supposed to stay at home all alone and wait for you?” I ask.

“Yeah, it would be nice if you’d take me into consideration,” he says that so matter-of-factly that I’m stunned.

“Are you for real right now? If you wanted me to wait around you should’ve said so, you should’ve…I-”

“I thought you knew!” He nearly yells and it breaks something inside me. It feels as if there was a glass wall between us that shatters as soon as he speaks.

“How can I know what you want if you don’t communicate with me?” I barely whisper, feeling like I need to diffuse the tension or else it might end awfully.

He lashes out because he loves me. No, stop right there. It’s the cognitive dissonance speaking. 

He looks at me for what feels like hours before he finally speaks: “Go take a shower. I won’t let you sleep in my bed smelling like this,” he grunts as he takes my pajama out of the closet and throws it my way. I’m confused, my heart beating fast, almost as fast as when he kissed me for the first time, almost as fast as when he broke me the first time. I feel the familiar sting in my eyes as I quickly retreat to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I drop on the floor and stay there for a while, crying silently. I don’t want him to hear my weeping. It would only make it all worse. 

When I finally collect myself with the help of the cold shower I get out of the bathroom, only to notice that Conrad is already asleep. I look at him, laying in bed so peacefully as if he didn’t just get in a fight with me over the silliest thing that didn’t require such a reaction. My stomach twists, leaving me hollow and nauseous and so I grab my phone and take the blue polka dot spare bedsheet with me to the living room, deciding that it would be for the best for me to sleep on the couch. 

I can’t sleep, though. It feels impossible, my head spinning and heartbeat echoing like a drum in my ears. It’s like words and scenes collide inside my head until they become a meaningless noise. At that moment I grab my phone again, feeling like there’s only one thing that can calm me down and keep my nerves at bay at this moment. I open the chat with Jeremiah and notice that he read my message, but there’s no reply. The disappointment presses into my chest, heavy and merciless, until even breathing feels like an effort. And despite all that I still decide to scroll through his Instagram again. As soon as I enter his profile I notice that there’s a follow this profile button showing again on Jeremiah’s page. My heart drops to my stomach. The world narrows to the pounding in my ears and the darkness ahead of me. It’s as if invisible hands clutched my chest, squeezing tighter with every breath.

Chapter Text

Morning sunlight filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the floor. I sip on my coffee slowly, watching the steam curl, wondering why my heart still leaps at the thought of Jeremiah.  It feels like he’s more alive and real in my head than Conrad ever was in the same room. And just like that, Conrad enters the kitchen, his movements silent and smooth as he prepares his own breakfast. I didn’t feel like making toasts for him today as I still feel confused about our latest fight, my anger and resentment lingering and I can tell that he feels similar. We barely talk and it’s been two weeks since that night. 

At least he’s not running away, I try to comfort myself, but somehow I find no consolation in that notion. I almost chuckle bitterly as I realize that just a year ago I would throw myself at Conrad and shower him with love to show my gratitude for him staying with me. I look at my reflection in the oven’s door and I study my features for a while. I look the same - same brown hair, same brown eyes, but I feel different. Something has changed and I can’t tell what exactly. Or rather, I’m afraid to name it. 

“Do you have a shift today or a day off?” I ask Conrad, feeling like I’m supposed to reach out to him, to break the wall that we began to build during that last fight. I owe him that, I owe that to this relationship. And yet it feels like I’m the only one fighting for it. 

“Shift,” he simply replies, not even bothering to tell me more - if it’s a day or night one, how many hours he’d have to spend there. Nothing. He gives me nothing to work with and it makes my skin crawl.

“So…does this mean that I should pack us both?” I ask, not looking in his direction, instead focusing on my mug. It’s black, like all the rest of the kitchen equipment that he bought, even though I wanted to buy something more colorful, something brighter. It won’t work with the rest of the house, he simply replied, dismissing me. I remember how big of a surprise it was for me, especially since we agreed on everything when we were shopping for my wedding with Jeremiah.

“Pack us?” He asks, looking at me for the first time. Our eyes meet and my heart pounds heavily. I needed his attention so badly. 

“Uhm…yeah? We’re supposed to fly to San Francisco tomorrow,” I remind him and see utter confusion on his face, as if he was searching his mind for the right information. “To visit Steven and Taylor? To be there when his company is being launched?” I suggest.

“Ah, right,” he nods and gets quiet for a while as he pours his coffee and takes a sip. He coughs as he drinks it. “Shit…did you buy this coffee?” He keeps coughing.

His sudden change of subject takes me aback. “Yeah, yesterday. I went shopping after classes,” I explain. It’s my new routine. I know that I probably shouldn’t double down, but ever since that fight I come home straight after lectures. It feels less complicated and more peaceful than dealing with potential outbursts and silent days, or rather weeks. “Why?”

“It’s awful. Did you buy the cheapest one possible?” He says as he pours the rest of the liquid to the sink. 

“Well, yeah. You told me to be responsible with money, remember?” I hold myself back from saying what I had at the tip of my tongue - that he constantly reminds me that it’s his and his dad’s money, not mine. Even though it was his idea that I won’t be working until I finish my graduate studies. 

“Jesus, I told you to be responsible, not fucking stingy,” he mutters, but his demeanor softens a bit when he see the look of ultimate hurt on my face. “I’m sorry, okay? But I can’t drink this shit, Belly. And you shouldn’t be either. I just want us to be healthy, alright?” He tries to reason with me and I nod slowly. His words make sense. Are they, though? “And since we’re speaking about money - you can’t bother to pay more for a better quality of coffee but are happy to spend a shittone of money to go to San Francisco? Come on, Belly. Be responsible,” he laughs and I can tell that he thinks he’s funny and that I’d notice the irony of my behaviour too, but all I can focus now is how absurd the whole situation seems, how his words hurt me. That’s what love is. No, stop right there. Don’t fall into that miserable pit of cognitive dissonance again. “Besides, I can’t go. I have to put more effort into my residency.”

“Fine,” I say quietly. He nods approvingly, thinking that I’d drop the topic permanently, but much to our surprise I speak again: “I’ll go there myself.”

“Wait, what?” He’s eyes widened and for the first time in months he seems like he cares. My heart beats faster at the sight, but I force myself to look elsewhere. I don’t want his expression to affect me more. “You can’t be serious? We should be going there together. Us a couple.”

“Yeah, you’re right. We should. But since you already said that you must stay here…I’ll go on my own,” I shrug as I get up from my seat.

“Belly, come on…” He goes after me, following me to our bedroom. His voice is surprisingly sweet and gentle as he tries to touch my arm, but I pull away. “Fine, I won’t be paying for that plane ticket,” he switches immediately, suddenly his voice cold and adamant. That sudden change affects me, I’d lie if I said it doesn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to his hot and cold behaviour. Unfortunately, I don’t think that I’ll ever stop associating it with love, despite what my consciousness knows at this point.

“That’s alright. I still have some savings from my time in Paris,” I say flatly as I take my suitcase out of the closet and begin to pack myself.

“You’re wasting money, mark my words. Irresponsible, you should fucking grow up already,” he scoffs and leaves the bedroom, slamming the door. I recoil slightly at the sound, but take a deep breath and it helps me to calm. Something I have perfected after those few months of living together.

By the time I reach the airport I have dozens of messages from Conrad, each one of them slightly different in content, but the underlying theme stays the same: I should stay with him at home, I’m irresponsible, I don’t need to go, he’s sorry and he loves me. 

He loves me. Those words still have meaning to me, they still excite me as our first kiss and first confession. Alas, it doesn’t make me feel at peace, instead I’m uneasy. I’m confused. Maybe visiting San Francisco is actually a good idea, maybe it will help me to distance myself and see things differently. Maybe I’m just overreacting, maybe it’s some weird case of hypochondria? Maybe I learn about all of those psychological terms and I apply all of it to my relationship without an actual cause? Maybe I’m just an idiot that truly needs to grow up. Maybe. Maybe not.

My flight is delayed, but I don’t mind. I brought Beck’s book with me, it’s a good opportunity to finally read it. Maybe I’ll even finish it before I get to San Francisco? Alas, as soon as I begin to read it I realize that the theme might be too heavy to finish it in one take. It requires some time to think about the concepts that it introduces:

“I like to ruin Pride and Prejudice, by pointing out that literature conditions women to devote their time to attempts to change grumpy into a softie - instead of destroying patriarchy.” That’s the first paragraph that gets my attention, it speaks to my soul. Isn’t that what I’m trying to do with Conrad all this time? Trying to change him into someone that he’s clearly not? 

As I keep reading, the book gets more intense, sometimes punching the air out of my lungs. “We think that if we are sufficiently meek, patient, charming, useful and/or conciliatory, we will manage to melt the ice in the heart of the aloof object of our affection.” Shit. There’s so much truth in the author’s words. It should’ve been obvious to me, but…somehow it wasn’t. Until now. It’s like she writes the book for me. Which is not the case, but it’s hard not to feel personally called out when I notice all of those behaviours in me. I usually back down from confrontation, doing everything in my power to keep the loving version of Conrad that I desire alive. 

Then I get to the part of the book where its author introduces examples from literature and of course, it must be Bridgerton and Daphne’s love for the duke of Hastings and her lack of feelings for prince Frederick. “She doesn’t feel that something with him — you know, that strange, disorienting, yearning, almost lustful ache that emotionally unavailable people learn to provoke, because they want to feel desired, yet need the reassurance that they’re in no danger of slipping into a real relationship.”

I swallow hard as I read it. It tracks, as much as I hate to admit it and as much as it makes my stomach squeeze painfully, I can relate to it. Unfortunately. Isn’t that what brought me back to Conrad? Why I was so adamant about keeping my memories of him alive? Why I refused to let it go? Why I…why I hurt Jeremiah so much? My passion for Conrad was always about evoking strong feelings that I didn’t want to understand, I just wanted to relive it instead of working on it. Whereas my feelings for Jeremiah were…steady. They were good. No rollercoaster, just stable affection that sadly seemed less…exciting in comparison with Conrad. But was it bad? Now I’m not so sure of it.

I keep reading the book. “Daphne gets the duke, the romantic story, and the child — because she follows her heart, endures violence, even takes part in it, and ultimately waits it all out. Her beauty, sensitivity, empathy, and patience transform the beast into that fairy-tale prince she was destined for from the beginning. But what about the titular prince, who waited at her side all along? Well, his love isn’t worth quite as much, because it requires no suffering to earn.”

My heart stops for a second as I read it, only to throb painfully later again. I hold back tears that I can suddenly feel gathering in the corners of my eyes. It’s a sorrow that blurs the edges of the world, leaving everything colorless and heavy as the realization dawns upon me. I came back to Conrad so easily because it felt like a prize, because he was always unattainable and distant. I slipped back to this fantasy, because I finally felt worthy of him, something that he denied me all of those years. And Jeremiah? Jeremiah made love and being with someone easy. Thinking about it, I didn’t appreciate that properly. I didn’t notice that unconditional love that he showered me with was everything.

Oh god. 

A heavy sadness settles in my chest, pressing down on every breath and it refuses to leave me till the end of the flight. That hollow emptiness inside me only steps back when I see Taylor waiting on me at the airport.

“Girl! You made it!” She hugs me right away and I wrap my hands around her tightly, clutching onto her like she’s my anchor. Alas, it’s not her who I imagine next to me. “We’ll have so much fun this week, just you wait,” she keeps talking, soothing me. 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I need,” I say shakily and she looks at me for the first time since I arrived, studying my face attentively. 

“Clearly,” she says sharply, furrowing. “No Conrad in sight to ruin fun,” she adds. Her words are quiet enough to not make you think that she wanted you to hear it, but also loud enough that you know part of her hoped that I’d listen. “What kind of lousy excuse did he make to not come, though?”

“Work,” I shrug as we drive to her and Steven’s place.

“Of course, mr. I’m-a-future-doctor, bow before my figure you silly minions” she rolls her eyes, squeezing the steering wheel tightly and pressing her lips into a thin line.

“Tay…”

“I’m sorry, Belly, but he can act like a dick,” her words are blunt and honestly I can’t blame her. She’s slightly surprised that I’m not defending him like I usually did, but she doesn’t comment on it. She’ll probably wait until we get drunk, hoping that I’ll spill beans on whatever’s in my head. That’s what Taylor does. God, I missed her.

I get another text from Conrad: I hope that your flight was good. I miss you. I feel like I’m choking on air when I read it and I decide not to reply for now. 

“What’s new with you?” I ask Taylor.

“Work, lots of it,” she smiles, her eyes dreamy.

“Only work?” I chuckle. “Or did you finally accept my brother’s dirty socks on the floor?”

“He outgrew that phase, alright? So fuck off,” she laughs and shakes her head as she takes a turn on the traffic light, heading towards their apartment building. “But yeah, things are good. And the apartment? Belly, oh my god! You must see it,” she beams. “Hm…and what else…oh, I know. I’m thinking about getting a tattoo,” she shrugs.

“Really?” I raise my eyebrow, smiling even wider. “What kind of tattoo? Because I was thinking about getting one myself,” I admit.

“Belly Conklin, are you for real? Wow!” She laughs happily. I don’t remember when was the last time I smiled this much. Probably with Jeremiah. My heart throbs again, but I choose to ignore it for now. “Maybe we can get a matching one? I was thinking ribs, how about you?”

“Wrist, I know…totally unoriginal,” I laugh at myself and Taylor rolls her eyes as she parks the car.

“I think it’s cool. Stop shitting on your ideas, Belly. You made red lipstick work in Paris on your own, so you do you,” she shrugs. “And tell me, how’s the uni life? Did you make any friends?”

“Quite a few actually, yeah,” I smile proudly.

“Really? Mr. You’re-stuck-with-me-forever allowed someone to get close with you?”

I’m stunned, but at that moment Steven joins us, hugging me tightly and I smile right away, forgetting what Taylor just said. I missed my brother so much, even though he can be a dick at times.

When we get into their apartment the house tour begins and I immediately fall in love with their flat, it’s so them, having things that represent them both. Something that my own apartment lacks terribly. I replay the memories of apartment hunting with Jere. We had better and worse finds, but we both cared about that space being good for both of us. Even when we fought over the apartment that smelled like cat pee, but was in our price range, we landed on not choosing it. Jeremiah backed down, because he saw how important that was for me. Conrad would never, I think much to my own surprise.

I get to watch how Steven and Taylor are preparing dinner, bickering with one another, but in a loving way, not a malicious one that’s meant to hurt. They hug and kiss and my heart throbs again. Jeremiah and I were like this. Conrad and I are the opposite. And for such a long time I kept hearing from my mom that my dynamic with Jeremiah was childish that I started believing it. Alas, she never described Steven's relationship with Taylor. My hands itch to act, though I keep them still.

By the time we’re eating dinner, Steven says something that changes the atmosphere for me completely. “I must tell you sis, I really thought that Conrad would make it this time,” he grabs a piece of meat on his plate and sips on his wine.

“Yeah, no Fisher brother at the launch of the company, sorry,” I smile apologetically. 

“Actually, Jere decided to come after all,” he says so casually that I almost choke on my food, my eyes widened and my pulse slightly increased. 

It doesn’t escape Taylor’s notice, but she doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, she watches me pace in their living room after dinner. Only then she finally decides to put her hand on my shoulder. “Belly, can we talk alone?” She asks quietly. My heart sinks to my stomach, but I nod anyway. We get to her and Steven’s bedroom and we sit on the plush mattress. It’s so soft. Exactly like I imagined mine, except Conrad believes that it’s bad for your back, so we didn’t buy one. “I know that you’re excited to talk with Jere, but please think twice before you approach him at the party, alright?”

I blink twice, confused by what she says. It feels like my head is spinning. “What?” That’s all I manage to say and Taylor sighs heavily. “I mean…you keep shitting on Conrad for a whole night and now you’re telling me that I shouldn’t talk with Jeremiah?” I’m utterly  baffled.

“Well, yeah? Look, I dislike Conrad. You know I do, I’ve never hidden it and I won’t ever hide it. He’s a douche. And I’ve always rooted for you and Jere, but you made your choice. And just because I hate to see you with Con doesn’t mean that I think that you should mess with Jere’s head,” she states point blank.

“Taylor, I-”

“All I’m saying, think this through. Like, really think about it, alright?” She cuts in.

I’m slightly offended by her words. I mean, where did I say that I want to mess with his head?! I don’t! I just…I just…I want to see him. I miss him.

The conversation leaves us with a bad taste, but we don’t talk about it again, rather pretending that it didn’t happen at all. We let Steven keep the conversation going, even the next day when we arrive at the building where his and Denise’s company is based. Everything’s prepared for the launch event and honestly I’m impressed. 

The company launch party buzzes with energy, a mixture of laughter, clinking glasses, and the low hum of conversations threading through the room. Twinkling fairy lights hang from the ceiling, casting warm, golden glows on faces I don’t recognize. Music pulses gently in the background, just loud enough to fill the silence between small talk, but not so loud that it erases it. People move in clusters, drinks in hand, some gesturing animatedly, others leaning close to whisper, all appearing impossibly confident.

“Belly!” My mom approaches me, surprising me completely. I forgot that she promised to come to San Francisco as well. “Isn’t it amazing? Your brother is making a name for himself! My one son being a successful businessman and my future son being a doctor,” she beams and I flinch at her words. They feel so…unnecessary. “Where’s Conrad? I must ask him about his residency.”

“He had to stay. Work, you know,” I shrug and her whole face changes, suddenly she looks disappointed that he’s not with me. Like I’m not enough on my own. Is that why I always felt incomplete without him? Because my mom made me feel this way?

I can’t focus on the conversation with her, searching the room and then I finally see the one person that I was looking for. Jeremiah. 

When I see him everything around me stops, suddenly the music is muffled down and so are the conversations that I could hear very well just a second ago. Everything is blurred, the only sharp figure in my sight is him. He looks good - his hair being nice as always and he’s wearing a shirt, surprisingly it’s ironed. No tie in sight and I can’t help, but smile. A rush of warmth and ache hits me as I watch him,  my pulse hammering in response.

As our eyes meet my own light up, but his fade. I can see how he inhales sharply and looks away, going back to the conversation and bringing a smile to his face once again. Smile that I saw daily at one point in life and now I’m no longer eligible to.

“Are you taking good care of him?” My mom asks, snapping me back to reality with her question.

“What?” I mumble, hoping that I heard her wrong, but unfortunately she repeats it. It reminds me of the time when she once accused me of coddling Jeremiah. You’re not supposed to take care of him, Belly. It’s what mothers do, not girlfriends, she said and it was during the first anniversary of Susannah’s death. I dismissed it back then, thinking that it was her own grief speaking for her, but I’m no longer sure about it. “I need to go to the toilet,” I excuse myself and leave her side immediately. I can’t be around her at the moment, feeling suffocated. 

Instead of going to the toilet I choose to go to the table with drinks and grab one of the champagne glasses, emptying it, but it doesn’t help. It can’t make me feel less overwhelmed and so I reach for something else and that’s when I notice Jeremiah. My heart almost explodes, but I stay in place, holding my breath as our eyes meet again. He looks at me and I can’t read how he feels. His face is a complete mystery at the moment.

“Hi,” I say awkwardly.

“Yeah, hi,” his eyes drift away, he rubs his temple. 

We stay in place, unsure how to behave and what else to say. I swallow hard, my pulse quickens as I search my head for the right words, but none come to mind. He presses his lips into a thin line, still looking elsewhere, his hands in his pockets and muscles tense.

“How…how are you?” My voice barely a whisper.

“Good,” he replies quickly and clears his throat, he’s still not looking at me. I don’t know what I expected, but this isn’t it. It’s a strange ache, both tender and cruel, that forces tears back in my eyes that I’m desperate to hold back. “How are you?” He asks politely, but I can see that he’d rather be elsewhere. Anywhere, but here, which I probably deserve.

“Good,” I mumble incoherently, ashamed to say that word, yet unable to admit what I truly feel.

His lips tremble in a sad smile and he nods slowly. He sighs again and coughs, trying to mask it. “I…I didn’t expect you here,” he says.

“Oh,” that’s all I can give. Really clever, Belly. “Why?” I feel stupid for asking this question, but I’m desperate to keep the conversation going despite its awkwardness. I just want to cling to his sight, to his voice. It’s the first time in months that I feel even slightly safe and at home, even though I demolished it, causing permanent damage.

“Because,” he sighs again, shrugging. “Conrad texted that you guys aren’t coming,” his voice cracks at the name and my heart breaks a little. “Take care, Isabel,” he says flatly as he walks away, leaving me rooted to the spot.

I look down, my face and skin feels like it's burning with embarrassment, but my head forces me to take a step back - wondering about what he just said. Many questions popping in my head, but the two main ones echoing louder than the rest - are they on speaking terms? Conrad told me that they barely talk lately. And when did he get a text that we’re not coming? I only learned about Conrad’s plan to avoid San Francisco at the very last moment. Was that before we had that conversation or…after? And which would be worse?

Chapter Text

I feel like I’m still hungover, even though I’m back at home and I haven't had any alcohol in my mouth for the last 24 hours. I’m just feeling ultimately sick of my mom, Conrad, that awfully awkward interaction with Jeremiah, but mostly of myself. I feel like I’m losing it completely, like I have no control over my life, like I fucked it up badly. And the worst part? I don’t know how to fix it. 

I can’t sleep at night, Jeremiah’s words lingering in my mind, making me unable to close my eyes without picturing his face. Is that what guilt is? No, it’s more than that. It’s a deep regret. Sadness over what I’ve lost. The realization dawned on me in a way that crushes one’s heart. What have I done?

What you had. You love Conrad. You’re infinite.

No, I’m not sure that it’s love. I think it’s a script that I’m following like a well-trained puppy.

No, it’s love. It must be.

I feel like I’m choking, my internal conflict getting harder to ignore, causing damage to my sanity. I start feeling like I’m crazy, constantly contradicting my choices. But wasn’t I doing the same before? I just ignored it for the longest of time, because I wasn’t aware of it, brushing the issue off until it could no longer be swept under the carpet. 

I want to check Jeremiah’s social media again, but I stop myself. Conrad’s laying in bed next to me, his hand on my waist. Just a week ago I’d die to get him to hold me like this at night, but right now? It feels…wrong. Like it’s not genuine. 

“Belly, I missed you so much,” he greeted me after I got back from San Francisco. He even bought red roses, his smile was as warm as when he learned that I’m no longer dating Benito. Alas, I was confused with this sudden change of behaviour. A big part of me kicking my legs and giggling like an idiot on the inside, getting what a teenage version of me always fantasized about - his complete attention and romance. But that other part was taken aback, feeling like that’s not what I want, like he’s just putting on a show and I felt bad. I felt like the worst person on the entire planet for feeling this way. “I love you,” he said right after that, kissing me fiercely and I returned the gesture. Before I even realize, we’re at it. Making out and then fucking like animals, pouring all of the pent up emotions into the act and it’s far from loving. It’s primal and physically engaging, but mentally I’m in a different place. As if my mind and body were disconnected, in complete disagreement. I hated myself at that moment, but I couldn’t bring myself into enjoying it in a way that I once thought I always would. 

When I was younger I associated strong emotions with love and passion. He was my first sexual partner and when we reconciled in Paris…god, it felt like heaven, like drinking water after being in a desert. As for now? I start to think that it was a rosy retrospection all along. Those strong emotions that made our sex so hot and memorable? Hatred, sorrow and resentment. 

My stomach twists when I focus too much on the feeling of his hand on me. His grip is so tight, but there’s nothing loving about it.

You’re just freaking out and seeing things that don’t exist. Relax, he loves you. You’ve chased him for so long, you simply must love him too. 

What if I don’t? 

But what if you do? You’ve made your choice for a reason.

I destroyed my life.

My mouth is dry and I find myself in a desperate need for a glass of water. I want to push his hand away to escape this bed, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I know that it would wake him up and shatter the calm. And I really need it. I need that peace and quiet to get back to being me. To being Belly Conklin, the girl that loves Conrad Fisher and has all her dreams come true.

But are they really my dreams? Or am I living the life that my mom designed for me? That my teenage brain thought it wanted?

I stay in bed till the morning, till Conrad wakes up and kisses my neck. “You know I missed you, right?” He murmurs against my ear and I feel shivers running down my spine. I wince slightly, but he takes it as a good kind of squirm, flipping me on my back and hovering on top of me. “You know that I love you? That we’ll always be together?”

I inhale sharply and he smirks, kissing me again. I close my eyes and cooperate with him. It’s easier this way. Besides, maybe I’ll enjoy it? I always enjoyed it. 

Because it was something new. Because you didn’t know that it could be better. And then you romanticized it. 

I weil and he chuckles happily. I tilt my head to the side, feeling like I can’t kiss him, but his lips move to my neck, showering it with sloppy, wet kisses that make me feel…nothing. Except for that knot in my stomach that gets tighter and tighter every time he moves his hands lower, until they part my legs and I feel like I’m choking underneath his body weight. I used to gasp in awe and pleasure, now I exhale in inconvenience. My body reacts to his rhythm, but there’s nothing else to it. My hands dig into his shoulders and back, which he takes as a sign that he’s doing something right. He’s not. It’s like…as if someone was scratching my back, but couldn’t find the place that itches the most. There’s no connection. My body moves, but my mind is miles away, counting the seconds until I can escape. There was just lust, and now? Now it’s a silent prayer that he’d finish fast and I could get up, go to the university, breathe again.

You’re not grateful enough. You should try harder. He loves you! You love him too! You must!

I slowly entangle myself from his grip as soon as he finishes and he grabs my arm, I freeze immediately, my breath slightly hitched. “Stay…” his voice is soft and pleading - a high contrast to what he got me used to during those last few months.
“I must go to the university,” I reply hoarsely. “I’ll be late.”

“I’ll drive you.”

I can’t argue with that. And honestly? Part of me is curious if he’d act differently today or was it just a glitch in our routine. 

When we drive to Brown he holds my hand and keeps stealing glances at me, smiling just like he did when he saw me eating peaches. My heart speeds up its beating, I’m back to being that teenage girl with heart-shaped glasses on and as soon as I smile back, his own looks more confident, even his chest is slightly pushed to the front and back straightened. 

“How about I buy you a new phone? This one is kinda slow, right?” He says cheerfully. 

“Slow? I bought it before I went to Paris,” I furrow as I look at it. “It’s perfectly okay. We shouldn’t waste money, right?”

He inhales sharply, his nostrils slightly flared, but as soon as he exhales the smile is back on his face. The tight grip on the steering wheel gives him away, though. “I just want to have a high quality facetime with my girlfriend when I’ll be at the conference, that’s all.”

Right. The conference. I completely forgot about it. He’s going to New York. That’s all I know. No details whatsoever. Because why would I need them? You wouldn’t understand the topic anyway, he said when I asked him about it when he first announced it. 

“Alright,” I simply say, sighing deeply and looking out the window. We’re close to Brown and maybe I’ll avoid further negging about buying me a phone that I don’t need. 

“I really don’t want to go,” he basically purrs and for a moment my heart melts at the sound, thinking that maybe I’m too harsh. That I was overreacting lately and our cold relationship was just a slump along the way, nothing that we can’t beat. But I’m brutally dragged back to earth with his next words: “But I have to. I already missed the conference in Brussels for you…for us,” he gives me that look that once could make me drop everything and fall back into his arms, but now I’m just speechless. Where’s the Conrad that I fell for?

He’s right in front of you. He’s always been there.

Shut up. Just enjoy it until it lasts. God knows when he’ll be this sweet again.

“Have a good day, Belly,” he smiles at me and pulls me for a kiss that lasts longer than usual. By the time he leaves me at Brown my lips are swollen. I’m almost late and get in the auditorium just in time before professor Lahey starts his lecture. My usual spot is taken and I click my tongue as I try to find an acceptable place to sit. Suddenly Owen waves at me and I take it as a good sign. I join him in his seat and open my laptop.

“Let’s continue where we left off, shall we?” Professor Lahey greets us, throwing his blazer on the desk. “We already talked about the scripts that we follow. Now let’s connect that to the concept of narrative identity.  What do you think it is?”

One of the students raises his hand. “Um… I think narrative identity is basically the script itself? Like, the plan we’re supposed to follow in life - go to college, get a job, get married, things like that?”

Professor Lahey smiles slightly. “That’s close, but not quite. Narrative identity is the story we create to connect our past, present, and imagined future. It’s not just the script, but how you interpret the script, how you make sense of events, and sometimes how you resist or rewrite the script you were handed. Any questions?” He asks.

A couple of hands raise in the air. “How do we know if the story we’re telling ourselves is really ours, and not just society’s script?” One of the students asks and my interest piques. That’s exactly what I was wondering about lately.

Professor replies immediately. “That’s the tricky part. Often, what feels like ‘your story’ is heavily shaped by the scripts you inherited from culture, family, or peers. Part of identity development is noticing where those voices end and your own begins.”

Huh. Sounds like me. I no longer feel surprised and terrified in a way that I did at first. Now I feel more…sad. Like each info drop speaks to my soul and crushes it with a heavy object that can’t be lifted off. 

“Can family shape your narrative identity even if they’re not telling you what to do directly?” Owen asks.

“Absolutely. Families influence narratives both explicitly - like saying, ‘In this family, we all become doctors’ - and implicitly, through the values and stories they model. Even if your parents never said it out loud, you may have absorbed a narrative about what counts as success, or what kind of love you ‘should’ accept.”

I sigh heavily, an involuntarily reflex that I can’t control and is loud enough that Owen raises his eyebrow as he glances at me. I can’t help it as I think about things that my mom used to tell me since I was a kid. One day you’ll find someone respectable. I know that my baby will get a mature husband that takes life seriously. Because nothing in this life is easy, life is not a constant fun. You need someone that is composed, she used to say. And now? It feels like what she called composure is really absent. He keeps everything to himself and I was told that it’s self-control rather than coldness. His lack of affection? I always interpreted it as being serious, but what if it’s just being indifferent? 

I’m snapped back to reality with Beck’s question: “How about romantic relationships? Does narrative identity explain why people stay in unhealthy ones?”

“Yes. Sometimes people stay because the relationship fits a cherished narrative: ‘This person was my first love,’ or ‘We were always meant to be together.’ The narrative can become more powerful than the reality. That’s why reflecting on your life story critically is so important - it helps you see whether your current choices align with who you are now, not just the story you once told yourself.”

I nearly let out a bitter chuckle. It makes so much sense that I want to shake my head in response to my own obliviousness. How could I not see it earlier? How could I not see that that exact thinking played a huge role in my reconciliation with Conrad? I just wonder why this particular script is so deep-rooted in me? Sure, my mom always told me what my dream man should be like, but…she never said that me and Conrad are meant to be together.

But Susannah did. The realization makes my heart sink in my stomach.

“So basically, we might cling to a relationship or a career path, not because it’s right for us, but because it fits the story we feel we have to keep telling?” One of the students asks.

“Exactly. And developmental psychology shows us that one marker of maturity is the ability to revise your story when it no longer serves you.”

Without much thinking, I raise my hand with a fast beating heart. It’s the first time since I enrolled in Brown when I actually speak up on my own, without being forced. “So…narrative identity isn’t fixed? Like, we don’t have to have one story that stays the same forever?” 

“Precisely. Narrative identity isn’t fixed. It’s dynamic. You rewrite parts of your story as you gain new experiences or reinterpret old ones. A childhood setback might later become a story about resilience, not failure.” Professor replies.

I raise my hand again, surprising not only Owen that sits next to me, but also professor Lahey. “How can we rewrite our story to follow our own script rather than the one that someone imprinted on us?”

His eyes shine as I say my question. His voice is calm, but in my head it echoes like a verdict. Whatever he’ll say, I’ll take us one. “That’s a powerful question. Rewriting your story doesn’t mean erasing your past or pretending those influences never existed. It starts with awareness - recognizing which parts of your narrative come from you, and which were imprinted by others. Basically, if some of your choices make you feel bad about yourself - just stop and ask yourself: what would make me happy? And aim for that. That’s where you really take the charge. And that is actually called narrative reframing that we’ll cover later on.” As he says it, the lecture ends and all of my peers get up from their seats, ready to go to the next class, me included.

“How do you feel about Lahey’s lecture?” Harper asks. 

“I feel like I need therapy,” Owen mumbles and a few people chuckle, including me, even though I feel similar.

“Honestly? Same,” one of the students called Lee says.

“Yeah, not to mention our families,” Beck chuckles and shakes her head.

“Yeah, now I’ll keep thinking about that instead of writing the final paper,” I say.

“Right! The final paper, what topic did you choose?” She asks as we enter another building, heading to our next class.

“Psychological factors that contribute to peak performance in athletes,” I reply. I’m actually happy that I came up with this topic as we were given freedom of choice in that matter. Maybe Brown wasn’t a bad choice after all? Besides, I made friends here. And I get to live with Conrad. Somehow my stomach twists at the last thought, but I brush it off. “How about you?”

“Communication patterns and conflict resolution in romantic relationships” Beck explains. “You seriously have to sign up for the psychology of relationships class next semester. Promise me,” she beams. It’s actually amazing how excited she gets talking about her favorite subjects and how clearly invested she is in becoming a great couple therapist. Maybe I could use her help with Conrad one day? 

“Alright, alright. I promise,” I chuckle. “Why do you want to be a couples therapist, though?” I’m genuinely curious about getting to know her better.

“It’s just interesting. I mean, helping a person fixing their issues? That’s hard on its own. But having to help two people at the same time? With their own issues and helping them to solve problems in their relationship simultaneously? Protecting both of their interests? That’s a fucking challenge,” she grins and I can’t help, but do the same. “How about you? Why sports?”

“I mean, I loved playing volleyball when I was in high school, but then I got an injury and that’s when I realized that I won’t ever be a pro. So, I looked into other things that interest me and at college I was like - huh, I like psychology and I love sports, why not get the best of both worlds, you know?” 

She nods. We walk silently and get in the auditorium, choosing a seat next to each other like we usually do. I feel good around Beck. She helps me get in a good space and forget about issues that keep haunting me lately. “How did you get over your injury, though?”

“My boyfriend,” As I say that my heart is beating faster, in a sweet, familiar rhythm that once I thought meant nothing. I was such a fool. 

“Conrad?” She asks, something about her voice and face tells me that she’s quite surprised.

I blush immediately. “No, uhm…my ex boyfriend,” my heart breaks a little as I say that word, feeling as if I just shoved a knife in my flesh and twisted it a couple times, making me bleed out. “Jeremiah,” I nearly whisper, his name like the dearest treasure and frankly, it is. Name that holds so many memories that I didn’t truly appreciate. Name that makes my heart flutter whenever I recall our dates and sweet conversations about nothing.

“I love you Bells,” he murmured one night at the front door of my dorm. His hands on my waist and eyes fixed on my own, gazing into them lovingly. It was our second anniversary. “Wanna watch a movie tonight?”

“Mhm, but only if we eat ramen too?” I ask and he chuckles, putting a streak of my hair behind my ear and caressing my cheek, his thumb gently brushing the cheekbone.

“Alright, should we order or get an instant one?” He asks. “Or…should I try to make it on my own?” His smile gets even bigger and I lean to kiss him.

“Instant,” I giggle. “And hey, Jeremiah?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” as I say it his eyes shine and he joins our lips in yet another kiss.

My heart aches at the memory, regretting that it’s buried in the past. That I’m the reason why our love lays in a grave - dead and asleep. But maybe not beyond waking - if I could find the courage to dig?

“I’m glad that he got you through it,” Beck smiles softly, snapping me back to reality.

“Yeah…,” I’m no longer interested in the conversation. Besides, the lecture in behavioral psychology is about to start. Alas, my mind keeps drifting off to Jeremiah.

Professor Marshall enters the auditorium and opens the slide show. Beck nudges me slightly and points at Owen with an amused look on her face and I almost laugh. He’s checking the professor out like always. He’s so clearly pining after her. “Today we’ll talk about operant conditioning,” she says. “I know that this term might sound terrifying and hard at first, but I promise, it’s actually very simple,” she smiles and lots of students chuckle in response. Marshall is definitely one of the most laid-back professors at Brown and on top of that, she’s gorgeous. “It’s basically just how we learn from consequences - reward and punishment systems and how they shape our behaviour and subconscious response in certain situations. Think of it like this: when you do something and it feels good, or you get a reward, you’re more likely to do it again. When you do something and it ends badly, you probably won’t be so eager to repeat it.” she explains. “Can we think of any examples?”

Harper raises her hand. “Um… like training your dog? You give it a treat when it sits, so it sits more,” she shrugs.

“That’s it! Yes, that’s positive reinforcement - we reward good behavior with treats and other pleasant things.” Marshall smiles. 

I’m not really listening. Instead, I’m checking on Jeremiah’s profile again. It’s pathetic, I know, but it’s stronger than me, which is weird when I think about it. When I was with Jeremiah I never checked on his account so religiously. Hell, even during those four years I’ve never checked on Conrad’s profile once! And here I am now, stalking my ex’s social media, keeping him in my life this way. 

I can see that he added a new post from San Francisco. It’s just the Golden Gate Bridge with a caption that says ‘Bridges are meant to be crossed’. My chest feels light and heavy at the same time, as if it’s remembering what it forgot to feel.

Bridges are meant to be crossed. The caption gets in my head and I repeat it, perhaps thinking too much into it, but part of me wishes for it to be a sign.

“How about other, not so positive examples?” Marshall asks and I raise my head for a while, stalling the action that I already decided on doing.

Beck raises her hand. “If one partner feels stressed because the other keeps asking, ‘Why haven’t you called me today?’, and then they start calling every evening to stop the constant questioning, that’s negative reinforcement. The behavior is reinforced because it removes the unpleasant nagging,” she explains, getting my attention.

“Precisely,” professor Marshall nods approvingly.

I have another huh moment. It’s as if suddenly I’m a cartoon character that has a lightbulb above their head that’s lightened after being dark for so long. It’s blinding, but necessary to see things better and now I feel like I’m finally seeing them clearly.

I have this sudden realization that all my life I’ve been conditioned to execute certain behaviors by my mother and by…Conrad. My heart sinks in my stomach and I feel like throwing up, but there’s no denying it. It’s as if a glass that kept me oblivious finally shattered - hurting me, but at the same time freeing.

My mother kept always saying that Conrad is a good man, always describing him as someone great, someone that I should aspire to be with, while simultaneously she always scoffed at Jeremiah. Nothing that he did was ever good enough and whenever I talked about him her reactions were far from supportive. I think it might have played a huge part in why I so easily slipped away from him during our wedding planning. I think I’m gonna cry.

And Conrad. We’re not even a year together, but I already do everything with consideration of his moodiness. I carefully choose each word, I think twice before doing anything just so he would be happy and give me affection. And when I don’t behave as expected? He gets cold. Really cold. What’s worse is that I can’t predict what can anger him.

With Jeremiah? He never conditioned me into acting a certain way. I could do and say whatever I want without the fear of potentially upsetting him or ruining our relationship. It was heaven. He was supportive and loving no matter what. But I wasn’t. I feel this sudden urge to text him and say sorry for all the shit that I caused. I’m actually on the verge of tears now.

“Hey, Belly? Are you okay?” Owen asks as he stands above me. It makes me realize that the lecture has already ended, but I was too lost in my own sorrows to notice.
“What? Yeah. I just kinda zoned out,” I quickly chuckle, trying to brush it off. “What’s up?”

“Well, we were thinking about hitting a pub, wanna join us?”

“Sure,” I say immediately, for once not asking Conrad first for permission. I take it as my own narrative reframing. “Let me just send a quick text, alright?” I ask and as they nod I write a short message to Conrad: I’m going to a pub with friends, will be later. I click send and his reply comes almost immediately, causing my hands to shake slightly. I fear checking his response, my heart actually in my throat, beating like it wants to escape my body. Have fun, I’ll be waiting home, his text says and I have a hard time believing that he actually wrote it. It’s nothing like Conrad that I am with. It’s the Conrad that I got to know during my wedding preparations. What the hell has changed?!

The pub smells like fried food and beer. Laughter and chatter bounce off the walls, warm and chaotic. I follow the group to a table, a glass shoved into my hand before I even realize it. I take a sip, the alcohol burning my throat and loosening my chest. Around me, everyone talks and laughs, but I feel a little distant, my mind flicking to San Francisco, to Jeremiah…to everything. 

I take my phone out and somehow type a text: “I miss you.” I send it without much thinking and drink another shot to numb myself, to not feel like a complete fucking idiot that I’m being at the moment.

My phone buzzes and my heart nearly explodes. My eyes widen in surprise as I open the chat and then they quickly squeeze in disappointment. It’s Conrad. I texted him by accident. I feel like there’s not enough air, especially when I read his message. “Miss you too. Come home, please.”

I nearly roll my eyes. I don’t want to get home, but it’s already late and classes start early tomorrow. Besides, I’m not in the mood for an argument. Negative reinforcement wins after all. I order an uber, but before it gets here I manage to wave Owen over. “What’s up, Belly? Getting home?” He asks.

“Yeah, but…I’m drunk.”

“I noticed,” he laughs.

Without much thinking I try to hand him my phone. “Find a contact named Jeremiah. I need to text him,” I mumble.

“Isn’t your guy named Conrad?”

“Yeah, so?” I’m so fucking drunk.

“Shit, that’s messy,” Owen chuckles drunkenly. “You think that’s a good idea, though?” He raises an eyebrow and I shrug, as if I wanted to say I don’t know. He sighs and takes my phone, scrolling through my contact list. “Here you go, Jeremiah. All you have to do is text,” he gives me my phone back and I mumble an incoherent thank you. Soon my uber comes to pick me up and I give Owen a clumsy hug as I get into the car.

My head is spinning, but I take a few quick breaths. You got this.

I look at the chat and Jeremiah’s contact photo. I gently brush it with my thumb as if I wanted to stroke his face. 

“I know it was awkward, but it was nice seeing you in San Francisco.” I type with a heavy heart and click the send button. 

I keep staring at the conversation, feeling stupid again until I don’t, because suddenly I see that he read the message and soon there are three dots appearing in the chat, meaning he’s about to write something. I feel both excited and terrified, my heart pounding so loud that I can hear it in my ears. I immediately sober up as his reply finally comes through: “Yeah. It was good to see you too. Hard, but good.”

My breath hitches and my heart flutters. I can’t help it. He actually replied. Alas, there’s also a painful twist in my stomach, because hard can carry so many meanings. Should I continue the conversation or give him space? What would be best? I don’t get time to think about it some more, because the drive ends and I’m back at home, met by Conrad, already at the door. 

I stumble on my way inside, barely looking at him. I can’t. Is it because of all the things that I realized or because I just texted Jeremiah and his response made me happier than I was in months? It’s hard to tell, but I’m not ready to face that yet. “I need to take a shower,” I manage to mumble out and lock myself in the bathroom, letting the cold water run down my body. It doesn’t help much. What truly sobers me up is a loud thump in another room, seemingly the living room.

I slowly unlock the door and peek through the door, wrapped in a towel. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, I just accidentally dropped your phone. I’m sorry, Belly. Guess I’ll have to buy you a new one after all,” he smiles apologetically, but it doesn’t reach his eyes that remain cold and piercing. I stare at him blankly for a second, searching his eyes and I don’t like what I find in them. In fact, I’m scared of that. I fake a smile and say: “It’s alright, baby,” even though my voice trembles at the last word, knowing that it doesn’t belong to him.

Chapter Text

I wake up early in the morning and flip to the other side of bed. I have it all to myself and I think I hate it less than I used to. Time makes things better, right? The bedsheet smells just like me and it’s okay. At least I think so. I think that I don’t hate it. Just like I don’t hate those pillows that I didn’t pick. I think I love them. Until I remember that I used to wake up to her face instead of these stupid pillows, then I’m back to hating them with passion.

It’s easier when people decide for you, when you just go with the flow and remove yourself from the action, when you just focus on your own thing. I think that’s what I love about Boston too. No fucking snake in sight.

I’m doing it again. Going back to the past, instead of staying present. And I’ve never been that person. That’s what forces me out of bed. I quickly get on my feet and grab my bag. I’m gonna hit the gym like I do every day. There’s no better way to bring myself back to being me instead of moping. 

I meet Daniel - one of my Boston friends - there and our hands meet in that rough, familiar clasp - a handshake that turns into a quick pull and a pat on the back that I used to do with my bros from frat. Even though the handshake’s familiar, Daniel is completely different than those guys from my college years. Especially when I compare him to Redbird. Holy shit, they’re like polar opposites and honestly? I think that I enjoy Daniel’s company better. At least when I hang out with him I don’t end up hungover and feeling like shit. I don’t wake up the next day barely remembering stuff that I pulled off and regretting my actions. I’m still in touch with Redbird, though. Just a couple of texts every other week to check on the other person, but I’m glad that’s all. He belongs to my past and that’s where some people should stay. 

“Anything good?” Daniel asks as we get on the treadmill. I enjoy running, it keeps me fit, which I need if I want to work fast in the kitchen. 

“Got a raise last week, how about you?” I gasp between words as I speed up. I need to stop thinking. 

“My girlfriend is having a birthday this weekend, I’m still thinking about what to buy her,” he replied.

I nod and fake a smile. I don’t get guys who don’t know what their girlfriends want. They literally give you hints, why can’t you pick up on their ques?! It’s frustrating. Within the first week of dating Denise I already knew what I would buy her. I almost laugh. That’s how it should be, right? Easy. Simple. Like breathing. You meet a girl, you like her, you figure things out. No strings attached, no messy history, no graveyard of what-ifs hanging over your head. Just a clean slate and being with each other, feeling secure. 

“By the way, how was your trip to San Francisco?” Daniel asks after ten minutes. I enjoy the simplicity of our friendship. Sometimes it’s good to just stay quiet with another person - something I didn’t think I was capable of.

However, as soon as San Francisco is being mentioned I furrow slightly and exhale deeply. I don’t want to talk about it, it causes my heart to feel things that I shouldn’t. Things that I worked hard on to have less of an impact. “It was fine,” I say flatly and thankfully the subject is dropped right away. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about feelings and difficult parts of me, but I don’t want every single relationship in my life to carry the weight of my failures and pain. I don’t know if that’s good, but that’s what I need at the moment.

Then we move onto doing bench presses. That’s what really gets me in a good place. I get to sweat it all out and work on my muscles. Not because I want to be chiseled or anything, but I need strength for carrying boxes with food in case anyone from the kitchen calls in sick. Every hand must be on board if we don’t want to disappoint our guests. It’s a hard job, but god, so satisfying. Like I actually found something that makes me feel good, that I am good at. Sure, there are ups and downs, but ultimately I’m glad I chose to apply for this job. 

Before we finish our workout I take a quick photo and post it on my story. No caption this time, there’s no time as I’m already late for my meeting. I don’t check who sees it or not, it’s better not to. Better not to further feed those feelings. They can’t haunt you if you don’t invite them or at least not if you don’t open the door with a smile.

I get in my car and try to start it, after a few attempts the engine makes a familiar sound and I smile at that. It’s the simple things like this that make me happy. The fact that I’m handling things on my own. That I don’t freak out immediately. I make a quick phone call with Denise and put her on speaker as I drive. 

“You’re calling me after or before the gym?” Those are her first words and as soon as I hear her voice I’m grinning. 

“After, forgot about our time zone difference?” I tease, half focused on the conversation and half focused on the road. There's traffic, which is normal at this hour, but it slows the action on the road enough to allow me to have a conversation with her. Those are rare lately, thanks to our busy schedules. But we have to live our own lives. You can’t disappear into another person, that’s not good for anyone. 

“No, just thought that maybe your car broke again,” she teases back. I love our banter. 

“Not this time, it actually worked on a third attempt,” I say proudly while simultaneously trying to hold back a laugh and I can hear that she’s doing the same. “It sucks, though. The car, I mean.”

“Yeah, it sucks. But hey, at least you got it on your own, right?” She says and I smile. She can find positive aspects in literally everything and that’s one of the main reasons why I appreciate having her in my life. She balances me and brings the light. And she’s completely right about the car. Yeah, it’s not as good and fast as my previous one, but I own it. Not my dad. Not to mention that it allowed me to pay back the debt that I got myself into. 

“What’s your plan for the day? Fancy meetings?” I ask and we’re back to teasing. I can almost picture her rolling her eyes.

“Yeah, right. More like dull meetings,” she sighs. “But hey, there has to be some cons to running a company?” She chuckles humorlessly.

“At least you’re not in this alone,” I say softly. “But hey, I get it. You have a lot going on lately, but you’ll get through it. You’re Denise. Who if not you?” I try to comfort her and I can tell that works, because she doesn’t reply with a snarky comment. It’s not that hard to learn what helps the other person. You just have to care a little.

“As a celebration I’m gonna eat the cake that you made me,” she says after a moment of silence. I’m almost at my destination, trying to find the right spot to park.

“You haven’t yet? D-nice, I’m slightly offended,” I chuckle. It’s just a joke to make her laugh and it works. Just like that, I’m proud of myself and happy. Guess I don’t need much to achieve happiness. Maybe I’m not at my the happiest yet, but perhaps I’ll get there eventually. Hell, maybe I’ll be even happier than when I was with her.

“Don’t worry, chef. I put it in the freezer.”

“You know that you’re hurting me now, right?” I try to act all serious, but I can’t. I’m too amused and so is she.

“You’ll get over it,” she laughs. “I’m sorry that we didn’t get to spend enough time together when you came to visit,” she says. Her tone suddenly becomes more serious and I sigh deeply. This conversation was bound to happen, but I’d rather do it face to face. 

“Yeah, I wasn’t happy about that, but it’s alright. It was your weekend, after all. A big company launch. I knew that you were going to be busy, don’t beat yourself about it, alright?”

“Alright,” she says slowly, as if she was wondering what to say next. In the meantime I found a parking lot that’s close to the building where I have my appointment. I have only fifteen minutes till it starts. “Did you bump into Conrad?” She asks out of nowhere.

I know that she would also want to ask about Belly, but she’s not going to. It’s very tactful of her not to mention her. I wish I could be as tactful and not let her slip back into my mind every now and then. Although it’s a closed chapter, it takes time to put the book back on the shelf and let it get wrapped in dust. It takes time to forget about it and barely recall the content that once was my whole life. It’s like being stuck in a hungover mode. 

I clear my throat and focus on finding the right spot to park the car, it helps me to stay present. I’ve never been the person that gets lost in the past, but after everything that happened between me and Belly and Conrad…sometimes it’s unavoidable. I try to focus on something slightly different and it helps me to answer her question. “Wow, you really had to be stressed, because he didn’t even come,” I simply say.

“Shit, really? Fuck, I need sleep,” she sighs deeply.

“Clearly, I’ll cuddle you till you fall asleep when I come to visit again,” I chuckle, even though we both don’t know when that can happen or if it will happen at all. “Gotta go, I’m parking a car already,” I say as I stop between two other cars that look similar to my previous one. In comparison my current vehicle looks poorly, but who cares. It drives, it costs a little and it’s my own.

“Alright, have a good therapy session. Bye,” she says and ends the call.

I don’t get to say bye, but that’s fine. I don’t feel anxious about it, like I used to back in the day. It’s stupid, but that’s how I was. Well, I still am, but I don’t freak out as much, at least not about little things. Baby steps, right?

I step into the building that I know inside out at this point. Everything about it is familiar - the beige walls and boring paintings on the wall, even the slightly overwatered plant at the reception. The receptionist smiles at me and I exchange the gesture. He nods at me, letting me know that I can go ahead. They don’t need to check my ID and ask with whom I have my appointment today. They already know me. No wonder, after six months of therapy in this place I’m basically a regular. 

I must admit, I was hesitant about going to therapy. I never thought it would help, never even slipped my mind. But after what happened…shit, I was a wreck. A total human disaster. I felt like the worst dirt that got stuck to someone’s shoe sole that is too stupid to come off. Just a pathetic chewed out gum that got disgusting and unwanted as soon as the flavor wore off a bit, as soon as another fresh gum showed up. I nearly groan in frustration and clench my fists painfully in my pockets. Breathe in. Breathe out. I remind myself of that exercise and it helps a bit. Helps more than downing bottles of the awfully low-quality alcohol just to fill the void. More than hooking up with strangers just so maybe I’ll feel an ounce of love that I used to with her. I’m still broken, but at least I’m not breaking myself further.

I’m so fucking thankful that Taylor and Denise talked me into finding a therapist. It’s not a magical solution to all of my problems, but without it? I don’t know if I’d be here. It stopped me from sinking further, slowly helping me to get closer to the surface. Bernadette Lockwood is perfect for that, a therapist that’s worthy of all five star reviews on sites that list therapists in Boston. I was skeptical at first, but she won me over eventually. Now I’m anticipating our appointments that we have every other week. They keep me grounded, it’s my one hour where I get to sulk and be mopey about all the things that bother me - something that I used to bottle down all the time, pretending that I’m fine when I clearly wasn’t. Now I get to actually address my problems without the fear of it being dismissed or ruining things. 

“Hello Jeremiah,” she says warmly as soon as she invites me to her office. I pick my usual spot in a soft, plushy chair and she sits right across from me. She’s this middle aged woman that has very wise and compassionate eyes that make you trust her right away. 

“Hi, Bernie,” I smile back. I’m fidgeting, all of my emotions boiling as they know that soon they’ll be able to come out without the fear of being judged for merely existing.

“Last time we talked you were preparing yourself for San Francisco. How did that go?”

“So-so,” I simply say, giving her a crooked smile and she raises her eyebrow in response. She’s good at catching my expressions. It’s kinda obvious since she’s my therapist, but it still amazes me.

“Do you want to elaborate?”

I sigh deeply as I try to find the right words. I don’t have to as she’s able to get all the info from just a few words, but I want to be accurate. “I saw her,” I say quietly and look down. I’m still playing nervously with my fingers, suddenly finding them really interesting.

She doesn’t have to ask who I am referring to. It’s obvious. Belly. Shit, my heart aches just from thinking about her.
“Did you just take a glimpse of her or did you talk?”

I nearly groan in frustration as I ruffle my hair. “We talked. It’s a stretch, though,” pain spills out of my voice as I say it. “Just an exchange of pleasantries. Strained, though.” 

“I see,” she says slowly, looking at me as if she’s waiting for me to add something and she’s right.

“I called her Isabel,” I sigh deeply, tilting my head and staring at the ceiling. “I always called her Belly or Bells. Why did I call her Isabel?” The question seems stupid, but somehow I want to keep talking about her. I can’t help it. 

“Well, let’s think about it. Why did you never call her by her full name before?”

“Because,” I shrug as I look at my therapist again. “It felt too…stif? Too official, too formal,” as I say it the realization dawns on me. “Oh,” I just gasp.

“You’re allowed to mark a line when it comes to her. What you’ve experienced was very hard and many people would break under the weight of it, but you didn’t. Calling her Isabel might be your way of protecting your boundaries.”

I nod slowly. Her words make sense and that should be the moment where I want to end the conversation about her and focus on a different topic, but I can’t bring myself to that. It’s my only time when I allow myself to talk about her. That limit works well for me for now. “It’s just…it was so…formal,” I mumble awkwardly. “Just a greeting and saying stuff like ‘are you good?’” 

“Jeremiah you’ve made tremendous progress,” she says softly after a moment of silence. “You handled your interaction in a very mature way, if you ask me,” she smiles at me and I feel warmth spreading in my chest.

“Yeah…I don’t know. I basically ran away from her,” I let out a bitter chuckle. 

“You don’t owe her your time, Jeremiah. It’s your choice how you want to handle that part of your past.”

I nod slowly. I know she’s right, but I still feel shitty about it. I can’t help it. “It’s just…she was this big part of my life and losing her…it felt like a part of my soul was ripped,” my hands are shaking as I say it.

“And how do you feel about it now as we speak?”

The room gets silent for a while, I can only hear the pounding of my heart and it hurts my chest. I search my mind for the right words, but then I think fuck it. There’s nothing right about this situation, so finding the correct term is a waste of time.

“Like I’m being punched in my guts every time I see her,” I swallow hard. “I don’t know what to do,” I sigh heavily, hiding my face in my palms. I’m so tired, my heart is exhausted and yet it refuses to give up. “And I finally got accepted into that culinary course in Providence,” I groan painfully. That acceptance complicates things for me. I applied for it months ago, when Belly was still in Paris. Never in my wildest dreams I thought that she’d move there to study at Brown. I thought that Conrad would take her to California, that’s why I never even looked into courses out there. Guess that fortune has a fucked up sense of humor. 

“Jeremiah, first of all - congratulations. I know that you were working hard to get into that training. Second of all, running away from pain will only elongate the healing process. If the wound bleeds we have two options: either let it bleed completely until there’s nothing left or putting a band-aid on it and hoping that it won’t crack.”

“You know that you should write a book with those kinds of thoughts, right? I bet you would make it to The New York Times top 10,” I chuckle. “So…are you saying that I should go to Providence, even if it means that I can run into her or Conrad?”
“All I’m saying is, don’t let the past hold power over you,” she says and I almost smirk. She’s sounding like Denise.

“What if I want to dive right back into that past? Like a fucking idiot that didn’t learn anything,” I mutter.

She sighs deeply, thinking how to approach it and it’s the best sign that I’m a hopeless case. That I’m lost. Belly Conklin messed my head and I still can’t stop thinking about her.

“It’s okay to want it. You’ve spent years together and almost got married. She’s a big part of your past. But just because you want it doesn’t mean that you’ll act on it. Do you want to act on it?”

“No…,” I say reluctantly. “Or yes? I don’t know. It’s…fuck, I had to look away when I saw her at that party. I couldn’t handle that look on her face, because it was too familiar, too loving and it broke me,” my lips tremble as I say it. I’m on the verge of tears. “Despite all the pain…I still wanted to grab her and kiss her. She was…seeing her after all these months…breathtaking,” I shake my head miserably. 

“It's the involuntary reflex that you experienced. Your body associates her with love, it's your mind that knows better than that,” she says and once again, she makes perfect sense. My head knows it, yet my heart refuses to accept it, making me constantly torn.

“I feel like shit,” I say suddenly. “Like…I feel like a dick for being with Denise and still…still thinking about her sometimes. Am I being an asshole?”

"Jeremiah, feeling conflicted doesn’t automatically make you an asshole. It makes you human. You went through a long, intense relationship, and your mind is still adjusting. It's normal for thoughts of her to appear,” she says and sees that I’m still not entirely convinced. “What matters is not that Belly crosses your mind, but what you choose to do with those thoughts. You’ve committed to Denise, and from what I hear, you care about her. That’s the choice you’re making in the present. Thoughts from the past don’t erase that, they just mean there’s still grief you’re working through. Instead of punishing yourself, let’s reframe this: you’re honoring your current relationship by not acting on those old impulses, even when they feel strong."

I relax slightly and nod. She’s right. I’m not acting on those thoughts. I’m keeping my distance. Almost. “What if I told you that she texted me again after we met in San Francisco? And that I replied?”

She raises her eyebrow, interested in such a turn of events. “I’d ask what was that exchange of texts about?” She says and I tell her what she wrote and what I replied with.

“I feel like I’m regressing because of that,” I confess. “I mean, I promised myself that I would never again let her fuck with my head and here I am, doing the same shit all over again like I learned anything.”

Bernie knows exactly what I’m referring to. I tried to reach out to her, against my better judgement, on her birthday. I remember exactly what I wrote. 

“Happy Birthday, Bells. I hope that someone’s treating you to a lobster today instead of escargot. Or anything that you’re into these days. I wish you the best day with people that care about you, that Paris is treating you like it’s your home. And if you ever feel like you’re missing your first one - know that it misses you too, standing with open doors and quietly keeping you in its memory.”

She never replied. Fuck it hurt. I was drunk for an entire week, thinking that she’ll never talk to me again. Especially since later that day Conrad texted me that he and Belly worked things out and are official now. It felt like I just got myself in a sinkhole that I can’t get out of. It hurt as fuck. And it was clear to me at that moment - she threw the memory of us away, because she finally got Conrad. I was just a placeholder, she forgot about me and I made a fool out of myself. Alas, she contacted me after that. A couple of times actually, even asking how I am. It baffled me, but gave me hope at the same time. But every time I replied she didn’t text again. And the Instagram thing on top of that. She kept following and unfollowing me, which was the reason why I changed my username, hoping that it would stop her from playing with my heart. It messed me up. 

“I don’t get a feeling of regress,” Bernie’s words snap me back to reality. “What you wrote felt like you were really putting your foot down - a clear sign that seeing her is still hard. If she cares for you, she’ll respect it and keep her distance.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Are you asking this because you fear or want that?”

I swallow hard and look away, ashamed of myself. “Then it will really test my self restraint.”

She chuckles. “Jeremiah, I think that everything’s fine with your self restraint. You showed it time after time. You just have to believe in yourself a little more. And as I said, don’t be too harsh on yourself. You’re trying and that’s what matters. Tell me, what were your intentions behind the message that you sent?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug and sigh again, an involuntary reflex at this point. “That I will always remember what we had, but that I’m still hurt. That I…I can’t be in touch with her,” I mumble.

“See? It’s not a regression. It’s growth,” she smiles and I do the same, feeling better for the first time since San Francisco happened.

“Yeah, I hope that my meeting with dad won’t ruin it today,” I chuckle bitterly. “I know that he said that he’s proud, but…it doesn’t erase years of favoring Conrad.”

“And it shouldn’t,” Bernie says firmly. She’s a godsend. “Your happiness shouldn’t depend on anyone, except yourself. You’re the only person that you should seek approval of, no one else’s is needed.”

Just like that, my session ends and I walk out of the office feeling lighter and more positive about the world, like I can see its colors again. I go to work and once I’m there, I’m fully focused on the tasks. It’s one of the reasons why I fucking love this job. Sure, I’m passionate about cooking, which I’m glad I turned into my profession, but it’s also because the atmosphere is overwhelming and hectic. You have to be present entirely, there’s not a single moment when you can let your attention go. You have to make sure that no one messes up orders, that food is fresh, that delivery is on time with all the items that we ordered and with a correct price. You have to make sure that food is served the way it’s supposed to be. There’s no room to drift, no space for mistakes. And I haven’t made one. I’m proud. Proud of the work. Proud of myself.

After half of my shift is done I get outside to catch some fresh air. I open the bottle of cherry cola and drink it entirely. That’s exactly what I needed. I mean, coffee would be nice too, but there’s not enough time to make one. Besides, it would make me too nervous, knowing that I’m supposed to meet with dad for a late dinner. 

As I walk to the bar I send a quick text to Denise: “On my way to meeting with dad. Hope that your meetings went well and weren’t as dull as you thought!”

She replies immediately: “Not as dull as I thought, but more exhausting. Have fun!”

I can’t help, but smile. I want to call her and talk about random stuff before I fall asleep, but I committed to this meeting weeks ago. I won’t back down. As I walk through the bar I find dad sitting in one of the booths at the end of the room and I wave at him. He waves back and gets up to greet me. That’s when I notice that he’s talking with someone. 

“Hey son, how are you?” He gives me a hug and I return it. It feels less awkward compared to a few months back. I think that’s progress. 

“Good, how are you?” I reply and I can tell that he’s relieved to hear me say that.

“Good, really good,” he smiles awkwardly and it finally clicks. “I know it was supposed to be just the two of us tonight, but-”

“Surprise,” I hear the familiar voice and I see Conrad sitting in the booth. My stomach drops and a slow, hot anger curls in my chest when I see the look on his face. No sense of shame. Sure, he gives me an awkward smile, but I know him well enough to realize that it’s fake. Every other second it slips just enough to see the smugness beneath. Moreover, it doesn’t reach his eyes, those remain confident and cold.

“Hi,” I say flatly and nod at him. I don’t shake his hand, I don’t go for a hug. He neither. We’re looking at each other for a few seconds, until our dad clears his throat awkwardly. I can tell that he already knows he fucked up. I take a glimpse at him and his eyes are helpless, almost sorry. Fuck it. I don’t know what on earth he was thinking, but I sit in the booth anyway, across from Conrad. Our father sits in between us and it looks cartoonish, almost as if he’s a mediator. Except, we don’t need anyone to help us solve this. It can’t be solved and it’s okay. Denise, Taylor and even Barnie say that. And I believe them. My relationship with Conrad is beyond repair. I tolerate him and he tolerates me as well, because we’re brothers, but that’s it. I don’t need us to be close, I don’t need us to be friends. Besides, he clearly never wanted that as well. Otherwise he wouldn’t betray me like this. He told me that I was acting like a kid, that I treated Belly like an object to possess because I accused him of stealing her. He picked on my choice of words, when that wasn’t what I literally meant. Bernie called it gaslighting and the more I read about it, the more I believe it. Because if the roles were reversed…I wouldn’t even agree to attend their wedding. I’d keep my distance as I’m really fucking trying now. I don’t want to ruin Conrad’s relationship despite my anger. I don’t want to mess with Belly’s feelings as well. I just wish that she’d do the same, but I can’t expect that. I am who I am. She is who she is. And Conrad is a dick. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I literally told him that I’m not okay with him going after Belly and then he texted me from Paris that he told that to Belly and she decided that her feelings were too strong for him to stay away. It shocked me, I never thought that she would be this person. But I also never thought that she would leave after accepting my proposal.

I quickly order a beer to muffle down those thoughts as they’re of no help. We sit in silence for a while, rather listening to the clicking of glasses and laughter around us. “So…,” my dad breaks the silence after our drinks are placed on our table. “...Conrad decided to come for a visit,” he says.

“Yeah, I see that,” I force myself to smile and so does Conrad. It’s so unnatural. Even dad can feel it and that says something. “So, what were the two of you talking about before I came?” I ask casually, not really interested in whatever they have to say. Just survive it, I tell myself even though I feel like there’s not enough air in this place.

“Residency,” dad says.

“Belly,” Conrad says at the same time and my heart skips its beating for a good second as soon as I hear her name. Stupid involuntary reflex. Dad looks at him as if he wants to say ‘why the hell did you bring her up?’ It tells me all I need to know. Conrad is being Conrad again, marking his territory, but I’m the possessive one. “We’ve moved in together,” he says, faking shyness.

“Yeah, I got your text about,” I say as I take another sip of beer.

“Oh, you remember that? Sorry,” he fake apologizes. Fake, that’s all I can see him being. I can’t help it. And that’s okay. My feelings are valid. I have to repeat that to not lose myself. I’ve spent so much time caring about others that it’s finally time to care about my own emotions. 

“Residency, huh? How’s that going for you?” I ask politely, changing the subject. I don’t care about being subtle about it. He doesn’t care as well, so why would I? Relationships aren’t meant to be one-sided. He doesn’t even try to hide his smug smile anymore, but I don’t give a fuck. I let him think that he got into my head, whatever helps him sleep at night. I won’t let it affect me too much. Maybe one day I’ll become completely immune to his words and presence. Maybe to Belly’s as well.

“Good, working in the pit is hard, but hey…I get to save lives, right?” 

“Right,” I nod and get quiet. I’m so uninterested in this conversation. I just want to be at home already. Watch a movie, text Denise or Steven. And go to sleep.

“Jeremiah is doing really well in the restaurant, you know?” Dad says, surprising both of us. I have to admit, it’s nice to be finally recognized by him. It shouldn’t be, but it is. Alas, Conrad doesn’t seem to be amused by it. He just nods and doesn’t ask any questions. Maybe that’s for the better. “And Conrad is going for a conference in New York,” he adds.

“Yeah, me and Belly actually,” he says as he looks at his phone. He keeps checking it every five minutes and it rubs me the wrong way for some reason.

“So you won’t be in New Jersey for a while?” I ask after.

“Yeah, why do you ask?” He furrows.

“No reason,” I lie. I don’t feel comfortable about sharing parts of my life with him. He lost that access the second he happily ruined what I’ve been building with her for four years. I finish my beer and look at my watch. “Sorry, I gotta go. I want to call Denise before I go to sleep. Have fun, guys,” I simply say and give them one last smile before I walk out. I don’t look behind. I don’t want to. It’s better this way.

When I get home there’s a text message from dad that says: “Sorry”. I simply reply with: “Thanks.” 

I quickly get in the shower, cleaning myself thoroughly. I feel dirty and I don’t want to. I treat this shower cabin as a place that works wonders. I step inside feeling like shit and water washes away all of the bad feelings that I carried around. It’s cathartic. 

I get in bed and call Denise, but she doesn’t pick up. Instead, she texts that she’s out with friends and that we’ll talk tomorrow. It’s fine. I didn’t expect her to wait around for my meeting to end. I know how to organize my time without other people. That’s one of the good and necessary things that I learned this year. I open up my laptop and I search for a good movie and fail miserably. I sigh and decide to open my email. The acceptance for a culinary course is waiting for me to confirm my presence. I hesitate for a while, but then I remember that Conrad and Belly probably won’t even be there when I’ll go there so I click confirm and book my flight. Problem solved on its own. My heart won’t be tested. 

Chapter Text

I wake up early in the morning, ready to get out of bed until I realize that Conrad’s not here. I sigh deeply and I close my eyes again, not worrying anymore. As soon as I try to nap some more I see Jeremiah before my eyes and I wail quietly. I don’t have to hide my feelings since I’m alone in the apartment. I even changed the bedsheet to the one I bought - the polka dotted blue one. I miss him. There’s no denying it anymore and part of me wants to slap myself for feeling this way. What a mess you’re being Belly, I scold myself but it’s stronger than my reason. I just can’t help it. It’s no excuse, but it is the truth in its rawest form. 

“I don’t feel like getting up today,” I moaned out as I squirmed in bed, trying to go back to sleep. I could feel Jeremiah’s hand resting on my hip. He gently pulled me closer, just enough to place a soft kiss in the crook of my neck. 

“Then let’s stay in bed some more. We have time,” he said sleepily. I could hear his steady breathing and it soothed me even more. That sound was a requirement to fall asleep at this point. 

“At what time your classes start?” I asked and slowly turned to face him. He spread his arms open and I quickly laid on top of him, melting into him. His hand wrapped around me immediately, a reflex at this point - something that quickly became our morning routine. 

“12 pm. How about yours?” He asked back, kissing the top of my head. It made me smile. I inhaled his scent that was mixed with mine - an intoxicating combination of warmth and freshness. His crisp citrus cologne, light and bright, blended perfectly with the soft sweetness of my skin, a whisper of jasmine and peach lingering where we touched. It was like our own private summer, a scent that made the world outside disappear. Every inhale reminded me of him, of the way he felt against me, the gentle strength in his arms, and the quiet comfort that came with simply being together. I could’ve stayed there forever, wrapped in that perfect mix of him and me.

“10 am. You’re so lucky to just stay in,” I groaned out frustratingly and he chuckled, kissing me again.

“I’ll walk you to your lecture. How about that, hm?” His strong arms tightened its grip around me. It wasn’t suffocating, it was safe. As long as we were together I felt at home, especially when I could hear the beating of his heart - those strong pounds in his chest that made me want to kiss his whole body. 

“Yes, please,” I yawned and reached for my phone that was on the nightstand behind him. “We have two more hours till the class starts. We should probably…wake each other up?” I suggested, trying to sound casual and not give away how needy his scent and the warmth of his body underneath me made me feel. He bit his lip slightly, trying to hide his amused look, but I knew he wanted it too. His hands were already sliding down my body, finding my panties. 

I open my eyes and snap back to reality. I don’t deserve to think about it. Not after I ruined it. It’s disloyal to Conrad and unfair to Jeremiah to picture those memories and feeling all hot and bothered. It’s not even the thing that I miss the most about us, I don’t think it’s even in the middle of that long list. Not because the sex wasn’t good, because it was. But because there were so many more important things than that. Sex was just one of many ways to connect. And it was so different from what I have with Conrad.

I’m fully ashamed of myself now. Ashamed that I used to think that sex with Conrad is more meaningful because the emotions are stronger. It was only like this, because that was the only aspect in which he tried, whereas Jeremiah tried always in every damn thing. I don’t even realize that there are tears streaming down my face. I quickly wipe them off and get up. I shouldn’t live in the past. I did that when I was with Jere and it led me to this place - an empty apartment and relationship that feels more and more like prison than happiness. 

It’s just a bump on the road, they’re bound to happen in all relationships. Yeah, but the road is rocky since the very start and there’s no end to it, with Jeremiah there was only one bump throughout our whole relationship. The Lacie Barone thing. That was a big fucking deal. So far nothing that Conrad did wasn’t as big of a betrayal as that.

I make myself coffee and eat toast for breakfast. Part of me was thinking about getting waffles, but I don’t have ingredients to make them. I should probably go grocery shopping, but I leave it out for tomorrow, for Saturday. I’ll have plenty of time to carry stuff since I can’t use Conrad’s car. Sure, he told me that I can take it when he’s in New York, saying: “I don’t want you to suffer without me, Belly.” But then he brings the car keys with him. Of course by accident. Of course.

God, I hate myself. I hate myself for feeling like this, for painting him as someone bad, but that’s what he gives me lately. Not lately, he’s always been like this. Don’t fool yourself. Maybe I should just talk with him? He’ll dismiss it or run away. Maybe I should try harder? It will only further convince him that things are fine. I’m running out of ideas at this point, but maybe psychology will help? It reminds me that I should really start writing my term paper, or at least do research on the topic that I chose. Especially since I have only one lecture today in the evening.

I sit at Conrad’s desk and open my laptop. It’s pretty old now, but thankfully it’s still working. Part of me starts wondering why he didn’t think about buying me a new computer instead of a phone since the prices are quite similar lately, but I brush the thought off. It doesn’t matter. He already bought me a new phone. After destroying your previous one. No, he didn’t destroy it - he said it was an accident, remember? Yeah, and then when I woke up the next day he said I was the one who dropped it, but I was too drunk to remember, even though I’m pretty sure that it happened when I was in the bathroom. Maybe I really was this drunk? Maybe I wasn’t.

I groan in frustration. That’s how my mind is lately. Constantly contradicting myself and unable to stick to one story. I know that it’s because I’m fighting badly to reframe my script as professor Lahey would say, but it’s so damn hard. So painful. 

I open the word document that’s supposed to be my term paper and I stare at a title for a while, trying to calm myself down and focus on the letters in front of me: psychological factors that contribute to peak performance in athletes. What should I write? Am I even in a mood for writing? It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that this apartment is quiet. Well, actually it’s always quiet. But not in a disturbing, fearful way like it usually is. It’s peaceful now and I hate to say it, but I know it’s because Conrad is at the conference. His delegation was a godsend. For my term paper, I mean. Liar. 

I sigh and open a browser, trying to find some materials to include in my essay. I start with goal-setting, because let’s be real. I have to start somewhere and hope that words will just flow. I take a sip of my coffee and feel a familiar ache in my chest. Jeremiah. Writing essays with him was so easy, even when the subject was awfully uninteresting.

We were sitting on my bed, opposite to each other. We had both our laptops opened, entirely focused on the text displayed on the monitor. The only physical contact we had was through our feet that we kept nudging playfully. It looked and felt silly, but somehow perfect. “I swear to god, Bells. It’s tickling,” he chuckled as he looked at me with those ocean blue eyes. 

“It's payback,” I teased as I poked out my tongue and he bursted out laughing, shaking his head. “What? I’m ticklish too!” 

“Yeah, maybe on your ribs,” he joked and looked again at his laptop. “How’s your essay?”

“Shitty. How’s your studying?”

“Shitty. I’m much more interested in the lady that’s next to me. She’s very distracting.”

“Wow, must be one hell of a lady,” I chuckled, causing him to smile.

“Yeah, she is. But I’m crazy about her.”

“How crazy?” I smiled as well, so much that my face started to hurt.

“So crazy that she made me read about the history of citation standards.”

“She’ll reward you later.”

“Really? How? When?” He grinned and looked at me again.

I rolled my eyes and snorted with laughter. “Midnight waffles?”

“Oh, I knew she’s perfect,” he leaned for a quick kiss that turned a little too passionate. “Alright, let’s get back to doing our things,” he gasped, his cheeks almost as flushed as mine.

“No, please no. I’m hating this essay so much,” I half-laughed, half-cried.

He furrowed, his eyes full of concern. “Scoot over a bit,” he said and I moved enough to let him sit next to me. “May I?” He asked for permission and I nodded. He started reading what I wrote so far. “It’s not bad. It’s just boring.”

“Yeah, I know,” I sighed. “I tried making it more interesting, but you know…I failed.”

“I have an idea. I’ll write random, but smart sounding words and you’ll just have to somehow implement them in the essay, alright?”

I wasn’t entirely convinced at first, but I agreed anyway and turned out it helped a lot. I focused on how to fit words like: epistemological, hegemony, dialectical tension, liminality, meta-analysis and intersectionality, instead of sulking about the topic itself. We ended up laughing over epistemological and liminality like it was some inside joke only we would ever get. 

God, I miss him. I don’t think I’ll ever stop. If anything, I’ll only ache for him more with time. It’s clear to me now. I’ll yearn for him in a way that I wouldn’t after anyone else. It’s the feeling of being torn apart with a soulmate. Because that’s who he is to me. Soulmate. Best friend. The person I love. The realization burns my whole body in a way that’s both good and bad. What have I done with my life?

I mentally scold myself again and for a moment even debate slapping myself across my face to shake myself out of it. What’s done is done. I choose to keep writing instead of diving deeper into the memory lane. 

I start reading about Locke and Latham’s goal-setting theory and decide that it would work great for my essay. SMART goals sound perfect for athletes to follow and so after a few minutes I’m really focused on my work and quickly move on to more goal-setting theories. Alas, as soon as I come across intrinsic and extrinsic motivation I feel lost. Not because of the academic aspect, but because I can’t stop seeing myself in that particular theory. 

I read my own paragraph in the essay and my heart sinks in my stomach: Extrinsic motivation happens when a person is acting to gain external rewards such as approval, recognition or material rewards. Although it can be powerful and a great fuel for action, it’s best for athletes to have an intrinsic motivation - a state in which you act for the sake of personal satisfaction, enjoyment or meaningfulness. For example, if a runner trains because he loves running it’s easier for them to commit to training and feel satisfaction from the action itself, whereas if their main or sole motivation is winning a prize or gaining approval from the society it’s easier for them to get discouraged or in some cases drop the activity entirely. In essence, extrinsic motivation may work short-term, but often causes frustration, emptiness and poor emotional decisions, when in comparison intrinsic motivation leads to satisfaction, engagement and a sense of purpose.

I stare at my words a little too long and a single tear appears in the corner of my eye. It makes perfect sense. Not only in sports, but in general. Because what was my motivation to be with Conrad? Chasing a dream that I had when I was ten and couldn’t let go of. Looking for my mom’s approval. Waiting for my brother to stop shitting on my boyfriend. Where was I in all of this? Where was my current self?

Whereas with Jeremiah…it was all me. Despite Conrad being around the corner, despite my mom disapproving of him, despite Steven feeling like he’s not good enough for me…I chose to be with him. And we were so goddamn happy for those four years. We almost got married. And I was so excited to be his wife. Until all of those people ganged up on us. Until Conrad decided to spend the summer with me and help me to plan out the wedding. It all happened so fast. It felt like I had no control over everything. Like I was just a passenger forced on the rollercoaster, letting fortune decide if I survive or crash. I lost control over my life, allowing others to dictate how it should look.

I wonder if…if I didn’t tell Jeremiah about Conrad’s confession would we be wearing wedding rings now, celebrating one year anniversary and decorating our home? If I didn’t foolishly say that I still loved Conrad…would we be now both in Boston? Cuddling on the couch or watching TV? If I didn’t run away to Paris…would we be now talking about adopting a cat or a dog? Or maybe we would already have one? If I showed up at his door after a month or two and begged for his forgiveness…would we be now talking about having kids in the near future? Would we be growing old together?

I don’t think that my heart can handle all of those what-ifs at the moment. But I’m doing that to myself anyway. It’s like a punishment for myself - both for ruining something good and for hurting Jeremiah. Sometimes…sometimes it feels like being with Conrad is yet another form of retribution for screwing up so badly. And it’s fucked up beyond words, I know. 

I get up from the chair abruptly, as if it’s burning. I shake my head, as if that’s going to help to get out of this pit of sorrow. Alas, I’m too far gone in this feeling. It only grows stronger with each day. I go to the bedroom as it’s time to dress up and leave for my classes, but as I’m choosing clothes I take a look at the jewelry box that I almost never open. I always loved to wear it, but lately I gave that up. I don’t know why. You know why, as soon as I hear that tiny voice in my head I sigh and admit the truth - it’s almost entirely silver and it doesn’t work well with most of my clothes. And Conrad doesn’t like it when I wear gold. No particular reason, I think. It’s just that he gives me a silver one, so why would I wear gold? To piss him off? To show lack of gratitude? His words, not mine. 

I search the bottom of the box and smile involuntarily as I see the gold ring laying there. Our engagement ring. Mine and Jeremiah’s. My heart gives a soft little beat at the image and I reach for it with a shaky hand. I used to love wearing it, even after the wedding was called off. But then I had to stop in order to honor my relationship with Conrad. 

But right now Conrad’s not here. And he won’t be here for at least a couple more days. What I’m thinking about is wrong, but also…so right? What if that’s the way to reframe the script that I was conditioned to follow? Without another thought I take the ring and put it on my middle finger. 

Then I take the bus to Brown and continue reading the book about The Myth of Darcy from Beck. I think it’s finally time to get back to this piece. I’m no longer afraid of it, finding myself rather in a state of anticipation to know more. It’s like I’m gathering ammo for a battle. Battle that I have to fight with my old self that still can’t let go, even though she lets me rebel today. 

“When we realize that certain traits which, according to cultural narratives, are supposed to signal the attractiveness of a potential partner - such as mystery or a difficult character - may just as well lead us into the lair of a monster, we may stop valuing the chase for its own sake and start evaluating the real person standing before us. Is the object of our affection shy, or spiteful? Is it an inability to find one’s place in company, or arrogance?”

It speaks to my soul, healing the wounds that I created in a process of loving Conrad Fisher, of chasing after him, of letting him pick me. The chase is over. For now. Until he takes his feelings back again. It’s a vicious circle that I’m trapped in. Yet I don’t break free. I choose to stay in it every single day. Why? 

“I don’t mean to say that we are forbidden from enjoying “enemies to lovers” plots, from noticing the good in people, or even from marrying someone who once told a friend we weren’t pretty enough to tempt him. What I do mean is that we can begin to see the world - and that great project we call love - without Darcy’s filter, the one that teaches us to excuse other people’s bad behavior and to choose those (especially men) who treat us like garbage. In other words, you can love Darcy all you want, but you’ll have a much better chance at your own happy ending if you stop viewing potential partners through the lens of the Darcy myth.”

Is it happening to me now? Did I just stop looking at Conrad through the Darcy filter? Is that why I’m so…dissatisfied? Is he not my happy ending? It sure feels like it. At least he didn’t cheat on you.

As soon as I’m at Brown I see Owen, Harper and Beck standing outside the auditorium. We hug and get inside. No words are needed. We’re like this little family that sticks together. Family that doesn’t judge, which is new for me, but I love it. I wish that Taylor would be here with us, she would find a common language with them very quickly. And Jeremiah as well. They’d love Jeremiah, just as my Paris friends would too. Because what’s there to not love about him? 

“Are you in the mood for going out tonight?” Owen asks, smirking. Ever since the texting incident we’re really close. It’s our little secret that made us trust one another. “You’re a mess, Conklin. I like that,” he said one day at the lecture and it shows. If there’s someone in this group that would support me no matter what it’s him. I’m not saying that it’s good, but it’s nice to have someone that always gets your back. The feeling’s mutual. I actually got a chance to support his messy action when he started flirting with professor Marshall - another secret between us. 

“Aren’t you supposed to go on a date with Marshall?” I raise my eyebrow in amusement.

His cheeks turn bright red as he quickly looks around. “Belly!”

“Alright, alright. With Joanne,” I tease, poking my tongue out.

He rolls his eyes. “You’re a monster, I swear to god. And no, Jo has a meeting about her new article. So are you in or out?”

“In,” I simply say.

“Huh, guess that Conrad’s still out of town?” He asks.

Now it’s my turn to blush as he clocked it in a painfully accurate way. I don’t get a chance to respond as the professor enters the auditorium and the lecture begins. I quickly check my phone and furrow. I can’t get used to it. It’s…lacking personality - no photos from Paris, no old text messages with Taylor, not a single song downloaded. It’s empty, the only thing that seems to be new is the frequency with which Conrad texts me. Like he’s afraid that I might disappear when he’s in New York. But isn’t that exactly what I’m doing?

“Good afternoon, students,” professor Jones greets us in her usual, formal manner. “Today we’ll talk about Cognitive Reappraisal,” she says. “It’s an emotion regulation strategy first described by James Gross. Can any of you tell me how this strategy works?” She asks casually. It’s so obvious that everyone is tired of this semester and looking out for the inevitable end of it. 

Harper raises her hand. “It’s basically reshaping difficult emotions instead of erasing them.”

“Can you elaborate? Perhaps with an example?”

“Hm…for example when a person feels sad or angry. They don’t let those emotions consume them, but rather they find meaning in them.”

“Good,” professor Jones nods in approval. “Think about the last time you failed a test or argued with a friend. Did you see it as proof you weren’t good enough or as a chance to do things differently next time? The event doesn’t change, but your interpretation does. That’s the power of reappraisal. Any questions?”

Lee asks his question first: “Is this just like positive thinking?”

Professor Jones rolls her eyes, but answers nonetheless. “Not exactly. Positive thinking often ignores reality. Reappraisal doesn’t deny the pain - it reframes it in a way that gives you back control. It’s the difference between saying ‘This hurts, and I’m doomed,’ and ‘This hurts, but I can grow from it.’ Any other questions? Perhaps better ones?”

My hand goes up in the air despite my fear of professor Jones. “Can this apply to relationships?”
“To everything, really. But to answer your question - yes. The stories we tell about why someone left us, or why we chose them, often shape whether we stay stuck in the past or move forward into something healthier.”

Another hand raises up, this time from a student that I don’t know that much. “So basically, if my roommate snaps at me, I can choose to see them as rude or maybe just stressed?”

“Exactly. The snap is real, but your meaning-making decides if you carry resentment, or compassion.”

As soon as professor Jones says it, my eyes widen in sudden realization. It really can be applied anywhere. Lacie Barone situation, my mind thinks about it immediately. Why did it happen in the first place? Because he thought we were broken up. I couldn’t believe that at the moment. I couldn’t believe how he could possibly think of that fight as a break up, but maybe…maybe the real question is why he thought that? Why did we interpret our fight in such different ways that caused so much hurt and damage? That made my feelings…less stable, that made me more prone to Conrad’s advances? Why? Oh, how I would want to ask him that. How I would want to turn back time and act more maturely.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t even realize that the class ended. God, I’m so lost. No, you’re not. You’re actually finding yourself, trying to navigate your way back home.

“Any plans for the Christmas break?” Beck asks as we leave the auditorium and go to our favorite pub. 

“Nothing special. Me and Conrad are going to spend it with my mom. My brother and my best friend are coming too. At least I think so, you never know with them,” I smile. “How about you?”

“Big family gathering. I kinda hate them, but I get free practice of all those theories that we get to learn about,” she chuckles and I do the same.

Time flies by so fast when we’re at the pub, bottoming down drink after drink until we’re running out of money in our wallets. I groan as I realize that. I don’t want to beg Conrad to give me money, nor my mom. Maybe I should apply for a job? It would be a catch of fresh air, actually.

“I just can’t believe the semester is almost over,” Owen shakes his head as he orders another set of drinks for our table.

“Yeah, me neither. It’s crazy. I feel like my head is exploding with knowledge and there are three more semesters to survive until we get that master’s degree,” Harper says. “Do you think that what they say about psychology students is real? That we’re all here because we have some deep-rooted trauma that we’re trying to fix by ourselves?”

“Hell yeah,” Owen and I say at the same time and chuckle. “Cheers,” we tap glasses and Beck joins our toast.

“And if not trauma, then at least some dark secret,” she chuckles as well.

“Yes! You know what? Belly looks like she’s hiding some crazy secret that would make a shiver run down our spines,” Harper chuckles drunkenly.

“Yeah, but whatever that is, I’m sure it’s not worse than the history that Jo told me,” Owen’s eyes shine.

“Jo?” Both Harper and Beck furrow at the name and I immediately look down, acting like I don’t know Jo’s true identity.

“Uhm…yeah. She’s that girl that I’ve been seeing lately, haven’t I told you?”

“No,” Beck shakes her head.

“Definitely not,” Harper adds.

“Really? Anyway, so Jo told me about this crazy story that happened to one of the students like two years ago.”

“What’s the story about?” Our interest is piqued.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you about! So shut up. Okay, here it goes. So, apparently there was a guy here that fell in love with a girl that was dating his brother,” he grins.

I choke on my drink as he says that and Beck gently pats me on my back to help me out. “Really? That’s it?” She furrows.

“Yeah, where’s the drama? Boring,” Harper rolls her eyes.

“I’m not done! Okay? So, that girl got engaged to his brother and the guy from Brown? He confessed his feelings to her the day before the wedding!”

My face turns pale as he says that.

“Holy shit! Really?! That’s fucking crazy,” Harper says.

“Yeah, you don’t do that type of shit!” Beck says and it’s the first time we actually hear her swear. “That’s really fucked up to do that to your own brother.”

“Yeah, and get that - the wedding? It was actually called off!” Owen finishes with his cheeks flushed. He’s so excited about the story, while I wish to just disappear from earth.

“Why would the guy do that?” Harper wonders.

“I heard that he found out that the brother cheated,” I say, surprising myself. Now their eyes are fixed on me and I want to kill myself for speaking up. “I mean, yeah. That’s what…what I heard,” I shrug, trying to sound indifferent as I sip on my drink, but it tastes bad suddenly. Or maybe I’m just feeling sick to my stomach.

“Wait, how do you know that?”

“My…my boyfriend studied with that guy, actually,” I lie, averting the eye contact. I can feel that Beck is looking at me, but I’m not ready to face her yet.

“When did he cheat?” Beck furrows. Of course she’s the one that wants to know details. Her interest in couples therapy had to show up eventually. Too bad that it’s uninvited tonight.

“I don’t know the details,” I lie smoothly. “All I know is that he thought that they were broken up and she thought that they just had a fight,” I explain, trying to sound as indifferent as possible.

“Oh,” they all say at the same time. “Then it’s not really cheating,” Beck says.

“Wait, what?” My eyes widen. I try to downplay my initial reaction, but I fail miserably. “Why not?”

“He thought that they were broken up,” she shrugs. “I’m not saying that it was okay, but it doesn’t qualify as cheating. More as a bad communication and a deeper problem.”

“Yeah, the deeper problem is probably being the other brother,” Harper says bluntly and they all agree with her.

“I need to go outside,” I mumble suddenly and get up from my chair, shakily walking away from our table. 

I know that Beck just basically confirmed what part of me was already suspecting, but it hurts nonetheless. It hurts because I can’t turn back time and fix that issue like I should’ve. I just wish to see him. To hug him. To apologize to him. To Jeremiah.

Jeremiah.

He’s there, across the street. My heart stops for a second before it beats again with a newfound energy.

I see him and the whole world slows down, stopping entirely as soon as he turns and our eyes meet. My heart speeds up a little as I see how he opens his mouth to inhale sharply. His chest is heaving almost as much as mine and I’m instantly drawn to him. It’s like my legs are moving on its own, heading towards him - where my heart craves to be. He’s not walking my way, but he’s not walking away either. His eyes locked with mine as if he can't believe to see me and in all honesty, I'm equally surprised. It's like I'm breathing again.

I slowly approach him, even though my heart beats so fast that I’m sure I’m going to pass out  before I get to him. Luckily, that doesn’t happen. Luckily, I stand in front of him, able to stare into those ocean blue eyes that once were full of love. Now they’re unreadable and clouded. His body tenses and I know it’s my fault. I know that I should’ve looked away instead of walking his way, but it’s too late now.

“Jere.”

“Belly.”

We speak at the same time, voices barely above a whisper, hitched with surprise. The sound of each other’s name pins us in place, forcing us to stand and simply stare, suspended in a moment that seems to stretch forever.

“What…what are you doing here?” I ask, clearing my throat. 

It snaps us both back to reality and my heart throbs painfully. He ends the eye contact by turning his face away abruptly, looking anywhere else but at me. It hurts, but I get it. He said it himself - it was good seeing me in San Francisco. Hard, but good.

“I…I’m taking a part in the culinary program. It happens to be here in New Jersey,” he coughs, his lips pressed in a thin line. I know this expression. He always did that whenever things were emotionally difficult and he didn’t know how to handle them in a way that wouldn’t hurt both parts. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him. Alas, I can’t do that.

“Wow…that-that’s great,” I say quickly. I’m breathing heavily, trying to calm my nerves down, but I fail miserably. It’s like I have zero control over my body, every ounce of my being focused on not doing something that would make the conversation even more awkward. “Were those…your friends?” I point at the people that he left the restaurant with, people that were now walking away.

“No, just…just peers from my culinary group,” he says, rubbing his nose nervously. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” he admits after a moment of silence.

“Really? On this street or in New Jersey? Because you know I live here now, right?” I try to ease the tension with a playful tone and he chuckles involuntarily, the sound causing my heart to flutter and lips to spread in a wide smile.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m aware,” he says, each word quieter than the previous one, as if they’re too heavy to handle. “I’m aware,” he repeats. His smile disappears and face tilts down. It breaks my heart. “So…uhm, are you here alone or…?”

“Belly!” I hear my group calling after me, Owen’s voice especially loud and Harper’s waving at me as if she wants to say ‘come back here’, but I don’t move. Instead, they approach us. The only quiet person in the group is Beck who just watches me and Jeremiaha intently. “Who’s that?” Harper asks.

“Jeremiah,” he offers his hand for a shake. Owen’s mouth opens agape in such a flashy way that I want to kill him. “Are you guys Belly’s friends?” He asks.

“Yeah, we are,” Harper answers for all three of them. “We were all just about to call an uber and go ho-” she says, but Owen cuts in.

“Actually, there was a tiny little change of plan,” he says.

“There was?” Harper looks confused and Beck rolls her eyes. She’s the most sober one and it shows.

“Yeah. We’re actually going to hit the club, remember?” He says it so slowly that Beck has to look away to not start laughing as Harper barely connects the dots. “Belly, I know you’re tired, so you probably won’t go with us, right?” He asks.

“What? Yeah. Yeah, I won’t,” I say awkwardly as I run my hand through my hair. I take a glimpse of Jeremiah, his face remaining unreadable, but it seems like he’s hanging on every word.

“Make sure she’ll get home okay, Jeremiah?” Owen smiles at him and urges Beck and Harper to walk away with him quickly. I want to shake my head, completely embarrassed.

“I’m sorry for that,” I say awkwardly, my face burning red. I’m afraid to look at him, afraid that he’ll be mad about having to walk me home.

“Don’t be,” he brushed it off. “So, which way?” He asks, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Um…to the right,” I point with my head and he nods.

We walk in complete silence that’s only being broken by the sounds of cars and drunk people trying to find their way home. I try to keep my composure and not stumble on my own feet. Fortunately, Jeremiah’s presence sobers me up. Unfortunately, it makes me more aware of the awkwardness of the whole situation.

“You don’t have to walk me home if you don’t want to, you know? I can just take the bus,” I say after a couple of miles.

“Nonsense. It’s full of creeps at this hour.”

“You don’t even know this city,” I point out.

He rolls his eyes, his lips curling up in a slight smile. “Every city has creepy commuters at night.”

“Then I can wait for an uber, that’s fine,” I shrug.

He clicks his tongue. He’s pissed. I can tell, his whole jaw tenses and I just want to kiss him to ease that tension, but I can’t. I won’t ever get to do that again, will I?

“And let a stranger drive you god knows where? Not happening,” he shakes his head. “I’m walking you home,” he’s adamant about it, but I can tell that it’s difficult for him to be around me. That he’s trying to keep a two feet long distance from me, not even looking directly at me. He’s here, but it’s obvious that he doesn’t want to. He wants to escape me and I feel like a bitch for trapping him like this. Am I as bad as Conrad? 

“I don’t want to be a burden,” I mumble quietly, averting the eye contact. Alas, I can’t help myself and I look at him again. His whole body language changes with my words. I can see that he’s offended, almost hurt. His shoulders slightly hunched and he swallows hard as he searches my face, trying to read it. Something about it makes me want to cry. 

“Don’t say that again,” he says, his voice low but firm. “You’re not a burden. Walking you home…it’s the easiest thing about tonight,” he adds quietly, his voice cracking. His eyes are shining, but not in a happy way and it only breaks me further. I want to cup his face like I used to, but I can’t. 

I nod, biting my lip, unsure if I should say anything else. The street is quiet, but it feels loud between us, every step echoing against the distant hum of traffic. Or maybe it’s just my heart, pounding so loudly that I can’t hear my thoughts clearly. 

“How’s…how’s Brown? Do you like it?” He asks after a while, his voice is hoarse. We’re almost there and he decides to speak just now. I slow down my pace a bit to delay the moment of saying goodbye. I’m not ready for it. I won’t ever be ready to leave him. 

“Yeah, psychology classes are a godsend,” I say carefully. Not because I’m afraid of him, like I would do with Conrad, but because I…I care so deeply about him, because I’ve hurt him too much already. It makes me so careful with every word and every gesture and yet I still feel like I’m screwing this up. “Make me think a lot.”

“In a good or bad way?” He asks, genuinely curious. He’s looking at me again as if he wants to understand. He’s still that Jeremiah - a caring and attentive boy that I once fell in love with. No, not a boy. A man.

“In a difficult way,” I give him a pained smile and he nods as if he understands exactly what I want to say. “How’s that culinary program?”

“Good, really good. But the amount of pistachio being thrown in every meal lately is honestly exhausting,” he says quickly and I can’t help, but smile.

“Yeah, you always said that one day people would wake up and randomly decide that it works perfectly with everything,” I chuckle.

“You remember that?” His eyes widen, lips part slightly and I see that subtle spark of surprise and something warmer in his gaze. Something that’s familiar, yet different at the same time. 

“Of course,” I can’t help, but smile.

I feel like he wants to say something, but he closes his mouth before words manage to escape it and I push a streak of my hair behind my ear awkwardly, like I usually do. That’s when he notices the ring. His ring. There’s a flicker in his eyes, a quiet pain I know well. His lips press together, betraying a heartache he doesn’t quite voice, but it’s noticeable since he looks away. It’s as if he sobered up. 

“Why?” He simply asks, his voice so quiet that I can barely hear it despite the clear sorrow in it.

“I…,” I stutter, unable to express myself which makes things only worse.

He doesn’t move. He just watches me, quiet and patient. After a long moment, he finally says: “How far are we from your home?” His voice is faltering.

“It’s right across the street,” I whisper. “Jere-”

“Good,” he nods, looking away and walking quickly towards my building. “Let’s walk.”

“Jere-” I try again, but he cuts in as we’re standing in front of my building’s door.

“Do me a favor, Belly. Throw it away,” his eyes are clouded with pain and his jaw tense, fists clearly clenching in his pockets. He looks like he’s about to break down and I want to slap myself for causing him pain again. Alas, I’m too focused on his words.

“What?” I mumble out.

“Throw.It.Away,” he says through gritted teeth, his words almost desperate, eyes glistening despite his best effort.

I freeze, staring at him, the weight of his words pressing down on me. Throw it away. Like it’s that easy. Like it’s just a ring. He’s standing there, rigid and trembling in a way only I would notice. “Jeremiah…” I whisper, but his name falls flat between us, swallowed by the night air.

For a heartbeat, he looks at me, really looks at me, and I see it all - the hurt, the love, the exhaustion. And then he blinks it away, a shutter coming down, leaving only that guarded, unreadable expression. “Goodnight, Belly,” he says quietly, not trusting his voice with anything more.

Before I can reach for him, before I can take even one step closer, he’s already walking away, his hands shoved deeper into his jacket as if the cold might swallow him whole. He doesn’t look back. I stand frozen on the doorstep, the ring heavy on my finger, heavier than it’s ever been. My chest feels hollow, like the space he’s left behind. I want to call after him. I want to run. But I don’t. Instead, I press my palm over the ring and close my eyes. The night air is cold and sharp, but the warmth of his presence lingers in the most sweet and bitter away, 

Inside, the hallway light flickers as I step in, but for a moment I stay by the door, my back against the wall, my eyes shut. Should I listen? Should I throw it away? Is this how it ends? Or did it end a long time ago?

The ring burns against my skin like a promise I already broke but still can’t let go of.

Chapter Text

Snow fell a couple of days ago and it’s still outside during the day of Christmas Eve. It reminds me of childhood, of those carefree days when I didn’t think about boys yet. When I was just me. When not getting your dream toy was larger than life. I miss those days. I miss being able to forget about things that upset me so quickly. Alas, those days are long gone. Now I’m an adult and those issues I carry with me? Those issues that seem to rip my heart apart? They are about life itself. About the vision of it, my own ideal script of life. The one that truly belongs to me, not people surrounding me.

Conrad. Jeremiah.

Jeremiah. Conrad.

It’s been years since it all began and somehow I’m still in the very same place, still sitting on a fence with my own feelings, doubting myself and questioning the influence of other people. And I shouldn’t. I should be past that. 

Throw it away.

Take care, Isabel.

Belly.

His voice lingers in my mind. I can’t escape it. No, I don’t want to escape it. I want to hold onto it. 

I look outside the window again and I notice how snow is slowly yielding to the warmth. I chuckle bitterly at the image. Snow melts, memories don’t. 

What if mistakes don’t melt as well? At that moment I feel Conrad’s hands on my hips and suddenly they feel too big, too strong on my body, just so…plain wrong. Like they don’t belong there. I feel like I’m choking, trying to hold back tears as he kisses my neck. He's been trying since he’s back from New York. He really has. And yet it doesn’t feel right, instead it comes off as too little and too late. It’s as if he wants to play a song that he’s supposed to know, but the melody sounds off - too high and too low at the same time, his memory unable to balance the sound out, making you wish that he’d rather give up on that music. Alas, everyone around me wants me to sit back in my chair and listen to him playing, gasping in amazement at his skills and presence and all I can think about is: is there something wrong with me? I liked this song for so long, carrying the memory of it and thinking that it’s the best song ever. And now that I get to listen to its live version? I want to escape and curse myself for being so hell-bent on its tune for so long that I didn’t appreciate the one that actually got in sync with my heart, making every fiber in my body dance to the rhythm and help create an even better sound. With Conrad? I only get to listen, no creative input allowed. And yet, I keep sitting, applauding the melody that no longer belongs to me.

I’m so afraid.

So scared.

So sad.

“There you are! You look so happy! Let me take a photo,” my mom finds us standing in the living room, deep in our thoughts and she snaps a quick picture. I force myself to smile and it makes both my face and heart suffer. 

I’ve never had to fake happiness with Jeremiah. He’s always been my moon - the light that never asked me to squint, the glow that didn’t burn when I reached for it. With Jeremiah I didn’t have to brace myself. I could simply exist and his glow would find me anyway. 

“And one more!” She beams, telling us to stand next to each other, guiding Conrad to pull me closer and urging me to rest my head on his shoulder. I wonder if she’s this oblivious to my feelings or she just doesn’t care, too focused on executing her idea of my perfect life. It doesn’t matter. I have to play along. No, you don’t. You’re just scared of breaking free. “Oh, it looks so perfect! Doesn’t it?” She keeps chirping happily and Conrad seconds his opinion, kissing my forehead. I have to stop myself from wincing. 

It used to be my dream to be with him like this, but it no longer feels like my dream. Maybe I’ve changed or maybe it’s never been my dream to begin with. Or maybe I  reached the part of the relationship when doubts begin to creep in and they’ll be gone eventually? Maybe I just have to brush it off and be an adult - responsible about my life choices. Conrad is a responsible choice, at least that’s what I’ve heard my whole life and I begin to hate this narrative. I begin to…to hate my life. I need to end this, don’t I? But I’m so terribly scared of that. What if I would regret it too? I feel like a little girl again, afraid to disappoint parents and everyone around me. Afraid to spread my wings. And I was doing so well on my own in Paris. Why did I regress so badly? Because Conrad came back into your life. Because you got back and started spending more time with people that judge you, that’s why.

I want to sob, but I also don’t want to ruin the Christmas atmosphere. Especially since Steven and Taylor are here and I see them so rarely these days. I look at the two of them and they’re in their own worlds - both on the phone, but most likely doing something completely else. I can see how comfortable they are with each other, just laying on the sofa. They remind me so much of me and Jeremiah. We were just like them and I hate to say in the past tense. It should be present time.

“Belly, wanna go upstairs and wrap gifts?” Taylor asks as soon as our eyes meet and I nod right away. I’m so thankful that I can escape this suffocating atmosphere in the living room. I wish that dad would be here, but mom didn’t want him to come again. 

“Belly, remember to come and help me out in the kitchen later, okay?” Mom calls after me and I just nod as I go with Taylor.

“I start to regret agreeing to all of this,” Taylor grunts as soon as she locks the door behind us and sits on the bed. She looks uncomfortable, it’s so obvious that she doesn’t want to be here. “I could’ve been with my mom right now.”

“Didn’t she go on a Christmas trip with her besties?”

She glares at me for a second and she’s met with the awkward silence on my part.

“Or we could stay in San Francisco. It wouldn’t be that bad. We could host it. We’ve already done Friendsgiving,” she starts mumbling and I put my hands on her shoulders gently, trying to calm her down.

“Okay, Taylor…what is this all about?” I ask her, genuinely concerned.

“Laurel,” she sighs. “I’m sorry, Belly. I know that she’s your and Steven’s mom, but she’s so fucking uptight it makes me feel bad for not having a stick up my ass too,” she blurts out at one breath. 

I give her a crooked smile in response. I don’t know what to say to make her feel better, so instead of speaking, I just sit and hug her and she lets me. “Hey, at least my mom has like zero expectations when it comes to you,” I try to joke. “You can literally be whoever you want around her, unless like the rest of us.”

“Yeah, that’s because she probably thinks that me and Steven won’t last anyway so there’s no point in fighting me,” she says it so bluntly and matter-of-factly that I’m stunned. “What? It’s the truth,” she shrugs. 

“If she wouldn’t want you around she’d probably act with you like she did with Jeremiah,” I say quietly. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. She avoids talking about him with me and I’m dying to talk about him. I can’t keep it just to myself. It kills me. “You didn’t have to come, Tay. Really. She wouldn’t hold it against you or anything,” I reassure her.

“Yeah, I know. I just didn’t want you to be alone here,” she says.

I furrow and look at her with confusion in my eyes. I’m not even sure if I heard that right. “I’m not alone. I mean, there’s Conrad,” I point out.

My words are as convincing for Taylor as for myself and it makes me want to chuckle bitterly, but I hold myself back from doing that. “Yeah, so I just said. You’re alone. He’s basically like your mother’s date. It’s honestly creepy how much they fawn over each other.”

“Huh, I’ve never thought of it like this,” I say slowly, staring at the window and processing what she just said. I can tell that she’s looking at me, but I don’t mind.

“Okay, I just basically insulted your mother and your boyfriend and you’re smiling like you’re planning to murder someone. Are you okay?” She asks, worry in her voice which is a rare thing. 

“Yeah. I am,” I reassure her. “It’s just…so fucking funny,” I start laughing as I look at Taylor. She joins me at first, but then her smile quickly fades away and is replaced with deep concern when my own laughter turns into crying. I didn’t even realize that I’m trembling with tears running down my face. This time Taylor is the one to hug me and we stay like this for a while, she’s letting me cry it all out - everything that I was trying to hold back and ignore. Everything that’s breaking me. 

The moment is stopped abruptly when Steven enters the room. “Woah, did I just interrupt something? Are you opening presents without me? Because I swear to go-” he pauses mid-sentence when he sees my puffy face. “Hey, Belly. What’s going on?” He sits at my other side, wrapping his arm around me. He looks as concerned as Taylor who’s quiet now.

“Nothing…I’m just…a little bit emotional, that’s all,” I try to bring back a smile on my face, but he doesn’t buy it. Damn it, Steven. Why can’t you keep being oblivious for once? 

“Yeah, right. Come on, you can tell me. Are you failing classes? Are you pregnant?” He starts listing all the things that come to his mind and I push him away.

“No! God, Steven!” I mutter.

“Okay, that’s good. It means that it can be fixed,” he sighs with relief, but one look at Taylor tells him that he’s wrong. “It can’t? Shit,” he mumbles, unsure what else to say.

“I just miss dad, that’s all,” I lie, looking away as I get up, heading outside the room. “I’m gonna leave the two of you alone. We should be preparing for dinner anyway,” I add.

As I get out of the room I wipe my tears off with the hem of my sweater. Great, now I really have to change it or I won’t hear the end of it from my mom and probably Conrad as well. 

“Belly, wait.” Taylor pulls me over to the corner of the hallway. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” she says.

“Doing what?” I fake a smile and I can see that she wants to smack me for acting like this.

“This. Lying about being okay to people around you. You’re so clearly fucking unhappy and it kills me that you’re doing this to yourself.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Tell Steven about it?” I chuckle bitterly.

“For starters, yeah. Why not?”

“Because it’s Steven!” I say a little bit too loud, crossing arms on my chest. “He’s a-”

“An idiot,” she cuts in. “I know. He can be oblivious to stuff and I say that with love,” she adds quickly. “But have a bit of faith in him, okay? If he knew how you feel, he wouldn’t be all on board with Con.”

“But he is and I…I’m so fucking tired,” I mumble incoherently.

“I know,” she nods and pulls me for yet another hug. “But you gotta start talking about it instead of pretending that everything’s fine. Because how else are people supposed to know that things are shitty?”

I chuckle and sniff at the same time. “You know, though.”

She smirks. “Yeah, because it’s me. I’m Taylor. I’m awesome,” she says and I can’t argue with that. “You can’t expect others to be the same.”

I nod slowly as we part our ways. As I dress up for the Christmas Eve dinner I keep thinking about Taylor’s words. Maybe she’s right? Maybe I should open up more? It makes me think about all those little things that annoyed me with Jere that I never chose to mention, like the snotty tissues that he kept leaving all over the room without properly throwing them away. It was such a silly issue that could probably be resolved with one conversation, but instead of doing that I kept complaining about it behind his back. Why was I such an idiot? Why am I still being one?

The answer is actually simple. Beck gave it to me when we partied last time before the Christmas break started. We talked about The Myth of Darcy book when her words hit me: “It basically made me realize that chasing after Darcy guys, and our mothers and aunts and everyone being conditioned to the same, makes us believe that love is supposed to be hard and difficult because that’s normal. And it really shouldn’t be. It’s like we hard-wired it in our subconsciousness, don’t you think?” She asked that evening and I just nodded to end the conversation, but I didn’t fully agree. Alas, now I do.

My mom always enforced a certain image of love on me. I knew that before, but I thought it only influenced my choice in men, my choice of Conrad. But it seems like it’s deeper than that. She painted out adulthood and relationships as a big chore, like committing to things isn’t easy at all. And because with Jeremiah it felt easy…it made me doubt our love and its maturity. It made me feel like maybe we weren’t ready for marriage because it felt too easy. I am a fucking idiot, don’t I?

Jeremiah.

It makes my chest hurt to know that he stayed in New Jersey for two entire weeks and he didn’t call nor texted me once. Our only interaction being that awkward walk to my apartment that he was kinda forced into by my friends. I feel awful for how it went, for wearing his ring that night. I was desperate to call him to apologize, but I figured that I should give him space to process it after how he reacted. Alas, I couldn’t bring myself to throw away that ring. That precious ring that he proposed with. My heart throbs painfully as I think about it. 

I need him. I love him. I miss him.

I want to mentally slap myself, but I don’t do that. My face would be red and it would raise questions. Instead, I get downstairs eventually and I can hear laughter and clinking of dishes in the kitchen, so I go there only to find mom and Conrad talking with one another. It strikes me how good they feel around each other. “Belly! Here you are, you look so good in this dress, bean,” mom smiles at me and so does Conrad, agreeing with her. Of course he does. 

“Where’s your necklace?” Conrad asks, looking at me with those sad and broken eyes that I saw constantly when we were planning my wedding with Jere. Those eyes that look like they belong to a beaten puppy. I immediately feel guilty. What if I shouldn’t be missing Jere? What if I should focus on making this particular relationship easier instead of difficult? Maybe my relationship with Jeremiah is beyond repair, but I can still repair this one? 

“I…I didn’t think it would match with the dress, sorry. Should I go and put it on?” I ask.

“No, that’s fine,” he fakes a smile. He’s so tense and the feeling’s mutual. I can’t remember the last time when I felt at ease with him. Was there ever a time when I felt at ease around him? Is it my fault? Is it because I let my frustrations grow instead of just letting them all out? He wouldn’t listen anyway, you know that. Stop sticking to that fucking script.

“I think it would look perfect,” mom chimes in and it honestly pisses me off. She’s always jumping in to support Conrad. She never did that with Jeremiah and I can’t help myself but compare her actions towards the two of them. “And speaking of perfect, look at the salad that Conrad helped me make!” She shows it proudly and hands it to me, so I can bring it to the table.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. My mom’s words echo in my head, filling it with poison. It’s not my version of perfect and I want to tell her that what would truly be perfect would be having Jeremiah at this table. But then I remember how tense Christmas always was when we were together. It felt like she couldn’t help herself, but judge every single thing that he did - no matter if good or wrong or simply neutral. It was never enough. She never gushed over Jeremiah like she does over Conrad. 

Soon we’re all at the table. The atmosphere is slightly better than earlier or maybe I’m just drunk on wine that Steven and Taylor brought, just to make it easier to survive this buzzkill of an event. I just know that it would be far more bearable with Jeremiah sitting next to me and holding my hand instead of Conrad. Despite that thought, I try to squeeze Conrad’s hand, further forcing myself to stay present, to ground myself. I promise myself to talk with him after we get back home to New Jersey. I promise to tell him what we should improve in our relationship in order to make it work. I promise. 

“So, how’s your company Steven?” Mom asks while we keep stuffing our mouths with food. 

“Good, we’re actually having a few interesting clients lining up. Denise even decided to stay in San Francisco for Christmas to butter them up,” he says excitedly and my interest piques. Does it mean that she’s not spending this holiday with Jeremiah? Or maybe he decided to go there and be with her? The mere thought makes me put down the silverware and drink some more.

“More like she’s keeping them interested. She’s not that person to butter people up just for the sake of that unless they deserve it,” Taylor says and then presses her lips into a thin line as if she wants to shut herself up, just because she can see the look on my face. Unfortunately, Conrad notices it too. His hand slipping on my thigh under the table and squeezing it.

“Isn’t she with Jeremiah now?” Mom asks and my heart sinks in my stomach. There’s a moment of silence at the table - not long enough to make it awkward, but long enough for it to be noticeable. Conrad’s hand tightens its grip on my leg and I want to squirm away, but I don’t even dare to do that.

Steven exchanges awkward looks with Taylor before he speaks. “Um…yeah. She is, actually. I think?” He looks again at Taylor, the look on her face unreadable and I find myself in a desperate need to find out more, but I can’t do that.

“Good for him,” mom smiles as she sips on her wine. “Good luck to her,” she adds quietly, but we can all hear her. The only person in the room that doesn’t seem bothered by her comment is Conrad.

“What did you-” I try to say, but Taylor cuts in.

“So, Belly and I were thinking about getting a tattoo together,” she says, bringing attention to us two. It’s true. We actually talked about it weeks ago and just yesterday decided on going along with it before we fly back home. She even found a studio nearby that still has a few available dates.

“Really?” All three of them ask at the same time.

“Yes,” I say smiling. “We were thinking of a small wrist tattoo. Nothing too big,” I try to downplay it, but there’s still a comment made.

“Do you think that’s a good idea, Belly?” Conrad asks and I can easily translate it to: I don’t think it’s a good idea, Belly.

“I mean tattoos are okay, lots of people have them. But a wrist tattoo?” Mom furrows. 

“What’s wrong with a wrist tattoo, Laurel?” Taylor asks, crossing arms on her chest as she looks at her.

“Nothing. I mean, it can be beautiful. For a person like you - I mean, someone that works in PR. But for a future clinical psychologist? I think it’s unprofessional,” she says and I wonder where the hell did she get that opinion.

“Where the hell did you get that opinion?” Taylor speaks exactly what’s on my mind.

“Taylor-” Steven tries to calm her down.

“No, I’m sorry Steven, but it’s funny,” she laughs, but there’s nothing funny about her laughter. She’s shaking her head as she drinks.

Suddenly I freeze. “A clinical psychologist?” I ask quietly, looking at her. “I’m going to be a sports psychologist, don’t you remember?” I furrow.

She and Conrad exchange looks and it rubs me in the wrong way. “Look, Belly. That’s what I wanted to talk with you about,” Conrad speaks up as he shifts in the chair. “Laurel and I talked and we agreed that it would be best if you switched your focus to clinical psychology. That way we could spend more time together. I bet I could even get you an internship at my hospital,” he smiles at me in a way that’s supposed to be caring, but I’m plain disgusted and look away, shaking my head.

“Hey, I have an idea. Let’s open our presents now, okay? Great!” Steven says as he gets up from his seat abruptly, urging Taylor to follow him to the Christmas tree that’s near the sofa. The atmosphere is so thick that it can be cut with a knife, but we play along. No one wants to turn this day into a fight and we still believe that it can be avoided. 

We either sit on the sofa or chair - pieces of furniture that I loved to curl up on while reading a book, pieces that I loved snuggling with Jeremiah on. Now they’re just uncomfortable and uninviting. The room is silent and so Steven decided to put on music to make it less awkward, but it doesn’t help much. I watch how they open their gifts one after another and mom asks me to snap pictures. I quickly grab my phone and that’s when Taylor notices that it’s new.

“You didn’t mention that you were going to buy a new phone,” she says.

“I wasn’t. My old one got destroyed,” I say quietly, pressing my lips into a thin line.

“Destroyed? How?” Steven asks.

“Belly was being clumsy after she was drinking, dropped it and it broke,” Conrad replies for me.

“Really? Because as long as I know Belly she never was a clumsy drunk,” Taylor points out bluntly. “She could blabber a lot or send questionable texts to people, but she never destroyed her phone in the process. It was actually quite impressive.”

“Because she was drinking frequently,” Mom chimes in. “And now she’s finally being smart about her life choices.”

“Wow, mom. Just…wow,” I chuckle bitterly, my eyes empty at this point. 

“Okay…maybe you should open the gift from Conrad? It’s one of the few that’s left,” Steven says quickly as he basically shoves it into my hands. 

I sigh deeply, but unwrap it anyway. “Oh, it’s so perfect! So beautiful!” Mom beams as soon as I carefully unpack the light blue dress. It’s silk, I can feel it as I touch it. 

“Why blue?” I ask, instead of just saying thank you. Lately I’ve been wearing clothes only in warm tones, so this pick is a surprise.

“You know, you’re always saying that you don’t have anything in the closet that would go well with my necklace, so I figured that it would fix it,” he smiles again.

“Isn’t that lovely, Belly?” Mom smiles.

“Yes. Thank you, Conrad,” I say flatly. I can’t scrape together some enthusiasm. I just can’t. Not now. Not when I can see how much my mom is melting over Conrad and his gift. It reminds me of Christmas three years ago.

We were sitting in the very same living room, but I was accompanied by Jeremiah - sitting in between his legs on the floor, much to my mom’s disapproval, but it didn’t matter that much since Jeremiah had his hands wrapped around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. 

“Open my gift, Bells. Hope you’ll like it,” he said as he pressed a soft kiss on my shoulder, causing my mom to sigh deeply in discomfort.

I gently unpack his present and my eyes widen and fill with love as I see the jersey of my favorite volleyball team. “Oh my god, it’s perfect! You remembered!” I beamed and turned to face him. “Thank you, you’re the best,” I kissed him, not even caring that my mom was still in a room with us and Steven was pretending that he’s going to throw up. All that mattered was that proud and happy smile on his face. It felt like all he needed to feel good was making me happy and it was mutual.

“I think that it’s rather impractical if you’d ask me, bean.” Mom said. “Besides, giving girlfriends clothes is quite patronizing. It’s control disguised as thoughtfulness, don’t you agree?” She asked bitterly.

I could see how Jeremiah’s smile was fading away and all I could do was to grab his hands and wrap them tighter around me. “I’m sorry,” I told him later that night when we were alone in my room.

“Don’t be,” he said, forcing a smile as he kissed my forehead.

I could tell at that moment that he’d wanted me to defend him. That I failed him. And now my mom’s failing me by setting clear double standards. I wonder what else there is to find out and the answer comes real quick when Steven says something in regards to Jeremiah: “He spends Christmas with Adam and Kayleigh,” as he says it both mom and Conrad look at each other knowingly and smirk, shaking their heads in amusement.

“What’s so funny?” I ask quietly.

For a moment they look like they’re caught doing something bad, but then ultimately decide to explain and their words both break my heart and make the blood in my veins boil in rage. “Dad cheated with Kayleigh on mom,” Conrad explains it so matter-of-factly that it knocks the air out of my lungs.

“He what?!” All three of us - me, Steven and Taylor snap.

“Yeah, can you believe it?” Mom shakes her head.

“No, no I actually fucking can’t,” I groan out, standing up abruptly.

“Belly?” Conrad asks as he gets up as well, his eyes full of confusion and it feels like a slap on a face. Not only mine, but foremost Jeremiah’s.

“Did you know before or after we agreed on Kayleigh planning our wedding?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“Does it matter?” Conrad chuckles as if it was funny, but gets serious as soon as he notices the look on my face. “Before.”

“I can’t fucking believe it,” I mutter. “I need to get out of here,” I add as I head towards the stairs, planning to go to my room.

“What are you doing? Calm down,” Mom says. “Don’t ruin Christmas.”

I stop on my way and turn to face her. “What?” I snap. “You let that woman plan my and Jeremiah’s wedding!” I cry out. “It’s fucking disgusting.”

“You’re overreacting,” both mom and Conrad say at the same time. 

“No, no she’s not,” both Steven and Taylor defend me and for once I can see my brother as someone that stands up for me. “That’s really fucked up,” Taylor says as she gets up and urges Steven to do the same.

“I mean, if you think about it it’s not that big of a deal,” Conrad says as he tries to take a step towards me, but I move away from him. “It matched the ridiculousness of that whole thing,” he chuckles and I can’t believe it. My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces as soon as he says it and I want to slap him across the face.

Slap.

I realize what I did after a good few seconds and I’m surprised with myself. I don’t say sorry though. He stands there, equally shocked.

“I need to get the fuck out of here,” I gasp out, on the verge of tears.

“We’re leaving. Let’s pack. Christmas’ over,” Taylor says firmly and pulls Steven by the hem of his shirt to go get packed.

“Yeah, we’ll be ready to leave whenever you’re ready, Belly,” Steven says and I can see genuine concern in his eyes. 

I mumble a quick thanks as I rush to the bedroom and start packing my stuff. I can't believe it. I can’t believe it. I can’t fucking believe it. Suddenly the door behind me opens and I hope it’s just Steven or Taylor, but unfortunately it’s Conrad. He doesn’t look sad nor guilty, just furious and annoyed.

“What the fuck are you doing, Belly? You’re acting like a child,” he says, his voice calm. A little bit too calm.

“What does it look like? I’m going with Steven and Taylor.

“Stay, don’t make a fuss,” he says as he tries to grab my suitcase, but I don’t let him. “For fuck’s sake! You’re embarrassing me! In front of Laurel!” He snaps.

I glare at him, trying to be as cold as possible despite the amount of hurt that he has caused me. “Is that all you care about? Impressing my mom?”

“Is it a bad thing that I want to maintain a good relationship with her? At least I care about it! And you? You…you’re defending him like your life depends on it!”

“Well yeah, someone has to. It should be his own brother, but since he doesn’t give a single fuck his ex girlfriend must do it.”

He suddenly grabs my arm, his grip more painful than ever and he shakes me. Not enough to permanently hurt me, but enough to shake me to my core, to make me fear him in a way I never thought I’d fear a man in my life. “Belly…I’m sorry,” he says as soon as he snaps out of it, but I take a few steps back and close my suitcase, it’s fully packed now.

“I…I’m going with Steven and Taylor. I’m going to stay with them for a while,” I mumble and look away. I just can’t look at his face at the moment. Not after what he just did. It was so abrupt, so unexpected and unnecessary. 

From that point on things happen quickly. I rush downstairs and before I notice I’m in Steven’s car and we’re driving away. “We should head to our dad’s,” Steven says shakily and Taylor grabs his hand to calm him down. I can barely listen to what they say. I’m curled up on the backseat, trying to calm myself down, but I’m crying and I can’t stop. I think I cried today more than I did last year. 

As we’re halfway through I feel a buzz in my hand. It’s my phone. I don’t open the message at first as I fear it might be from Conrad, but as soon as I see my screen I see an unknown number’s message displayed. Well, not exactly unknown. I recognize the number immediately. It’s Jeremiah’s. Why isn’t it saved on my phone? I could swear I imported all of my contacts to this phone. 

I don’t focus on that much, though. Instead, choosing to read his message. “Merry Christmas Belly.” He texts. I think that’s it, but then the second message comes in: “I’m sorry for my reaction. Obviously, it’s your ring. You can do whatever you want with it.”

Despite all the heavy emotional stuff that happened today, my heart still manages to skip a beat in the sweetest way, my tears drying out a bit as I quickly type my reply. “Merry Christmas Jere.” After a moment of pause I send my response to his second text: “Don’t be. I should be the one to apologize. About everything. Can I call?”

I really need to talk to him. To tell him about Adam and Kayleigh. He deserves to know. I wait for his response with my heart pounding so strong that I can hear it in my ears.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sorry.”

I think like I’m going to break even further, another set of tears streaming down my face. But I type out my reply anyway, despite my hands being all shaky. “I understand. I hope that you’re good. No liminality.” I try to implement our old inside joke into the exchange.

“I hope you’re good too. No epistemological.” He replies in the same manner and I let out a half-chuckle and half-cry at his words.

I always wished for Conrad on my birthday and now all I do is wish for Jeremiah - for Christmas, for birthdays, for every ordinary day in between. I clutch my phone like it’s the only lifeline I have, rereading his last message, feeling both warmth and ache flood through me. For a moment, the world outside the car window - the snow, the streetlights, the quiet hum of the engine - disappears. All that matters is him. All that matters is the truth of my own heart.

I lean back in my seat, take a deep, shuddering breath, and allow myself to smile through the tears. For the first time, it’s my smile. Mine alone. And maybe, just maybe, this Christmas - messy and broken - is the one that finally feels like mine too.

Chapter Text

My head is aching and it’s been like this for almost a week now. The source of that pain? Conrad. Mom. Christmas. My own questionable decisions made in the past. I click my tongue and I wince. I can still feel the taste of last night’s alcohol on my tongue and it’s disgusting.

“I told you that you should’ve brushed your teeth,” Taylor smirks as she places a mug full of black coffee on the table next to the sofa that I’m laying on, covered by a blanket. 

“Yeah, well I didn’t feel like it,” I mumble and she sighs deeply. Her smile is gone, replaced with genuine concern that keeps on coming back whenever I slip into this moping state that I’m currently in.

“It’s New Year’s Eve today,” she says after a few seconds during which I carefully sit and massage my temple. “Come on. Making yourself a smoking hot bitch will make you feel better,” she adds and I can’t argue with that. It never failed to make me feel better before. But why was that? Now I know the answer.

“It always made me feel better because I thought that it’ll make me pretty enough for Conrad,” I mumble out and I can feel how Taylor wraps her hand around me and allows me to rest my head on her shoulder. 

“Okay, then fuck makeovers. You do you today, but brush your teeth, alright? I don’t want our guests to smell you tonight,” she half-jokes.

“Yeah, alright,” I nod immediately as I empty the mug and head straight to the bathroom. I almost forgot that she and Steven are throwing a party. In my defence, I kinda keep on forgetting that I’m here in San Francisco with them. It feels surreal. Everything after that unfortunate Christmas Eve feels like that. I can barely remember the aftermath, only capable of recalling the most important information - we drove to dad and spent two days there that felt like one big blur. Then we went straight to the airport, Steven booked a flight for all three of us and here we are.

I start brushing my teeth as I look in the mirror. I’m looking tired as fuck and yet…it still feels better than being with Conrad. Of course, I’m sad. I’m heartbroken. But not because we got into a fight. Not because he’s not here with me. I feel sad because I was blind to his disrespect for so long. I’m devastated because I allowed it and didn’t draw a line when I should’ve. I’m heartbroken because I let the idea of being with him cloud my judgement. It caused me to fuck up everything that was dear to me in this life. 

I sigh as I straight up my back and look proudly in my reflection. Dark circles will be gone soon and my skin will get healthier with time. My appetite will be back as well and the urge to crawl back into Conrad’s arms will fade away sooner or later. I think it’s already gone, actually. As I think that I smile, relief spreads across my face. It’s like I’m breaking free and it makes my heart beat with excitement, with hope for the better - for the future that would be entirely mine. Not Conrad’s. Not my mom’s. Mine. 

I’m finally rewriting that goddamn script that I was handed like a manual on how to please others. I’m for once starting to think about what I want, not letting people get into my head, not taking their point of view as mine. I’m seeing it all through my own lenses. And those lenses won’t ever get blurred again. I swear.

I look through my text messages and I see plenty of them.

“Whatever happened during Christmas - know that you can always rely on me,” dad’s message pops up first and I smile slightly. He’s honestly a very good father. When we showed up all pissed and hectic at his place in the middle of the night he didn’t ask questions. He just gave us something warm to drink and prepared a place for all three of us to sleep. He could see that I’m upset, but he didn’t push me to say anything. I’ll tell him eventually. I will. Just not now. Maybe after the storm calms down a bit and whatever story mom told him would get old and be out of his head. Because I just know that she called him and painted events of that night in a very particular way, likely the one that shows things only from her perspective. That’s just how she is. It’s who she’s always been, but I refused to see it. No, I just didn’t want to see it. Because it would contradict everything that I grew up believing in. And that would make me struggle even more with my identity.

Alas, now I think that it’s actually good to let that identity crush into pieces. If there’s nothing to pick up, I’ll be finally able to rebuild myself from scratch. Just the way I want to be, no old story to hold onto.

Then I read the second message and this time it’s from Conrad himself. “I’m sorry, Belly. I’m thinking about you all the time. I can see my mistakes. Please, let us work this out.” My heart aches as I read it. There was a time in my life where I would cry in both relief and joy from simply getting such a message from him. But that time is long gone. And it only ever existed because of my mother.

Speaking of the devil. Her texts are next in line to read and I do it hesitantly. After all, she’s still my mother. No matter how much I disagree with her, words that come out of her still hold power over me to some extent. It’s a dangerous game to allow her close in such a fragile moment, but I read the message anyway: “Isabel, the way you acted was out of line and completely unacceptable. You’re ruining your life for nothing. Grow up, bean. Please.”

I thought that I would cry, but instead I just sigh and roll my eyes, shaking my head in utter disbelief. I’m quite surprised with myself because her words don’t affect me as much as I anticipated. It’s good. Really good.

I should probably text all of those people back, but I don’t feel like it. I need space, time to stay alone with just my thoughts and process everything in a proper way. So I just call Beck. “Yeah?” She answers after a moment. She sounds busy, probably working on the New Years Eve’s party that she’s setting for our little group. Only she doesn’t know that I won’t be there.

“Hey, Beck. Listen, I won’t be able to make it to your party. I’m really sorry for backing out at the last minute,” I say quickly, ripping off the bandaid.

“It’s fine. Thanks for letting me know. Is everything okay, though?” She sounds worried and I sigh deeply before answering.

“Yeah, it’s just...I’m in San Francisco. It was rather unexpected.”

“I see…,” there’s silence on the other end of line, but I don’t hang up. I just know that she’s going to say something, perhaps lighter in nature to not end up this call too heavily. “Listen, did you choose classes for the upcoming semester?”

I smile. Beck never fails when it comes to grounding me. I adore that about her, just how much she focuses on our studies, how much he reminds of what should be important - my future. Mine. Perhaps without Conrad. 

“Yeah, and you’ll be happy that I decided on The Psychology of Romantic Relationships,” I say.

“Happy? I’m thrilled! Oh my god, Belly. You won’t regret this, I promise! Those classes are amazing! What else did you choose?”

Before I even notice I’m fully focused on our conversation, even my eyes look brighter and that’s what makes me realize - without Conrad I finally shine on my own. But with Jeremiah…it feels like I could ignite the entire sky.

“Exercise Psychology and Educational Psychology.”

“Nice, I chose the latter as well. Did you hear that Lahey is also teaching this class?”

“Why do you think I chose it?” I chuckle and she joins me.

“Same. He’s a visionary. I’d love for him to review my thesis later on. It would be like the highest honor.”

“Did I just mishear or did Beck Asher just put someone on the pedestal?” I tease.

“Shut up,” I can hear how she’s giggling nervously. She’s probably blushing as well, but I have no proof. “Do you think that Advanced Research Methods in Psychology will be tough?” She changes the subject slightly.

“I hope not. I don’t want to devote all of my time to this. I want to focus on classes that actually interest me and on Psychological Assessment and Testing.”

“Yeah, that one sounds actually exciting. Although, I’m a bit concerned of what we might learn about ourselves,” she chuckles. “Kidding, awareness is hot,” she adds after I've been quiet for too long. “I must go, Belly. I see that Owen is outside and you know how impatient he is. Take care,” she ends the call.

I’m smiling again and it’s a very good feeling. A feeling that I didn’t experience as often as I should’ve this year. Year that’s about to end. A year that I spent entirely without Jeremiah - lost and yearning.

My phone buzzes again and it’s yet another text from Conrad. This time it’s a photo of Junior Mint and I want to throw up. It’s so…manipulative. No other word comes to mind and it makes me so angry and hurt that only now I get to see it clearly, that I didn’t clock that early enough to save my relationship with Jere, that I let doubts flood my mind and make me drown in them until I had to clutch onto anything that would help me breathe again. I thought that it was Conrad, but he just dragged me out of the ocean into the aquarium - suffocating me even more. I was supposed to rely on myself and fix what I broke, but I didn’t. I didn’t because I got so confused by what other people told me. 

I’m throwing up now, but somehow it makes me feel better. It’s just a shame that I have to brush my teeth again when it feels like an effort lately. To be honest, everything’s an effort after what happened. And to be even further honest, everything’s an effort since I don’t have Jeremiah by my side.

Taylor used to say that I’m his oxygen. But the more I think about it the more I realize that he’s something even bigger for me. Oxygen just keeps the body alive. Jeremiah keeps my soul from burning out.

I want to cry, knowing that I have no photo of us on that new phone, knowing that my old one is in Conrad and mine’s apartment. No. Just Conrad’s apartment. Because it was never truly mine and would never be. The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes. I’m such a fool. A fool that will have to go back there eventually.

I take a cold shower to erase that thought from my mind, but it’s not much of a help. It’s like I’m choking, my body in fear of when that moment will come. That shake…his grip on my body…the mere thought makes my heart stop and not in a good way. Alas, it helps me realize that these strong reactions that I now have were always there. I always mistook them for love, for passion. But it was all confusion, hurt, anger and fear. I was just told that it’s love, wasn’t I? It would make perfect sense. I was told that a man like Conrad would be perfect for me. I was told that love is supposed to be tough and difficult. It all fit perfectly to Conrad. It confused me. It made me claim those things as my vision of love, when it really wasn’t. It never was and I don’t want it to ever be. 

I change the temperature to warmer now. Hot even. Maybe this is what rebirth feels like - messy, painful, but finally mine. It’s like the old version of me is peeling off, layer after layer, and beneath it there’s someone I haven’t met yet, but I think I’ll like her.

“You seem better,” Taylor says as she looks at me when I step outside the bathroom, now dressed.

“Yeah, well. I feel better. At least I think so,” my smile is initially weak, but it grows stronger when I see Taylor’s - wide and encouraging. 

We eat breakfast with Steven in silence that’s only being broken by the sound of the TV as he’s watching another football game. “Shit,” he grunts as his team is losing the match. Taylor and I roll our eyes at this and smile as we keep eating until Taylor’s phone buzzes. She looks at the message and frowns slightly as she reads it. I pretend that I didn’t see anything, if she wanted to talk about it she would express that. I know better than to push Taylor. We’re different in that matter. We always were and it’s actually quite nice. 

“So…not to push you or anything, but…have you decided what you're gonna do?” She asks out of nowhere, catching me off guard. Even Steven chokes on his sandwich a bit as he hears that, finally getting his eyes off of the TV screen.

“What do you mean?” I mumble, suddenly very interested in my plate.

She gives me one of her cut the bullshit looks. “You know what I mean. What are you gonna do about Conrad?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” I ask, trying to buy myself some time.

Taylor and Steven exchange looks of both annoyance and awkwardness and suddenly I feel like I’m sweating, backed to the corner. Why can’t I say it aloud even though I made up my mind? 

“Honestly? No,” she shakes her head firmly. I’m slightly offended by her words, but I must admit. She has a point and she proves it before I even manage to say anything. “You had a crush on Conrad since you were a kid and even though he treated you like shit, you still got in a relationship with him. Then he continued treating you like shit, you broke up and he disappeared from your life for four fucking years and yet you still had feelings for him the night before your wedding. Then you escaped everything and everyone and ran away to Paris, which I get, but then you somehow still fell for that guy and got into a whole ass committed relationship with him over a night. So no, it’s not obvious.”

Wow. 

I keep looking down, unable to speak. Not because I don’t want to, but rather because I’m too ashamed of myself as someone finally said aloud what deep down I’ve been feeling for a long time now.

“Belly…we’re just concerned. I mean…I had no idea how bad it is,” Steven joins the conversation and squeezes my hand. I can hear how guilty he sounds. “It’s your life, I know, but…fuck, if you’ll go back to him? I will drag you to the mental ward myself.” 

“I’m not going back to him, don’t worry,” I say.

They exchange looks and I can tell that they’re nowhere near convinced. It feels like I’m being stabbed in my back, but rightfully. My past actions show that I can’t be entirely trusted when it comes to my decisions. I suck. 

“You better not,” Taylor says, there’s a slight hint of warning in her voice and I’m actually grateful for it. I need someone to keep me in check.

“I just…my stuff is still at his place, you know? My life is in the same city as his. It’s…” I don’t finish. I don’t know how. No word seems fitting enough to describe the fucked upness of this situation, of the mess that I willingly jumped into, complicating things so much that they’re probably beyond repair by now.

“...unfinished, I get it.” Taylor says, following up with an exhausted sigh and something else that she doesn’t exactly phrase, but I can tell that her eyes are sad by the way she squints them and looks away. She does that whenever there’s a deeper thought in her mind that she doesn’t want to talk about. I don’t push. It’s New Year's Eve and I’m too wrapped up in my own issues at the moment. Am I being a bad friend? Guilt is eating me alive and I just want to shake myself even stronger than Conrad did. Maybe I deserved his treatment, after all? No, stop right there. Don’t fall back into this abyss. No matter how much you hate yourself at the moment, you shouldn’t accept that behaviour, I tell myself, forcing sense into my head. You don’t have to punish yourself like that.

“I’ll come with you,” Steven says and it’s not an offer. It’s a firm decision that’s not up for a debate. “We’ll get your stuff and if he comes near you I swear I’m gonna shake him twice as much as he shook you,” he grunts, his fists turning pale as he says it. I’ve never seen Steven so adamant and so protective of me. He was always Steven, my not so serious brother that didn’t pick up on my mood or maybe he didn’t care enough to pay attention, but this Christmas changed everything in our dynamic. It’s as if something snapped inside of him, flipping a switch inside his head that suddenly made him see things in a different light. Light that’s red like flags that he and I missed about Conrad’s behaviour in the past. Red flags that we conveniently brushed off because we believed our mom and Susannah when they painted Conrad to be this perfect boy that is just troubled and needs extra gentleness. Gentleness that he never reciprocated, taking it for granted. 

I smile at my brother. For the first time I see him as that - a brother, not simply Steven. He’s my brother, a person that protects his little sister and wants what’s actually good for her, seeing her needs. I want to cry and hug him for the first time in my life. Before I manage myself to stop I do that. I wrap my hands around him and say thank you, surprising all three of us. He’s confused at first, but hugs me back. “Alright, alright. I’m the best brother, I get it,” he says awkwardly and Taylor chuckles.

“Should I take a pic and turn it into a family postcard?” She teases.

“Shut up,” we both say, embarrassed. “Yeah, besides we would have to wait for Belly’s tattoo to really heal, right? She would show it off and piss off people,” he chuckles as we both know who those people are.

I look at my wrist and smile proudly. I got the tattoo. The very next day after we flew to San Francisco. It’s small, just a thin line of black ink, swirling around my wrist like a wave that never really breaks. I was supposed to get a matching one with Taylor, but ultimately we decided to do our own patterns. 

“We should probably start getting things ready for tonight,” Taylor says eventually and we nod, splitting tasks between the three of us. I’m in charge of cleaning and I do it happily. It helps me to soothe even more. Each swipe of the cloth wipes away more worries, more old doubts - leaving space for something new. Maybe it’s fitting that it happens on the last day of the year as it feels like I’m scrubbing the past off the calendar and leaving a blank page for myself and the good things that I wish would come to my life. Things and people that would come back.

I’m getting ready in the spare room that I’ve been sleeping in for the last couple days when I hear the first knock on the door. I make nothing out of it, further preparing myself for the night. I’m not planning on wearing anything spectacular, just plain clothes as it’s still an effort, but I’m hell-bent on brushing my hair properly before facing anyone. That’s when I hear the conversation that occurs and I recognize voices immediately.

“Hey man, good to see you,” Steven says and I hear a brotherly hand shake being made.

“Yeah, good to see you too,” Jeremiah says.

My heart stops as soon as I hear his voice, my eyes widen, and my stomach flutters like I just fell off a cliff. Breathing hitched, my hands clutch the brush tighter as I speed up, desperate to finish before he sees me. Jeremiah is here. Jeremiah is here. Jeremiah is here. My mind is spiralling excitedly. I want to see him. I want to look at him so badly.

“Didn’t think that you’d come. I mean, you didn’t confirm,” Steven says awkwardly.

“Should I leave or-”

“No, no, no!” He says quickly. Too quickly. “Come inside. Want to grab a beer?”

“Yeah, thanks,” he replies casually and there’s something soothing about his voice. It reminds me of all the normal days that we shared together. Days that I still miss. Days that I will forever miss and cherish. “I texted Taylor that I’ll show up after all.”

“Really? When?”

“This morning,” I can picture him shrugging. There’s a sound of beer bottles being clinged and they open them, starting to drink slowly.

Shit. Why didn’t she tell me? Was that why she asked about my plans? What the hell, Taylor? I would scream at her, but she went out to buy more liquor for tonight before the alcohol section of the store downstairs gets bought out. I want to write her a text message, accusing her of keeping it from me, but then I want to slap myself for being such an idiot. I see a text message that she sent earlier: “Jere’s gonna be here btw. Sorry (or not?)”

I sigh heavily. I turned the notifications off after Conrad kept texting me and I didn’t notice that she texted me. She probably did that under the table when I was all mopey. I can only blame myself.

“So, uhm…you decided to bring Denise’s stuff from Boston today?” Steven asks casually.

“Yeah, I mean…I got days off rather unexpectedly, you know? And I didn’t want to drag this out. It’d be unfair to both her and her new dates,” he says.

My breath comes in short, uneven gasps, and my chest feels impossibly light and heavy at the same time. They broke up. Jeremiah is no longer with Denise. There’s no denying that.

“Yeah, yeah I guess so,” Steven replies slowly. “So…listen, I know we promised that you could sleep in the spare room and it’s kind of taken right now and-”

“Yeah, I know.” Jeremiah cuts in. “By Belly. Taylor told me, so I’ll be fine with sleeping on the couch. I mean, that’s what Taylor offered.”

“Yeah, sure,” Steven sounds taken aback and to be fair, I am as well.

“So…speaking of Belly, is she with Taylor now? Shopping?” He sounds so casual when he asks about me and it makes my heart drop to my stomach. Hope is stupid, isn’t it? The sound of his words should wake me up from this fever dream, doesn’t it?

“No, she’s in the room, getting ready. Look, dude. She’s in a very-”

At that moment someone rings the doorbell and Steven gets up, yelling “I’m coming!” That’s when I take a deep breath and with a trembling hand open the door, entering the room where he is.

Our eyes meet right away and I savour the moment. He looks so good. It’s cheesy and probably an understatement, but I can’t help, but think that. He sits with the beer in his hand, wearing a plaid shirt with a black t-shirt underneath and it suits him so well. I remember all those parties that we attended together. Parties that always ended up with me waking up in his dorm room wearing his shirts with nothing else on. Except that one unfortunate party when I learned about Cabo. No, don’t you dare think about that now.

I listen to that inner voice and memorize his curls, a barely noticeable stubble on his chin and those eyes. Those eyes that are staring at me. No, not at me. At my soul. 

“Hi,” we both say at the same time. I can’t help, but smile as I approach him. He gets up from his seat, but he doesn’t look happy, rather…in fear? As if he’s afraid of something. His body doesn’t move any further, so we stand there - close to each other, but not reaching out. 

“Hey, party’s here people!” Taylor chants as she enters the apartment with a bunch of her and Steven’s friends that she met outside. That’s when we get swept up in chatting with everyone around us. All I can hear from now on is the loud music and the muffled conversations followed by laughter and sounds of toasts being raised with glasses that keep on being refilled. I don’t drink much, though. For the first time in a week I don’t feel the need to do that. I’d rather be sober, soaking in Jeremiah’s presence.

I don’t know if it’s just in my head or is it actually real, but I feel like our eyes meet every now and then and whenever that happens it’s like we can’t stop it. I know that I should probably end the eye contact, especially since he doesn’t look happy, but I can’t. I just can’t. It’s stronger than me and I hate myself for being this person, but he’s the only person I have my eyes set on. The only person I set my eyes on because of my own feelings, not my mom’s or anyone else’s. Mine. 

So it breaks my heart to see the continuing pained expression on his face. Expression that mixes with hurt and confusion, but also something deeper. Something that I think is good and warm, but he’s trying to keep it at bay. His grip is tightening on the beer bottle, but he doesn’t seem to drink too much either, which seems new.

I feel guilt spreading across my body - an awful reminder of our last meeting when he saw that ring. The ring that is now safely placed in a jewelry box that I left in Conrad’s apartment. The mere notion makes me sick to my stomach. If I don’t get any of my stuff back from his place? I’ll get over it. But I won’t get over losing that ring - a reminder of the person that’s dearest to me, despite all the actions that I did that spoke otherwise.

When there’s one hour till midnight I tell Taylor that I’m going to take care of the snacks that are in the oven and when I enter the kitchen Jeremiah’s there. “Hi,” we say again and we both smile half-amused, half-awkward. I feel like I’m blushing, having him this near, being able to smell his light scent that used to drive me crazy. It still does.

“Careful with that,” he says as I open the oven. He rushes by my side and puts on mittens, taking care of the snacks for me. This time I’m blushing for real, but due to embarrassment. “You could burn yourself, Bells.” The nickname slips out and I see how he tenses immediately, realizing what he just said. He presses his lips into a thin line as if he wants to bite his tongue off, but pretends that nothing happened. I follow along, not wanting to increase his discomfort, even though my heart can’t calm down after hearing him call me that, but the nickname hits me harder than the heat from the oven. For a split second, the air feels heavier, like time forgot to move forward.

“Thanks for saving me,” I try to joke. “I can take over from now,” I take the baking tray from him carefully, making sure that we won’t touch each other. “I don’t even know what Taylor made,” I say out of nowhere, laughing nervously.

“Pastries with pesto and a bit of prosciutto,” he explains and I look at him. “I gave her the recipe,” he smiles when he sees the question in my eyes. I smile as well. It feels so normal, for a minute I even forget that we’re no longer together. For a minute it feels like old times when we were just Belly and Jeremiah - a couple in love, best friends, soulmates. Oh, the things I’d do to have this connection back. “Try it,” he says suddenly as he leans over the kitchen counter. 

I gently take one of the pastries and take a bite. “Oh my god, it’s delicious,” my eyes roll back and he chuckles happily, looking down on his fingers.

“I’m glad. It’s a very simple thing, though,” he shrugs.

“Sometimes simple is all we need,” I say and our eyes meet again as soon as I speak those words. My breathing slightly hitched as I stare into those eyes that seem to be diving into mine and suddenly all I can think about is how much I want to kiss him. Alas, then my mind spirals. Thinking about all the hurt that I caused him already with the wedding and everything. The wedding. It reminds me of the information I learned on Christmas. About Adam and Kayleigh and I want to tell him right away. I open my mouth to say it, but I close it as soon as he straightens his back and clears his throat awkwardly, increasing distance between us again. 

“And sometimes it’s beer. That’s why I’m here. In the kitchen, I mean,” he mumbles awkwardly, suddenly all flustered as he comes to the fridge and opens it, running hand through his hair. 

“Jere-”

“Want one as well?” He cuts me off, his voice slightly trembling, but he tries his best to sound casual. I can see how much effort he puts into that as he looks at me again, handing me a bottle. I think about reaching out, but I shake my head. I remember how much I hurt him with the ring. I don’t want to hurt him further, even though it’s a constant fight between heart and reason and reason wants to lose it, letting the heart win. 

“No, thanks. I don’t feel like drinking tonight,” I smile weakly.

“Oh,” he just says, looking down again. He inhales sharply and then exhales quickly, forcing a smile as he looks at me again for a split second. “Alright, t-take care,” his voice cracks and I want to stop him, but he rushes out of the kitchen like he’s burned and needs to cool off. I keep breathing heavily, trying to calm myself down, but the pain in my chest only keeps growing. It feels like the only cure for my suffering are his arms, but they’re not available. I don’t deserve them. I don’t deserve him, do I?

Before I even notice the clock’s striking almost midnight and we’re all outside, counting down seconds. “Ten!,”

I search with my eyes for Jeremiah.

“Nine!”

Two girls next to me are laughing and jumping excitedly.

“Eight!”

Where is he?

“Seven!”

My heart speeds up its beating in worry that I won’t be able to notice him in the crowd as there are also Steven and Taylor’s neighbours with their guests.

“Six!”

Someone nudges me and it’s Steven as he’s pulling Taylor close and kisses her neck.

“Five!”

I think I notice golden locks somewhere in front of me, but I’m not sure as I lose them from my sight.

“Four!”

Please, let me look at you.

“Three! “

Bottles are being opened, corks being popped. My chest tightens - I swear I can feel him nearby.

“Two!”

I think I got a glimpse of him closer than before, or is it just my mind playing with me?

“One!”

He’s in front of me. My heart stops.

“Happy New Year!” Everyone cheers loudly, screaming around us, but we don’t join them. We just keep looking at one another for a good second before he opens his mouth. “Happy New Year, Belly,” he says and I smile at him, feeling happy already.

“Happy New Year, Jere,” I reply and he smiles, his hands in his pockets. 

Everyone’s moving, jumping, laughing, but I feel like the world holds its breath just for us. Soon people start coming back inside, but we stall it. Still standing in place, probably looking stupid and awkward, but I don’t mind. All I care about is that he’s close. That I get to be around him, no matter how much it hurts to not be able to touch him. I don’t want to ruin this moment, but I know I have to. When we’re left alone I open my mouth and with a heavy heart I speak. “I need to tell you something.”

His eyes widen for a second, it’s like he’s going through all the possible things that I could tell him, but he can’t decide which one is the most probable one. 

“Here?” He asks, his voice matches his eyes - empty, as if he purposefully drained them out of emotions to brace himself for whatever I’m about to say.

I look around. There’s no one here anymore, the only sounds that we can hear are cheerful chants far away and they’re easy to muffle down. It’s not the perfect place for that, but frankly - no place nor time would be. And I want to be honest with him, so I nod.

He sighs deeply and tilts his head up, probably counting to ten like he sometimes does to calm himself down. “Alright,” he finally nods. “What is it?” His voice is low and quiet and it makes me want to back down, but I know I can’t. I know that keeping that to myself would be yet another betrayal on my part and I don’t want to betray him ever again.

“I found out something that I think that you should know about,” I whisper and his face turns serious, almost pale as he looks at me with deep concern and fear. “Your dad…he…he cheated on Susannah…with Kayleigh,” I feel awful for saying that, even though I’m not the one that committed this offense. I want to hold him, to ease his pain, but instead I just look at him intently, waiting for the inevitable burst out.

“He did what?!” He yells, taking a step back, his eyes widened more than ever, his lip trembling just like his hands that are now curled up in fists. “That…that fucker,” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes quickly filling with tears as he tries to wrap his head around this news. Now his whole body is shaking and his nostrils are flared as he breaths heavily. His jaw gets so tense and his eyes give away how much of a betrayal that is. “W-when?” He asks quietly and I can tell he’s on the verge of tears, holding back from doing it. I watch his hands and see how much he wants to punch something.

I grab his hand without a second thought and it grounds him. He doesn’t fight it, he doesn’t pull away. He just leans into my touch, accepting it fully like it’s the only available source of comfort. “She…she was planning our wedding,” his voice breaks.

“I know,” I whisper, squeezing his hand tighter and he does the same.

We stand like this, in complete silence that’s only being broken by the sound of our breath. He’s slowly calming down, but not entirely yet. “I spent Christmas with them. Oh god,” he sounds like he’s about to throw up and this time he’s the one that tightens the grip on my hand. I let him do that. 

It might be twenty minutes or twenty seconds, time feels irrelevant at the moment, but he calms down eventually, exhaling deeply. That’s when he looks at our hands. He loosens his grip, ready to let go, but that’s when he notices the tattoo.

“You…you got a tattoo?” He asks.

“Yeah…yeah I did,” I’m kinda thankful that he chooses to focus on that instead of the information that I just told him. 

“Your skin is still red,” he points out as he gently flips my hand to see it better and my heart flutters as he examines the pattern carefully.

“Yeah, I did it a couple days ago,” I smile slightly.

“Is it…a wave?” He asks.

“Mhm,” I just mumble, too focused on his touch to actually talk.

“It looks… alive,” he whispers, his finger stopping just short of my skin. “Like it’s moving with your pulse,” as he says it his thumb gently brushes my skin. It usually hurts when the tattoo’s fresh, but oddly it doesn’t this time, because it’s Jeremiah who’s touching it. I can’t help, but smile. My heart almost escapes my chest and rushes in his arms as his touch lingers.

Alas, he snaps out of it. Realizing what he just did. He takes his hand away and takes a step back. “I’m sorry, that…let’s forget I did that,” he says quickly, ready to leave, but I grab him by his arm and he closes his eyes for a second before he looks at me again. I see pain in his eyes so immense that I could drown in it. “Okay Belly stop right there, I'm not getting myself back into this crap again,” he says suddenly. “I can’t.”

My eyes widen in utter surprise. “Jere I-” I don’t know what to say, so I just keep opening and closing my mouth as he breathes heavily. “But you’re not with Denise anymore,” I blurt out awkwardly.

Now he looks shocked and shakes his head in disbelief as he pulls away from me. There are a million questions in his eyes, but he doesn’t ask any. “Look…Belly, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I didn't break up with Denise because I want to be with you. It doesn't work like this,” he shakes his head again. 

My heart shutters at his words, I feel like I can’t breathe, like the whole world is crushing beneath my feet and I’m slipping into a dark hole that people can’t possibly escape. “Jere-” I try to say something, but he cuts in.

“Belly I loved you. I really did. But for the first time in my life…I think I love myself more. Or at least enough to know better than to insert myself back in…whatever this is,” pain seeps through his words. 

My heart sinks in my stomach. I loved you. I really did. Past tense. Oh god, I want to cry my eyes out, yet I don’t do it, instead I try to reason with him, I try to plead, feeling like it’s the moment to do it. “Jere, please…it’s…you’re not inserting yourself into anything,” I shake my head, trying to convince him, desperation in my voice.

He chuckles bitterly, a single tear running down his face and he shakes his head again, as if he wants to erase my words and not fall for them. “I’d love to believe you, but…you’re a hot fucking mess, Belly,” he says a bit too loudly. Every word he utters sounds like it physically hurts. “Always jumping between me and Conrad, all it takes for you to change your mind is missing the other one and I? I don't want that uncertainty. It messed me up and I'm all fixed now. I won't let you break it, no matter how much I-,” he stops mid-sentence and shakes his head again, taking a step back. And another. The space between us grows, and this time I know I’m the one who put it there. I can’t move. I can’t speak. All I can do is watch him slip away, leaving me with nothing but the echo of his words.

 My knees almost give out, but I force myself to stand still - frozen, trying to remember how to breathe.  The night feels colder now, like even the air refuses to touch me.
My chest aches, my throat burns, but the tears won’t come. Not this time. I press my palm to my chest, trying to feel my heart, but it’s quiet. Maybe it’s still beating. Maybe it just doesn’t want to anymore.

Chapter Text

I walk for a few hours, trying to calm myself down. What have I done? Why the hell did I push him like this?! The shame that I feel is stronger than ever, it’s burning my skin and makes me feel like everything underneath it itches uncomfortably. I want to crawl into a hole and never come out of it. That’s why I find a bench in a nearby park and sit on it for what feels like hours. Voices in my head only get louder - accusing me of being selfish, of hurting the man I claim to love. Maybe I am selfish. No, not maybe. I am selfish. I am so fucking selfish that I can’t stop myself from reaching for what I want and need. And I probably should have, shouldn’t.

I take a deep breath and I exhale slowly. Just calm down. But it’s hard. It seems impossible. I replay the look on his face and his words constantly, feeling a strong urge to slap myself hard across my face every time. It’s like a bucket of ice cold water was splashed on me, causing me to wake up from the fever dream of getting back what I’ve ruined. I can’t get it back. Now it’s finally clear. It hurts. It hurts really bad, but what’s done is done. 

In a way I acted like Conrad, didn’t I? Jumping into action when I felt like it without actually thinking it through. The more I think about the look on Jeremiah’s face when I grabbed his arm…the more I realize how shitty it was on my part. I didn’t say anything, but my intentions…they were clear, weren’t they? I took my shot despite him putting distance between us. 

I chuckle bitterly at my own stupidity and shake my head as if that could erase my behaviour. It can’t. And maybe that’s for the better. Maybe that will keep me from repeating the same mistake again. 

The cold wind feels like a well-deserved punishment. You’re a hot fucking mess, Belly. He wasn’t cruel. He was honest. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me, like I was something he used to believe in but doesn’t anymore. And for the first time, I see it too. I wanted to get him back so badly, never actually asking myself if I deserve to get him back, if I still deserve his love. He made it painfully clear that I don’t. A single tear runs down my face, but I don’t care about wiping it away. 

I should feel it all, fully. You’re a hot fucking mess, Belly. I loved you. I really did. I’m not getting myself back into this crap again. I soak his words and the more I repeat them, the more I think he’s right. I’m a mess. A hot fucking mess that doesn’t deserve to be loved by him anymore, to pull him back into this crap. He’s right. He’s so fucking right and it feels like I’m stabbing my heart by admitting it, but maybe that’s necessary to finally stop myself from hurting him any further. 

It makes me remember one of the classes I took this semester. When professor Jones talked about Dual-Process Theory. 

“Daniel Kahneman introduced that theory,” professor Jones said. “He recognized two systems of human thinking - slow and fast one. He called them system 1 and 2. What do you think, which one is which?” She asked.

Harper raised her hand. “I guess that system 1 would represent the type of thinking that we reach out for first,” she said slowly.

“Which means…?”

“System 1 is related to fast thinking. System 2 is related to slow thinking?”

“Indeed,” Jones nodded approvingly. “System 1 is impulsive thinking, the one that’s our first response to situations, especially during scenarios that occur unexpectedly and require immediate attention. It’s actually very human of us, even though it often leaves us with a sense of regret. Why is that?”

This time Owen raised his hand, blurting out the answer like a machine gun. “Because it’s an impulse, just like you said professor. Thinking takes time and feelings don’t wait.  It’s like your emotions hit ‘send’ before your brain has time to proofread.”

“Usually I’m against such comparisons, but it’s actually a good one,” professor said and Owen’s eyes widened in utter surprise. It’s a rare one for Jones to compliment anyone. “System 1 feels like the real us - it’s raw, instinctive. Whereas system 2 feels like the version we’re supposed to be, the calm one who always thinks things through.”

I raised my hand, feeling like this question couldn’t wait. “Professor? Can some of us tend to use system 1 as a way of rebellion to other people’s expectations of us?”

“Absolutely. System 1 isn’t just about reflexes or emotions - it can also be shaped by our motivations, including social pressures and expectations. Sometimes, when we feel constrained or judged, our impulsive reactions are a way of asserting independence, a sort of emotional shortcut to show that you are your own person,” she replied and I immediately tied it to script reframing. “Do any of you have more questions?” Jones asked.

One of the students that I didn’t know raised his hand. “Can we also tie it to the age of a person?”

“Excellent question!” For the first time since the semester started we could see Jones actually excited about something. “Age can certainly explain a lot. You had biology classes during your undergraduate program, so you should know by now that there’s Amygdala and Prefrontal Cortex parts of the human brain that tell us a lot about our go-to response in situations. Who remembers what that is?”

A couple of hands raised up and one of the students answered her question. “Amygdala is the emotion center and Prefrontal Cortex is responsible for judgement and planning.”

“Good,” she nodded. “Amygdala often overrides the Prefrontal Cortex, because that part of our brain matures in our teenage years, so it’s more familiar. The latter isn’t fully developed until around age 25. That’s why young adults often feel emotions as strongly as teens as they’re still learning how to regulate them effectively.”

Harper raised her hand again. “Professor, what if someone gets alarmingly close to hitting the age of 25 and they still mostly rely on system 1 response?”

“That’s when you - future psychologists come to help. Usually that person will seek therapy and it’s you who need to help them find the right tools to develop the system 2 response.”

I swallow hard thinking about that lecture. It makes perfect sense and I feel like a goddamn fool for only remembering it now when I made such a mess. I should’ve removed myself from the situation, I should’ve thought this through because I made any move, even the tiniest. I didn’t even fully break up with Conrad yet, for fuck’s sake. I groan out in frustration as I realize that and I hide my face in my palms as if that can make me disappear. It doesn’t. What a shame. Think about what system 2 response would be, I tell myself and I really try. And for the first time I start getting some clarity on what I have to do. I find my phone in my pocket and I open a group chat with Beck, Harper and Owen. “Guys, can I stay with one of you when I come back from SF tomorrow?” I send it right away and after a few minutes Owen’s reply comes first. “My couch is your couch.” I chuckle happily and this time I wipe away a new set of tears. I realize that my face is burning from the salty liquid already. Then I see that my phone is getting flooded with messages from Taylor and unanswered phone calls from her, Steven and…Jeremiah. I open the text from Taylor and I realize why. “Where the fuck are you? Belly, whatever went down just come the fuck back!”

Shit. How many hours has passed since that conversation with Jeremiah occurred? I get up from the bench and rush back to her and Steven’s apartment, climbing up the stairs despite feeling out of breath, because the elevator broke down. Probably it has something to do with the numerous party people that are celebrating a New Year.

When I get back to their apartment I’m met with Taylor’s immediate hug. “Where the fuck were you?!” She nearly screams. I can see it clearly how worried she must have been. “You were gone for three fucking hours! I wanted to call the cops to look for your body!” I can see that she’s on the verge of tears, so I tighten my hug.

“I’m sorry,” I just say.

“Yeah, you fucking should be! Belly, what the actual fuck?!” This time she yells for real as she pushes me away and looks at me with such intensity that I want to hide. I’m so embarrassed of myself. I should really work on that system 1 response, don’t I? I can’t be all action, no thinking anymore. I can’t. I can see how much it hurts people that I love. I’ve hurt Jeremiah. Now I also hurt Taylor. I can’t continue living like this. I must figure myself out. I must get my shit together. Now.

“I’m sorry. I fucked up,” I say calmly and she can see how genuine I am, because she slowly relaxes. 

“You scared us,” she says quietly.

I nod and open my mouth to say something, but then the door opens again and Steven storms inside with Jeremiah. They look shaken to the core, but then they see me and they sigh with relief, as if they had a stone placed on their chest and someone decided to lift it off now. “Jesus, you’re back,” Steven exhales deeply and hugs me just like Taylor did seconds ago. I reciprocate, but my eyes meet Jeremiah’s. He’s standing in the back, his shoulders hunched and guilt spread across his face. It breaks my heart. I can see that he thinks that it’s his fault that I disappeared - yet another wound that I can add on top of the seemingly never ending list of the ones I already made. 

“I’m sorry guys. I really am,” I say as soon as Steven lets go of me. “For everything,” I add, this time looking just at Jeremiah. He averts his eyes, looking down. He’s biting his lip, the way he usually does whenever he feels bad about something he did. It hurts to see him like this. It hurts even more to know that I’m the source of his pain. I don’t want to be that for him anymore. I love him. I really do. But if all I do is cause him pain…maybe I should really remove myself from his life. Let him breathe. Let him be. I can see it in his face - he needs me to stop hurting him further. Or maybe I need to stop doing that if I don’t want to end up hating myself more.

“Go to sleep, Belly.” Taylor says firmly. It’s not a plea, it’s a command and I oblige. There’s no room for debate here and honestly, it’s probably for the better. I clearly can’t control myself. I don’t want to end up regretting even more words and actions. I need to stop being controlled by my emotions. I should allow reason to chime in. 

I get inside the spare room that I’ve been sleeping in for the last few days and I lay limply in bed. The door is locked, but the atmosphere is heavy and charged, mostly because I know that Jeremiah is right outside, sleeping on the couch. Or maybe not sleeping at all. He always had trouble falling asleep when something bad was going on, when something was eating him alive.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I asked one night when we were laying in bed in my dorm room. He was tense, flipping from one side of the bed to the other. I pulled him close and nested my head on his chest, letting him wrap his hands around me. He breathed in my scent - something that always soothed him and the feeling was mutual, especially when our scents were mixed together.

“Do you think that I’m heading nowhere with my life?” He whispered his question and my heart ached, syncing with his pain. 

“Wait, what? No!” I said right away, cupping his face. His eyes were so sad and I felt like I couldn’t do anything about it, so I just asked questions, trying to understand him better.

“Where is this coming from?”

He closed his eyes for a second and I sighed deeply. I could feel how his chest was rising and lowering back again with each deep breath. “My dad. Dinner last night,” he said quietly, his eyes glued on the ceiling. “He said that my classes are bullshit and nothing useful would come out of them,” he mumbled.

“That’s not true,” I shook my head. “Look at me,” I urged him and he listened. Thankfully. “It’s your right to explore different classes before you commit to anything.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t seem to share your opinion,” he gave me a pained smile and I wrapped myself tighter around him. His body responded immediately. “I don’t have it all figured out like…like some people,” he whispered and we both knew who he had in mind, his name unspoken like a thorn between us. “All I know about my life is that I want it to be with you,” he added and we exchanged quick glances - first in our eyes, then on our lips and then we kissed. Slowly and tenderly, pouring all of our love and comfort in it. 

“And that’s more than most people our age know,” I whispered as we pulled our lips away for a split second. “So fuck what Adam says. We have time,” I added and kissed him again. 

This time he smiled, his heart beating fast beneath me. “Yeah, we have time. As long as you’re by my side, I’m good,” he murmured, nuzzling my neck.

I realize that I’m crying again as I think about it. There’s no one to soothe him right now and I can’t be that person to him anymore. It kills me. It kills me that I took away his support system with my actions. It kills me that I took away mine as well. Isabel Conklin, you’re so stupid and selfish. Fix yourself.

It's morning now and I barely shut my eyes during the night. I’m so tired. I want to hide under the bedsheet and never get out, but I know that it’s not a solution. Besides, I already booked a flight back to New Jersey. I did that as soon as I laid in bed. 

I go to the kitchen, tiptoeing next to the couch where Jeremiah lays so I wouldn’t wake him up. Alas, he’s not sleeping. Just as I initially thought. His heavy breathing and squirming of his feet gives him away and he realizes that there’s no point of pretending. He sits, still wrapped in the blanket. I don’t look his way. I can’t do that. Not because I don’t want to, but because I’m trying to learn from my mistakes. Better late than never, right? 

“We were scared shitless last night,” he mumbles out.

“I know,” I whisper back. “And I’m sorry. I know it…it doesn’t fix anything, but know that I mean it,” I’m still looking away, focused on my fingers and mug full of coffee that I just made.

He clears his throat, but he doesn’t say anything. I take a glimpse of him and I immediately regret that as it triggers my need to respond impulsively. Thankfully, this time I give myself time before I say anything. I don’t rush. I let a few seconds pass before I speak, gathering my thoughts. “I shouldn’t have…acted the way I did last night. You were clearly vulnerable and I was…I almost took advantage of it. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Jeremiah laughs quietly, but there’s no humor in this sound. “You and Conrad are quite similar if you think about it,” he says.

“What? What do you mean?” I’m confused.

He looks at me and bites his lip before speaking, as if he tries to think this through, but his eyes tell me that he’s hurt and reason was put aside. I don’t stop him, knowing that whatever he has to say I probably deserve to hear it. And I’m not wrong. “You disappear when things don’t go your way and you chase after people when you can’t have them. And as soon as you get them, as soon as…,” he pauses, his voice cracking slightly. “...they open their hearts…you get bored. And chase after another thrill.” His eyes can send daggers at me right now, but I take it. I take it, because no matter how much it hurts to hear, he has to hurt even more to say that. 

“You’re right,” I say after a moment and I see genuine surprise in his eyes. My words catch him off guard and he looks at me with disbelief, his lips slightly parted as if he doesn’t quite believe it. “I’ve been selfish. I’ve let my feelings get ahead of me and I haven’t thought about you the way I should’ve. I’m sorry. I know I can’t take back what I’ve done…and I definitely can’t fix that,” I look down, letting out a bitter chuckle - a sound so broken it surprises me. “But I don’t want to keep causing you pain. I really don’t.”

He nods slowly, his hands are fidgeting and his legs as well. I can see that he’s trying to process my words and I let him, even though part of me wants to run away to avoid his potential outburst. But there’s none. There’s just a calm acceptance of my words. “Then don’t,” he says so quietly that I can barely hear his voice. It’s a plea, one that makes me even more aware of the damage that I made to his life. 

“I won’t,” it’s a promise. One that he doesn’t believe and I don’t blame him. I wouldn’t believe myself either if I was him. “I’m leaving.”

“When?”

“In a few hours. I’m going back to Providence.”

“Of course you do,” he chuckles bitterly, his eyes glistening and he sniffs, looking away again. He doesn’t want to see my face and so I wish to leave this very second, to spare him this. Alas, I have to wait for Steven. Or at least for my phone to get charged enough so I can call an Uber and get the hell out of here. 

As soon as Steven wakes up, we drive to the airport. We’re silent on our way, but I don’t mind. I don’t feel like talking anyway. My heart just broke and I can’t fix it. Not yet, at least. “I sent you some money,” Steven says as we’re walking through the airport. 

“You shouldn’t-” I try to say, but he cuts me off.

“You need something to get back on your feet before you find a job to support yourself. I don’t want you to go back to him,” he shakes his head firmly.

“I won’t,” I say immediately and he doesn’t believe me. I can see that. It makes me feel anxious. It makes me feel like I won’t be able to survive without Conrad since everyone seems to think that that’s exactly what I’m gonna do as soon as I land in Providence. Because that’s your pattern, that tiny voice says and I know it’s right. I don’t deserve people’s trust at this point. I really need to rewrite my script instead of depending on the information that others give me about myself. I need to slow down, take a step back and think things through before I take any action. “You’ll see,” I simply say as I hug my brother and then I board my plane.

As soon as I land in Providence I switch off the plane mode in my phone and I’m met with a couple of messages from Conrad. I feel how my chest tightens, leaving no space for breathing nor for the beat of my own heart. My breath quickens as I’m afraid to open his texts, but I do it anyway. “Come home, please,” reads the first one. “Let me know when you’ll be in Providence. I’ll pick you up. I’m really sorry. Let’s talk about it,” reads the second. “Are you really going to act like this? I’m sorry, okay?” reads the third and I sigh heavily as I delete them. The more I think about it, the more I realize why my apologies probably mean nothing to Jere. You and Conrad are quite similar if you think about it, his words echo in my head, because he may be onto something. Conrad’s apologies mean nothing as well. He said sorry so many times and never followed through that there’s no point in believing him anymore. Is that how Jeremiah feels about me? The mere thought squeezes tears out of my eyes.

“Belly!” I hear Owen’s voice and it snaps me back to reality. Thank god I asked him to pick me up from the airport. “Let’s get out of here,” he says as he helps me with my suitcase. “Not to be mean or anything, but you look like shit,” he blurts out as soon as we’re in his car, driving to his place.

“Rough week,” I mumble in response and he nods.

“Yeah, I kinda figured when you asked for a place to live, you know?” He chuckles and I do the same. “So…is it because of Conrad or Jeremiah?” He asks, his tone getting softer as he takes a glimpse of me when we stop at the red light.

“Both,” I let out a dry laugh and he smiles sympathetically. “How are things with Jo, by the way?” I’m desperate to change the subject and he lets me. 

“Well…her husband is coming back from the exchange program in Cambodia, so…”

“...shitty?” I suggest.

This time he’s the one that laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, you can call it that.” I nod slowly as we drive further, thankfully passing through the part of the city where Conrad’s apartment is, leaving it behind. “And I don’t even know where Cambodia is,” he adds frustratingly.

“In Southeast Asia,” I say right away and he glares at me. “What? I was good at geography,” I shrug awkwardly.

“You don’t help,” he mutters, but then sighs deeply. “I just wish that she’d choose me, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I whisper and we drive in silence for a while, until he turns to his district of the city. It’s surprisingly close to our university. “But choosing people usually isn’t simple. It’s not simple until it’s too late.”

“You know that it would be good for you to actually talk with someone about…whatever that situation between you and those two is about, right?”

“Mhm,” I nod as I stare in the distance. “That’s why I signed up for therapy.”

“Shut up, you didn’t?!” Owen says excitedly, almost speeding up above the limit. “Belly Conklin, I’m so fucking proud of you! Hey, maybe I’ll sign up too? We could talk about our progress and what annoying habits our therapists have, what do you think?” He grins.

I snort, unable to stop myself and he does the same. We stop at the parking lot next to his building and we get my things upstairs. His flat is as cramped as I imagined it and it fits his persona very well. “Have Jo ever been here?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

“Yeah, she didn’t want to meet at her place, because it would upset her husband if he found out that she had sex with someone in their bed,” he rolls his eyes. “As if sleeping in a different place would make it any better,” he sighs deeply.

“Cheating is cheating. No matter how much you tell yourself that you’re good because you’re stopping yourself from making the betrayal even worse” I say quietly and hug him. He accepts it and we stand there for a good few seconds before he offers to make us tea.

“Lots of insight on your side tonight, Conklin. What made you so wise?” He smirks. “By the way, Harper and Beck will soon be here, hope it’s alright?”

“It’s perfect,” I smile at him, actually happy to see these two. I need them. I need to be with people. Of course, I’d want to be next to Jeremiah, but I can’t. So I have to manage. “And what made me so wise? I don’t know, causing drama and regretting it?”

“Oh, do tell!” As soon as he says it there’s a ring on his doorbell and I open the door for him. It’s Harper and Beck, their arms full of snacks and cans of beer.

“Alright, let’s get this pity party going,” Harper says. She’s so full of energy despite the fact that she kept partying for the last few days. It’s actually admirable in its own way. Beck is such a contrast - usually calm and collected, but somehow these two make it work, sharing a dorm room without killing each other.

A few hours have passed and the atmosphere slightly shifts to a more serious one as Owen decides to open up to Harper and Beck. They don’t react badly to the fact that he had an affair with professor Marshall, they just listen intently like a friend is supposed to. Would they also listen to my story? 

“Sometimes I feel like she doesn’t want a real relationship with me, because I’m not manly enough, you know?” He sighs sorrowly. We lean closer as if that can help us understand him better. “I mean, I’m not a patriarchal stereotypical man, right?” He throws up his hands. 

“Well, true…,” Harper says carefully. “I mean, you’re bubbly.”

“And you take care of your looks,” I add.

“And you can be vulnerable, communicating openly with people,” Beck finishes and we all nod. 

Owen blushes at first, but then continues. “See? I had so many people tell me that I’m gay just because I don’t punch things and want love.”

“It’s so fucked up on so many levels,” Harper shakes her head in disappointment.

“Yeah, sexual orientation has literally nothing to do with it,” I say.

“And yet all the women in my life think that I’m not good enough.”

“Owen, no,” Beck shakes her head. “Don’t think like this.”

“But it’s true!” He blurts out, emptying another can of beer. “You know how often my girlfriends told me that I’m awesome, but I feel more like a friend than an actual boyfriend? And all of that because I’m not some broody, emotionally closed off dude. Like…like your Conrad,” he mumbles out, pointing at me.

My heart sinks in my stomach that is already feeling like there’s a tight knot around it. I think I’m going to be sick. His words make perfect sense. And fall in line with the ideal image of a man that my mother forced upon me. Man that’s exactly like Conrad. Man, that is painfully stereotypical, a walking monument of the patriarchal perfect man that generations of women gush over. And there’s Jeremiah. Warm and sweet and open about his feelings, an exact opposite of what we were told to love. Suddenly it all makes sense - classes, the scripts that my mother made me follow, societal pressure. Even the book about The Darcy Myth. Fucking hell. 

“I need to drink,” I mumble incoherently and bottom down another can, wincing as I do that.

“Holy shit,” Harper says. “Are you okay?”

“No,” I shake my head. “Guys, I…I think I want to tell you my story. With Conrad. And Jeremiah,” I say awkwardly. My face is already red and my palms are sweaty, but Beck squeezes my hand reassuringly.

“You can trust us, Belly,” she says as she gives me a warm, encouraging smile. Owen and Harper follow along and suddenly I feel this surge of bravery.

“Okay, so…remember how we were talking in a pub about this one story where a guy from Brown caused his brother’s wedding to be called off because he confessed his love for the bride?” I ask and they nod right away. “I…I was the bride,” I say with a trembling voice. My heart beats like a drum as I watch for their reactions.

“What?!” They all yell out and so I tell them my story. At the end of it they’re speechless and we sit in silence for a good few seconds, before they start talking.

“That’s…,” Harper starts, searching for the right words.

“...a lot,” Owen finishes for her and she nods.

“Yeah,” Beck chimes in, her eyes full of concern. “How can you…are you okay?” She asks eventually.

“Honestly?” I sigh and take the beer Harper slides my way, my hands trembling slightly as I crack it open. “I don’t know,” a bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Isn’t that pathetic?” My voice breaks somewhere between anger and exhaustion. I rub my face with my hands, my palms cold against my skin. “I don’t even know where to start…or what to do. I just know that I regret hurting Jere. I regret losing his love.”

No one says anything, and maybe that’s for the best. For the first time, I’m not looking for comfort or someone to tell me that it’s all going to be okay - because I know it’s not. 

“Honestly? If I were you I would create some coping strategies, so I wouldn’t think about it constantly, otherwise you may go insane,” Owen says. 

“Yeah,” Beck nods. “Like…allowing yourself to only check his social media or think about it at one designated hour a day.”

Harper nods. “But don’t make it before bed, because you’ll end up dreaming about him and that will hurt like a bitch in the morning. Trust me. Been there, done that,” she sighs heavily.

“And don’t date anyone for now,” Owen says. “And I don’t say it because I don’t want you hooking up with randoms on my couch every night. Just so we’re clear,” he adds, making me chuckle despite the heavy nature of our conversation. “I mean, make a timeline. Like…tell yourself that you’ll read five books or watch Friends from the first to last episode before you even think about going on a date or setting up a Tinder profile.”

“I don’t want a Tinder profile. I want Jere,” I mumble weakly and they all exchange looks of hard to mask pity. 

“And girl, please. Find yourself a hobby. Like an actual hobby, not just watching Netflix or Prime. Those shows will suck out your soul and leave you empty with their unsatisfying endings,” Harper says. “Just…you can’t chase a guy if he doesn’t want you to.” 

I let out a shaky breath. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time I stop chasing and just…sit with it. Sit with the mess I made and figure out who I am,” I glance at them, forcing a small, tired smile. 

And that’s how, three days later, I end up standing in front of an office door with the name Melanie Roberts, Licensed Therapist written on the frosted glass.

“Hi, Isabel. It’s really nice to meet you. I’m glad you made it here today,” she greets me with a warm, encouraging smile that reminds me of Beck’s. 

“Hi…thanks,” I mumble awkwardly. I know that I’m studying psychology, but it still feels weird and surreal to find myself in therapy for the first time. 

“Please, make yourself comfortable,”she gestures toward the couch. “Would you like to sit there, or would you prefer a chair?”

I look around. Everything in this room looks comfy and soothing, exactly how I imagined the therapist’s office to be. “I’ll sit here,” I say as I plop down on the couch and she sits across from me on a chair. 

She watches me intently. “I know it can feel a little strange the first time you come to therapy - walking into a new space and talking to someone new. I want to say, you’re in a safe place here, and whatever you share stays confidential,” she says. I nod slowly. I know this already, but I still appreciate her saying that. “Before we dive in, I’d like to take a moment to just check in. How are you feeling right now?”

There’s a moment of silence and all I can hear is the beating of my own heart as I repeat her question in my head. “Nervous and…ashamed.” I say and she raises her eyebrow. “Not because I’m in therapy,” I add quickly. “But…because of the things that led me here.”

She nods with understanding. “Thank you for sharing that, Isabel. It takes courage to admit when we feel ashamed. Most people try to hide that. I want you to know that whatever brought you here, we’ll explore it together without judgment. When you say you feel ashamed about the things that led you here…can you tell me a little more about what that shame feels like for you? Is it more about what happened, or how you think others might see you because of it?”

That’s actually a good question. My eyes widen a bit as this time I really need a moment to think about my answer, to search for it deep within. “I mean…it’s mostly about what happened, but…it’s also about how one person sees me. How…how he feels about me,” I whisper.

My therapist leans forward slightly. “It sounds like how he sees you, or maybe how you think he sees you, feels really important to you,” she says gently. “When someone we care deeply about sees us in a way that feels painful or bad, it can shake our whole sense of who we are. Can you tell me a little more about this person?”

“Je-Jeremiah,” my voice trembles as I say his name. “He…we used to be together and I screwed it up. I screwed it up badly,” I find my lips trembling, eyes filling with tears as I look at her helplessly. She hands me a box of tissues and I take one. “Thanks,” I mumble as I wipe my tears off and then blow my nose. “I told myself that I wouldn’t cry,” I chuckle sorrowly.

“Why?” She simply asks.

“Because,” I shrug. “I don’t deserve to cry about this when I’m the one that fucked it all up.”

“It’s okay to cry here. You don’t have to earn the right to cry,” she says softly. “When you say you don’t deserve to cry because you ‘fucked it all up’...that tells me you’re holding a lot of blame toward yourself. Can you tell me more about that? What about this situation makes you feel this way?”

“Everything,” I sob. “I mean…we were together for four years and…and we were supposed to get married, but then I fucked up. Maybe even earlier,” I keep sobbing.

She watches me intently, not interrupting. She’s waiting for me to say something more, but when I keep crying she decides to speak up. “I want you to know something, Isabel. Even if you made mistakes, even if you wish you’d done things differently - your pain is still real. And it’s still allowed. Punishing yourself by withholding comfort or tears doesn’t heal the wound. It just makes it deeper. Right now, here, you don’t have to be the bad guy in your own story. You just get to be someone who’s hurting and trying to understand.”

I look at her, my eyes are still filled with tears, but now they’re drying out. Her words make me calm down a bit. Just enough to speak again. “I want to…all I wish for is to take back time, to still be with him. To not ruin what we had,” I say truthfully.

“It sounds like a big part of you is still living in that ‘what if’ - what if you could go back, what if you could fix it, what if things had gone differently.”

“Yeah…that’s pretty much all I can think about,” I mumble out, looking down.

“It makes sense that you’d feel that way. Those thoughts - the ‘what if I hadn’t ruined it’ - they can trap us in a loop. They give us the illusion that if we replay it enough times, maybe we’ll find a different ending. But what usually happens is that we keep reliving the pain instead of learning from it. So maybe part of what we can work on here is helping you step out of that loop? Not to forget Jeremiah, but to stop punishing yourself every time your mind goes back to him. Would it be okay if I asked what moment your mind goes back to the most? The one you wish you could change?”

I exhale and inhale deeply, thinking about my answer. “There’s a lot of those moments,” I admit, my face is burning from embarrassment.

“That’s okay, Isabel. Would it help if we took it one piece at a time? Maybe start with the one that feels loudest in your mind when you think about what went wrong - the one that comes up first when you try to fall asleep, or when you see something that reminds you of him,” she gently suggests. I nod slowly. “And before you tell me, I just want to remind you - this isn’t about judging the past or proving who was right or wrong. It's about understanding why that moment still holds you. Whenever you’re ready, you can tell me about one of those moments. We’ll go slow, and I’ll be right here with you while we unpack it,” she adds softly.

By the time I leave her office, the sun is setting, and the city feels quieter than usual. I replay her words in my head. You don’t have to be the bad guy in your own story. It sounds nice. Impossible, but nice. I wrap my coat tighter around me and keep walking, one slow step at a time, as if maybe, just maybe, I can walk myself out of the mess I made.

Chapter Text

The shift at the restaurant is more hectic than usual, chaos seems to creep out from every corner of the kitchen - dishes are being dropped and broken, food gets burned and orders are forgotten. Things are in shit, but I shouldn't be surprised. There's more people tonight than usual as word has spread about the quality of our food. It fills me with pride, but it's also a pressure, one under which the whole team seems to be breaking this Sunday. 

“Make sure that the sauce is of good consistency this time, alright Jen?” I call the sous chef while I sub for one of the guys that was supposed to be chopping down vegetables, but cut himself and is now disinfecting his wound. 

“Yes, chef.” Her reply is immediate and I see that she's stirring the liquid in a pot more deliberately. Good. Things are starting to work like they should. I know that I can’t control everything in the kitchen, but I like to help fix it when things don’t go as planned. Gives me a sense of purpose. It challenges me in a way I find crazily satisfying. 

By 10 pm things start to slowly cool off and we’re preparing for the last orders tonight. My eyes are dry from the lack of sleep that I experience lately, so dry that even the smell of onion doesn’t help to force out tears. I shed too many of them in the last couple days. Maybe that’s the reason. I brush the thought off and start wiping off counters that aren’t used anymore. “Wanna go on a break?” Jen asks as she’s cleaning plate after plate, even though they’re basically scrubbed clean.

“We’re almost done,” I point out.

“Come on, J. A quick cigarette before we close won’t kill you, will it?” She smirks.

I roll my eyes. I don’t smoke anymore. Not since the weekend of my failed wedding, which would be 2 and a half years now. Fuck. That’s a lot of time. It’s more than half the time of our entire relationship. Relationship that keeps haunting me like a ghost that can’t be exorcised no matter how much I try to forget it. Fuck. I can’t forget it, can I? I…it made a permanent stain. It’s like a birthmark that’s destined to be with you for the rest of your life. A birthmark that you fall in love with and stay in love with it no matter how irrational and stupid it sounds. I’ve never been good at making comparisons. Except when it came to comparing myself to Conrad. That I excelled at. Thankfully, I no longer do that. Thankfully, I know better than that. Thankfully, I feel good enough on my own. Thankfully, I don’t fight with him, I ignore him. Thankfully, I don’t care that people love him better than me. Thankfully, I love myself now. Thankfully, it didn’t change my feelings for Belly.

I want to curse under my nose as the involuntary thought slips my mind. The heart wants what it wants, right? Even when it shouldn’t. Even when it hurts as soon as you think about that person. Even when your reason knows better than that. Thank fuck for my reason. That I actually managed to set boundaries with her, because otherwise? I’d be already on my knees in front of her, confessing my love. Love that didn’t decrease with time. Love that’s still here. Painful and fierce. Raw. All-consuming. 

“Yeah, alright. Let’s go,” I throw the cloth on the counter with too much impact than necessary, which causes Jen to raise her eyebrow in question that she doesn’t ask. We go outside and she lights up a cigarette, offering me one. “No, thanks,” I shake my head. “I’ll stick to my cherry cola,” I say as I point at the bottle in my hand as I open it.

“Suit yourself,” she shrugs as she starts smoking, the smoke hits my nostrils and reminds me of all those nights at college. I’m glad it’s in my past.

My phone buzzes suddenly and I take it out of my pocket to check whatever message that could possibly be sent to me. I sigh with relief as I notice that it’s not Belly. Good. She’s staying away, just as I wished her to. She’s finally taking a hint. Then why does it sting so bad? 

I rub my eyes slowly and read the message. It’s dad. “Are you okay? You hadn’t called since New Years Eve. Just checking in, not accusing,” his message reads and I want to smash my phone as soon as I read it. Fucking asshole. Fucking piece of shit. I’ve spent so much time trying to gain his respect, trying to make him proud of me and all this time I was chasing after approval of some cheating scumbag asshole. Fuck him. Fuck him for cheating on mom and fuck him for keeping it from me. And fuck everyone else who knew about it and didn’t tell me. Just like that, my thoughts circle back to Belly. I can’t help it, lately she’s pretty much all I can think about and I’m disappointed in myself. I was doing so well. Maybe not good, but well enough to keep going without thinking about her excessively. It all changed, though. 

It all changed when I saw that fucking ring on her finger that night in Providence. When I saw her on the street that night, leaving a pub…god, it felt like destiny pulling us toward each other. And when we talked…it was as if nothing had changed while everything changed at the same time. It was…surreal. And for a moment I had this glimpse of hope that maybe, just maybe, we could be friends. And then I saw the ring that I proposed with, bringing back all of the bad memories - the betrayal, hurt, and Conrad. Fucking Conrad. She chose him over me and now she has the audacity to wear my ring like it’s just a piece of jewelry with no meaning, just an accessory that doesn’t carry the weight of the broken promise, just something she wears without paying attention to it as if it’s not a symbol of our love. Love that I still have for her and I can’t stop myself from wanting to give it to her.

It feels like a massive regress, but there’s this big part of me that doesn’t see it that way. That part thinks it was bound to happen, that I was just lying to myself, pretending that I can get over it. That part is fucking relieved that I finally stopped pretending. That part still finds comfort in my thoughts of her despite the pain that she had caused me. It’s so fucked up and I’m glad that I have my appointment with Bernie tomorrow. We’ll talk about it and I’ll be saved, I tell myself. 

“You’re too quiet tonight. It’s actually really creepy,” Jen says, her words snapping me back to reality. 

“Yeah, I don’t feel like talking,” I sigh deeply as I lean against the wall, tilting my head up, staring at the sky. It’s completely dark, the moon barely visible from this angle, but there’s a single star that gives a dim light. I could stare at it for hours, I think. And I don’t even know why. It just fills me with a sense of peace that I have trouble finding lately. Peace that I wish to find. Peace that I got a glimpse of at New Year’s Eve when she tried that pastry and enjoyed it so much and I just wanted to fucking kiss her and never let go. Alas, my peace is with Conrad. Probably curled up next to him in bed, taking another big step in their relationship that she was never truly ready to take with me - yet another sign that I was just a substitute for the Fisher she wanted. 

“Give me that cigarette,” I say suddenly, reaching with my hand and she hands me one right away. I light it and cough as I inhale the smoke. Shit. I forgot how much it actually burns one’s lungs. 

“Jesus, no wonder why you don’t smoke,” she chuckles.

“Anymore,” I correct her and wince as I try to inhale again, shaking my head in disgust. “It’s awful.

“Hey, I’m not forcing you.”

“I know,” I say quickly. “It’s just…” I feel awful. “Any plans for tonight?”

“Yeah, me and Brit are going to the movies. You?”

“None. What movie?” I keep smoking, adjusting to it a bit and I hate it. It’s so easy to fall back into old habits. Just like it’s easy to fall back in love with someone. No, it’s not about falling back in love when you never stopped loving someone in the first place.

“Challengers,” Jen replies and when she sees that I’m not familiar with the plot she starts explaining it. “It’s basically a story about a girl that loves tennis and falls in love with two friends who also play tennis. And she fucks both of them.”

I feel sick as she says it. I physically want to puke on the street as I feel a tight knot squeezing my stomach painfully. “Didn’t know that you and your girlfriend enjoy watching hetero love triangle shit,” I mutter.

Jen shrugs. “I might be gay, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good hetero-centered story. Besides, Zendaya is stunning.”

“Love triangles ain’t a good story,” I grunt. “They’re the worst fucking thing that someone could come up with.”

“Why?” She laughs, her cigarette almost finished. “They’re hot. The whole will they-won’t they and the tension…and being able to root for one pair and to be against the other. It’s what makes it so good,” she grins.

“Bullshit, that’s cruel. There’s nothing hot or romantic about toying with people’s feelings,” I say adamantly, squeezing the cigarette tightly in my fingers. “Just love one person and don’t fuck around. It’s not that fucking hard.”

“In life? Sure. In art? Fuck no,” she laughs lightly, but I don’t share her enthusiasm. How could I? After everything, after losing the woman I still fucking love because of the fucking love triangle that we found ourselves in. Woman that I thought I’d spend my whole life with. Woman that is probably now getting engaged to Conrad or having his baby. Because what else can I expect? Knowing my luck, that's bound to happen. She’s back in Providence after messing with my head and I’m here, in Boston. Without her. And it fucking hurts. It still hurts despite the time that was supposed to help heal this wound. I’m trying. I really am, but I’m so tired of it. Nothing works since I still go back to thinking about her, to longing for her, even though I have it all figured out now. My life is good. I’m financially stable, I’m thriving at work, I live on my own, I have my own car and I don’t owe money to anyone, I have friends and stuff that I enjoy doing. And yet I still wish for her to be by my side. Because as much as I enjoy my life…I know that I’d enjoy it even more with her. 

I look up again and find that one stubborn star still hanging in the dark. It’s faint, barely there, but still fighting to shine. Maybe that’s what love is - something that refuses to die, no matter how much it should. Jen crushes the cigarette under her heel and heads back inside. The star stays. It always does.

“Jeremiah?” I hear a familiar voice that catches me off guard as I didn’t expect to hear it ever again in my life, especially not in Boston. 

“Mr. Conklin?” I blink, trying to make sure he’s really there. He is. 

“Long time no see,” he says awkwardly as he approaches me. He hasn’t changed at all in those two years.

“Yeah…,” I say slowly, matching the awkward tone. Because let’s be real, it’s really fucking awkward to meet your ex-fiance’s father. 

“Didn’t know that you’re a smoker,” he laughs quietly, almost nervously.

I look at the cigarette in my hand and take another hit, even though it burns as hell and seconds ago I was thinking about throwing it half-smoked on the ground. “At least it’s not weed anymore,” I say casually, shrugging. I sound so fucking nonchalant that it surprises me. I see a hint of baffle in his eyes that he tries to mask right away. I don’t care. Her parents always hated me, what harm would it make to be more honest about myself and not hiding any part of me? I always tried to be perfect in their eyes, never make a single mistake so maybe they would finally find me worthy of Belly’s love, deserving of being with her. It never happened though. And now it’s all lost, so there’s no point of twisting my arm to prove that I’m perfect. I’m not. And that’s okay. 

“Alright…didn’t know that you’re working here,” he points at the signboard above the restaurant door. 

“Yeah, about a year now. Were you here tonight or-”

“No, I…I’m just passing by. On my way to the hotel,” he explains quickly.

“Hotel?” I raise my eyebrow in question. When I was with Belly he barely traveled, the only exceptions were the times when Belly needed him to come to Finch to drive her there at the beginning of the semester and to pick her up at its end.

“Yeah, I’m on my way to visit Belly,” he says, smiling apologetically as he mentions her name. A nice gesture, but it doesn’t change anything. They can save their crocodile tears. No one supported the idea of us being together, so they should drop the act. I know better than that at this point. I don’t need hope. Hope is the exact thing that almost killed me. 

“Right,” I nod, focusing on the star above my head. It always stays. 

We stand in complete silence that’s only being broken by cars and people passing by, when he speaks again. “Listen…do you mind grabbing a beer with me?” 

His question knocks me back. It’s not what I expected. Hell, I’d rather expect him to pass by me without actually acknowledging me, but here we are. Maybe he wants to share the awesome, thrilling news that Bells is now getting married to Conrat? 

“Ugh…I,” I stutter. I want to refuse, find any excuse, no matter how unbelievable, to get myself out of it. “Yeah, alright. Why not?” I say instead, much to my own surprise. Am I still so hung up on her that I’d even clutch onto hanging out with her dad that hates me? Apparently. “I end my shift in like…15 minutes?” I look at my watch.

“Works for me. I’ll wait,” he smiles slightly and I nod, walking back inside, utterly dumbfounded.

What the hell did I just agree to?! 

Part of me hopes that he will get tired of waiting as I stall leaving, but no. He still waits outside by the time I clock out and leave the restaurant. “See you tomorrow, J.” Jen says as she hugs me and we part our ways. I drag my feet - one after the other toward Mr. Conklin and I brace myself for whatever this meeting is going to bring. Maybe I can treat it as closure, I comfort myself and make a mental note to leave after one beer. 

“So…do you know any place where the beer is good?” He smiles awkwardly.

“Um…yeah, I guess that The Clover is quite alright. They have Guinness,” I say after a second. I remember that he used to enjoy drinking this particular one. I remember I wanted to buy him a barrel of it for birthday once, but Belly said that it’s probably a bad idea, or rather Laurel told Belly that it’s a bad idea and she followed. She always followed whatever Laurel said. God, it was pissing me off. I loved her so much, but it was the part that annoyed me a lot. When we were at Finch things were so good, but as soon as she was getting involved…suddenly everything was falling apart. I should’ve known that the wedding wouldn’t happen without her support. I was playing against the odds too big to overcome, wasn’t I?

We go to The Clover which is just around the corner and soon we find ourselves ordering beer at the bar and finding one of the few empty seats that are left at this hour. It’s a section for smokers and I want to throw up again - partially due to the smoke, partially because I’m hanging out with Belly’s dad. What a fucked up situation.

“So…that girl you hugged. She’s pretty. Is she your-” he tries to ask, but I wince as I cut him off.

“We’re not each other’s type,” I say quickly, tapping my fingers against the glass that’s still full. I need to drink it fast.
“I see,” he nods slowly. God, it’s so fucking awkward. I can see that he’s thinking about asking me something else and I swear if it’s going to be another question about my love life I might actually go feral.

“Look, Mr. Conklin…I’m fine. I don’t need you and others to check on me out of pity,” I say firmly, straightening my back.

He blinks, just once, then nods slowly. I can’t tell if he’s offended, surprised, or simply processing the bluntness. The smoke in the room stings my lungs, making me cough lightly, but I ignore it and focus on the glass in front of me. Silence between us is truly palpable, but he breaks it eventually. “Right…of course. I didn’t mean-”

“What did you mean then?” I ask, cutting in again. I try to calm myself down, but my anger goes straight to my legs that are now moving impatiently under the table, frustration spilling out of me, even though I willingly walked into this situation. “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but what are we even doing here?” I let out a half-bitter, half-frustrated chuckle as I look at him.

He has guilt written all over his face, his shoulders slightly hunched as he looks at his beer and then at me again. “I guess…I’m feeling bad,” he finally admits it, smiling apologetically. Before I manage to say anything he adds: “I’ve always imagined that you’d end up being my son-in-law, you know?”

That one sentence hits me like an arrow straight in my chest. An arrow that’s poisoned and designed specially to make the pain bigger than it was necessary. I clench my hand on the glass and take a quick sip of the beer. Maybe I should just leave and don’t care about finishing it, since I’m being fed bullshit by him. Alas, I feel a surge of liquid courage taking over me and so I open my mouth, talking before I think it through: “You don’t have to lie. You’ve always hated the idea of us getting married, the idea of us being together,” I blurt and drink again, flinching at the bitter taste. The last time I drank was on New Year’s Eve and I almost ended up kissing her. I had to use all my willpower to stop myself from doing that. As much as I hate Conrad, I still wouldn’t do it to him. I wouldn’t go behind his back and make out with his girlfriend, even though I love her. It’s hard, but not impossible. 

He looks taken aback by my words, his eyes moving fast as if he’s trying to catch up with my thought process, but can’t quite get a grip of it. “I haven’t,” he says simply and I dismiss it with a humorless laugh.

“Yeah, right,” I snort and shake my head in disbelief.

“I’m serious, Jeremiah,” he says defensively and when he sees that I’m still not convinced, he continues: “I didn’t…,” he shakes his head and sighs deeply, taking a sip of his beer. “ I’ve never hated you, quite the opposite. I was happy that my daughter has a good boyfriend like you. I wasn’t exactly thrilled that you’re getting married this young, that’s true, but not because I disliked you. I just…I still saw her as my little girl and it was hard to see her as this grown up woman that’s about to get married, even though I wanted you as my son-in-law in the future. Maybe one day you’ll have a daughter and you’ll understand.”

“Yeah, I doubt that,” I say quietly, still surprised by his words that keep echoing in my head. “I only ever imagined having kids with Belly and that ship has sailed so…,” I don’t finish, instead I shrug and take another sip. I watch a group of people passing by in their search for a place to sit - all five of them and I want to offer them my seat, to escape. I cough again, it’s getting annoying.

Mr. Conklin furrows as he hears that sound. “When was the last time that you’ve seen a doctor?”

I avert his eyes, looking away. I focus on the people around us, they look so happy - pissed drunk and having fun. And there’s me - sitting with Belly’s dad. “I don’t know. A couple years ago?” I shrug. 

“You should get yourself checked,” he says firmly. “Just in case. A doctor should take a look at you.”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly fond of doctors, you know?” I chuckle bitterly and take another sip. My beer is almost finished. Thank god. It’s getting too awkward.

He gives me a look that’s a mix of pain and concern, but I don’t care. I don’t. It doesn’t change anything. “Jeremiah…you can’t dismiss your health because of Con-”

“Please don’t say his name,” I wince. My voice comes off as weak, but oh well. I don’t have energy to pretend anymore. That New Year’s Eve…that…that touch of Belly’s hand. It broke me all over again, unlocking the feelings that I kept locked all good and tamed. I need help. I need to bury those feelings again. “Your precious future son-in-law,” I mumble incoherently, my beer already finished, yet I don’t get up from my seat. 

“He’s not my future son-in-law,” he shakes his head feverishly. It’s so…adamant. It takes me aback. What if he’s telling the truth? What if he didn’t hate me? “He will never be one.”

“I think that’s Belly’s decision,” I’m surprised with myself that those words even left my mouth, but that’s the painful truth. It’s her decision. She wants Conrad. She always did. 

He gives me another one of his pained smiles as he looks down, eyes glued on the glass in front of him. He’s not even halfway through his drink, while I’m shifting uncomfortably, thinking of leaving this place and going back home. “I didn't understand her decision to be with him,” he says out of nowhere.

“But now you do,” I say flatly, finishing my drink.

“Sorry?”

“You said you didn't understand her decision,” I point out. “So…you understand it now?”

Why are we even having this conversation? It feels…boundary crossing. And yet, I can’t stop myself as it feels like that’s the only way to keep her in my life without actually being actively in touch. Because that would be a final nail to my coffin that I’ve built for myself, watching as she’s burying me in the ground, every hurt being another foot dug in the soil. I think I’m way past six feet under at this point. 

Her choosing Conrad after we started making out that first summer when it all started.

Her being with Conrad when I literally said that I won’t give them my blessing.

Her forgetting about me entirely when they were together.

Her not telling me about spending Christmas with Conrad, instead lying that she’s alone.

Her telling me that part of her will always love Conrad the morning of our wedding.

Her disappearing and running away to Paris.

Her not replying to the message I sent her on her birthday.

Her going back to being with Conrad after I said I won’t be okay with it.

Her following and unfollowing me like an insane person and texting me without reading my responses.

Her wearing my ring.

Her touching my arm on New Year’s Eve.

Her looking at me like she wants me when she doesn’t.

Her making me love her despite all of that.

Yeah, I’m way deeper than six feet.

“No, I still don’t,” Mr. Conklin says, snapping me back to reality that’s not much better than what’s going on in my head. “Sometimes I think like Belly herself didn’t, like it was just her bending to Laurel’s wants,” he lets out a bitter chuckle. “But thankfully I don't have to understand it anymore. They're over.”

My heart stops for a good few seconds and it feels like the world around me stops moving. I blink twice, trying to collect myself from this reveal. They're over. They're over. They're fucking over. 

“They…they are?” I can't help, but ask. I don't even try to sound casual, it's beyond me at the moment. 

It explains a lot, though. He probably broke her heart again, stomping on it as he left. Because he always leaves, that's Conrad. And I fucking hate him for breaking her like this again. Alas, part of me wants to scream and punch things which isn't very like me, but that's how I feel. That's how angry it makes me to know that she probably wanted to make a move on me on New Year's Eve because she was sad, because she probably wanted to make him jealous. Fuck, I'm so glad I didn't gave in to this, to my need of her. Fool me once - shame on you. Fool me twice - shame on me. It would be the third time and I wouldn't survive it. I know I wouldn't. The last time almost killed me. Hell, I still think that part of me died when she told me she loves him. 

“Yes, I don’t know the details. I didn’t want to ask, but it happened around Christmas,” he says it so casually that it stuns me. “So…Fisher family is officially free from our Conklin one,” a faint, sad smile on his lips, eyes remorseful. “I guess what I want to say is…I’m sorry that it didn’t work out between you two. And I’m sorry for the way things went down, how Belly handled it. And for Laurel and me, for not supporting you the way we should’ve,” he says and much to my surprise - I believe him. It’s a weird feeling that’s sort of warm, but not enough to keep your body, your heart from freezing. Just barely enough to escape death. 

He finishes his drink and we both get up - our cue that this odd meeting is reaching its end. He extends his hand and I shake it. “Bye, Jeremiah. Take care,” he says.

“You too, Mr. Conklin. And…take care of her, okay?”  I say quietly.

There’s no sign of surprise in his eyes when I say that, just a silent understanding when he nods slowly, eyes dim. I watch him leave the place and I follow suit after a few minutes, escaping the pub that suddenly feels too narrow to fit my feelings.

I walk out into the night, the air colder than before. The star is still there - faint, stubborn, refusing to die. I almost hate it for that. Alas, something in me still looks for it, still finds it every time. Part of me wishes to die. As it feels easier than to stop looking out for it, looking out for her. I shake my head, feeling utterly pathetic. 

When I get home it feels emptier than usual. I’m back to square one, thinking how much better it would feel to be here with her. I got a glimpse of it in San Francisco. When she was in Steven and Taylor’s spare room and I laid on their couch. It was the worst night in months, yet the best at the same time, because she was near. Part of me wanted to knock on her door and insert myself back into the drama that revolves around her, just for a fleeting feeling of happiness. But I didn’t. And I’m really fucking proud of myself, even though it was very much against my heart’s wish - a great reminder that my brain is its sole protector.

I sigh and switch on my game console - the newest Playstation as I plop on the couch and take the pad in my hands. That’s the best distraction that I can afford. I open the game that I started playing recently and for the first time today I’m able to stop thinking about her. My sanity is back and I can function again. All it takes is three hours of playing and cursing at the boss that I can’t conquer yet. I finally give up, just for tonight though, as I must go to sleep. I have my meeting with Bernie in the morning and I can’t wait for that. It feels necessary for me to keep functioning and not slipping back.

I keep waking up throughout the night, it’s nothing new unfortunately. Alas, now it’s also accompanied by that annoying cough. I shouldn’t have taken that cigarette from Jen. I knew she’s smoking the strongest ones, but I was stupid enough to reach for it anyway. Now I’m suffering like an idiot, doubling down on bed and waiting for it to pass. It happens early in the morning, when I’m supposed to get up from bed. I’m exhausted, but that’s just my life lately. Soon I’ll make peace with it and repeat the cycle - getting better, getting good, seeing Belly, missing Belly, being miserable. And again. And again. Again. Again. Fucking again.

I get to Bernie’s office a little earlier than usual as I finish my gym training earlier. I felt out of breath, maybe because of the general tiredness and last night’s events. I just wanted to get to my therapy as fast as I could, so here I am - in the waiting room, tapping my hand nervously against my knee as if it would help. I open my phone to kill time and check my messages. “How are you?” A simple text from Taylor that I still haven’t answered. I don’t want her to know how miserable meeting Belly made me. I thought I could handle it. I told Taylor that I can handle it. And turns out I couldn’t. I don’t want her to feel bad about it. It’s not her fault. “Fine, testing a new video game. Tell Steven that he should play it too. How are you?” I text her back. I let out a sigh that’s interrupted by a minor cough again, but I ignore it. Maybe I shouldn’t, though? Then I read another message, this time from Daniel: “Dude, you really should watch this anime with me, it’s fire!” It comes with a link that I decide to save for later. I read another text that I got. It’s from Denise - it’s a photo of her new desk at the office. I smile, I like that we stay in touch. Things didn’t work out between us, but there’s no bad blood, no lingering feelings. I like that. It’s a new one for me. I look at the clock and sigh again, coughing one more time. There’s still ten minutes left and so I think to myself fuck it. I open the browser and search for a doctor that’s nearby with open dates and bingo. I find one and click book the appointment button. Maybe it won’t hurt to get myself checked?

“Jeremiah, welcome,” Bernie says, smiling at me and I basically rush into her office. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t let me know as she sits in front of me, looking at me intently with that familiar, encouraging smile. “Is there something that bothers you?” She asks gently. 

“Yeah, quite a lot actually,” I bite my lip nervously, leg still tapping.

“Do you want to start by telling me what’s bothering you the most, or would you like to just let it out as it comes?” She asks.

“Belly,” I simply say, almost groaning out in frustration. “It’s always Belly,” I look at her helplessly and there’s a fleeting look of concern in her eyes. “I keep thinking about her. Constantly.” I swallow hard. “Like I can’t control it anymore. Anywhere I go, whatever I’m doing, whoever I talk to…somehow I always come back to her,” I shake my head miserably.

“Jeremiah, did something trigger those thoughts? Is it because of the ring?” She asks as she leans over.

I nod frantically. “Yes…I mean, it’s about the ring, too. But I also saw her. On New Year’s Eve. We talked. We…I think that something almost happened between us.”

“Something almost happened?” She raises her eyebrow in question, giving me space to dwell on that.

“Yeah, she…she told me that my father cheated on my mom with his current girlfriend,” I mumble, fumbling with my fingers. 

“That’s…quite a reveal,” she says carefully. “How are you handling it?”

I shrug. “I don’t talk with him. I know I should, but…he kept that from me. And I let that fucking woman plan Belly and mine’s wedding for fuck’s sake,” my eyes are glistening and jaw tense. I can’t help myself, it’s the only place where I get to safely express myself, all that shit that bothers me and eats me alive. I get to tell Bernie without her judging me or telling me to grow or man up. 

“That sounds frustrating and it seems like you’re angry at yourself,” she points out, causing me to blink twice as I realize that she might be right. “You let her plan your wedding, that’s true. But you didn’t know at this point, so you shouldn’t be angry at that,” she says firmly.

“I know,” I sigh deeply, calming down a bit, even though my body is still tense. “I just…it’s like one more sign from the universe that I should’ve planned that wedding with Belly. Not let anyone take over, not let…not let Conrad step in,” I breathe out, coughing again as I say his name.

Bernie’s features soften as I say that. She hands me a glass of water and I mumble a quick thanks as I drink it. It helps. “Do you think that it would change things?”

“Yes. No. Fuck, I don't know,” I bury my face in my palms. I’m so fucking tired. Tired of it all. Of myself. Of loving her. But I can’t stop. No. I just don’t want to stop. Not truly. Why else would I text her on her birthday? Why else would I reply to her messages even though she never continued the conversation? Why else would I walk her home that night in Providence? Why else would I come to San Francisco on New Year’s Eve knowing that she’ll be there? Why else would I go and search for her like a maniac when she didn’t come home for three hours? I could’ve stopped myself, but I chose not to. Not because I hope to ever be with her again, I don’t think that’s that. I made those choices because I love her. It’s stupid, it’s insane. But it’s true. And every now and then I have to let my heart win a battle if I don’t want to lose a whole war. 

“Jeremiah…that’s the thing about the past. We can’t change it. But we can learn from it.”

“It’s easier to say than do,” I chuckle bitterly. “I keep thinking about her, you know? She…I wanted to kiss her that night. Like actually kiss her. But I told her that I’m not gonna insert myself back into it, that I won’t be a part of that triangle anymore,” I can hear it in my voice how tired I am and I bet that Bernie hears it too. She keeps listening, already sensing that there’s more to this story. She knows me so well at this point. “And yesterday I met her dad and it turns out that there’s no triangle anymore. She’s no longer with him,” I say, my voice slightly trembling as I take a glimpse at Bernie, trying to see her reaction, but she remains calm and collected like always. Nothing I say seem to surprise her, which often makes me wonder how many fucked up histories had she heard before to be this serene, and if I’m not one too many.

“How did that make you feel?” She asks. I know those questions are simple, cliche even, but that’s what I need. Because there’s no one else, maybe except Taylor, who asks that. 

“Relieved,” I admit. “And not because I’m happy that they didn’t work out, more like…I’m glad that she’s no longer with a person that treats her like shit, you know? But it doesn’t matter. They’re probably gonna get back together before I even blink,” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh as I look at Bernie.

“It sounds like you’re relieved for her safety and well-being, but there’s also a part of you bracing for disappointment,” she points out.

“Yeah, how can I not? She went back to him so many times,” I shake my head, like it’s supposed to erase that betrayal, but it can’t be erased. It won’t ever be. “I can’t actually believe that they broke up,” I laugh, shaking my head again in utter disbelief. “When I saw her on New Year’s Eve I thought…I thought that she’s bracing herself for another big step with him, you know?”

“What indicated that?”

I shrug. “When I arrived I talked with Steven and he said something about Belly being in a very happy relationship.”

“Really?” She asks, leaning in.

“Yeah. Well, no. Not exactly. He just managed to say that she’s ‘in a very…’ and didn’t finish, because he had to open the door. I just…I guess I assumed that’s what he meant…,” I whisper. “And then…then she said that she’s not drinking and I…I thought that maybe…that maybe,” my voice cracks slightly, I feel sick just thinking about it, but I must be honest. Especially with my therapist. “That she might be pregnant with him,” I say embarrassedly. “Then she wanted to talk after midnight in private and I…I thought that she wanted to give me a heads up about it and that’s when she said about my dad cheating,” I blurt out at one breath. 

“Jeremiah, it’s a familiar pattern by now. You tend to go straight to the worst-case scenario,” she gently reminds me. “Does it remind you of anything?”

I nod solemnly. “Cabo,” I say flatly. I cough so hard it steals my breath, making it hard to focus on what I’m saying to Bernie, but I try my best. She nods, encouraging me to continue. “I…I broke up with her and she thought that it was just a fight. That’s why this mess happened, because I…because I assumed that something happened between her and Conrad on Christmas and-” my voice breaks and I take a deep breath, interrupted by another series of coughing.

“Jeremiah,” Bernie’s voice grounds me. “You were allowed to think this way. But I want you to remember that not everything will turn into that worst case. It’s your trauma taking the steering wheel instead of you.”

“Trauma,” the word lingers on my tongue and I want to spit it out. As if that was possible. As if that healed it. 

“Yes, trauma,” she nods slowly, watching me closely. “It often causes a thing that we call a self-fulfilling prophecy. I'm not saying that 's the case here, but it's good to be aware of that mechanism.”

“So like…when I think that something bad is going to happen I…subconsciously pull it closer?” I ask, furrowing. 

She nods. “It makes you question everything, keeps you insecure, keeps you-”

“Waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I finish, swallowing hard as the realization hits me harder than ever. 

“Yes. Yes, exactly.”

“I don’t know how to not do that,” I admit quietly. “I feel like…like I’ve been doing that my whole life.”

“Why do you think it’s like that for you?”

I gulp. “Because of my family. I was always…attacked by my father. Nothing I was doing was ever good enough for him and as time went by…I guess I learned to expect the worst from him.”

“See, that’s the coping mechanism that you developed in order to protect yourself. Unfortunately, you implemented it to every relationship in your life.”

“I don’t think I like this session,” I try to joke, another coping mechanism of mine that we already went through,

“Not every therapy session is good. Some make us feel sad, you know the drill,” she smiles warmly and I do the same. 

“Yeah…,” I chuckle. “Yeah, I know…,” I look outside the window, watching people. They all look peaceful. I wonder if I look the same to others. Not that it matters. I’m just curious if other people think that I’m fine, when I’m really fucking not. Or do they just don’t care at all. “Am I regressing?" I ask suddenly, knowing that there’s still some time left and either I ask it now or never. “With Belly, I mean. My feelings…they resurfaced. Is it a regress?”

“Jeremiah, I think that’s not a regression. When strong emotions resurface, especially around someone who’s been such a big part of your story, it doesn’t automatically mean you’re going backward. Sometimes it means you’ve reached a place in therapy, and in yourself, where you can finally face those feelings safely.” She leans in a little, her voice steady and warm. When I don’t respond she continues, her voice soothing: “You’ve been carrying this love for a long time. You’ve tried to push it away, to analyze it, to fix it…and I think part of you hoped that therapy would make it disappear. But therapy doesn’t erase real feelings. It helps you see them for what they are.” I feel like she’s studying my face carefully. I’m not sure what she sees, but whatever it is, makes her continue her speech: “...so maybe what’s happening now isn’t you falling back…maybe it’s you finally being honest with yourself.”

I wince as she says it. It’s definitely not something that I wanted to hear. Hell, it’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear. Maybe that’s why it annoys me so much, especially since deep down I know it’s the truth. “But it hurts,” I say, sounding more desperate and helpless than I intended.

“Tell me, what hurts more - loving her or fighting that feeling?” She lets the question sink in and I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

I cross arms on my chest as if I want to protect myself, but I realize there’s no point of that. Therapy only works when you’re honest, even when you’re ashamed of your own feelings, even when you’re feeling like a complete fool for having them. “I guess…if I had to be honest…loving her hurts, but…acting like I don’t and then doing it again…it hurts bad. Like really bad.”

She sits back, calm and grounded as she looks at me knowingly. She already knew that, she just wanted me to say that aloud. Damn you Bernie, you’re a good one. “What would it be like if, instead of trying to ‘move on’ from Belly, you allowed yourself to just… love her? Without forcing an outcome, without trying to erase it or doing something about it - just acknowledging that the love is real and part of who you are, letting it just exist?”

The room falls silent as I repeat her words in my head, the only sound that I focus on is the sound of my heart - beating strong and fast, involuntarily excited by the idea. I clench my fists, trying to bring myself back to my senses, but I can’t. I just…I just let the idea sink in. Letting that love just exist. Allowing myself to love her. 

“I guess…that…that would make me a fool,” I breathe out, ignoring the cough that burns my lungs and wants to escape my mouth.

“I don’t think so, Jeremiah. I think it would make you human. You don’t have to prove that you’ve moved on to prove you’ve grown. Sometimes real growth means making peace with the fact that a piece of you still loves her. And that’s okay.”

I stare at her, because what the fuck am I supposed to say to that? Bernie just sits there, calm as ever, like she’s got all the time in the world for me to catch up to what she already sees. And maybe that’s what hits me most - that she’s not judging me. I exhale slowly, my shoulders finally dropping a little. It feels strange, almost foreign, to breathe without the usual tightness in my chest. “So, I can just… love her,” I mutter, mostly to myself. “Without it meaning that I’m broken or stuck.” I say and Bernie gives a tiny nod, the kind she does when I’ve said something that matters. And for the first time in a long time, I let that thought stay. I don’t argue with it, don’t try to bury it under logic or pride. I just sit there, feeling the warmth and ache of it at the same time. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable anymore. It’s quiet in a good way, like something’s finally unclenched inside me. 

When our time’s up, Bernie gives me that look, the one that says keep going, even when it hurts. I give her a small smile that barely reaches my eyes, but it’s something.

The air outside feels colder than before - sharp against my lungs. I cough again, that same dry, annoying sound and I wince. Maybe it’s just the cold. I sit in my car for a while before turning on the engine. My phone lights up with a few unread messages from Steven, Deniese, Taylor, Daniel, Jen, even dad.  Not her. I don’t know what I’d do if it was her. 

For some reason I open her chat anyway. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly. Finally, I close the chat without writing anything. I put the phone down and just breathe. My chest still burns, from the cough or from her, I can’t tell anymore. Maybe it’s the same thing, something I need to check, but not something I can fix tonight. I still think about her but for the first time the thought doesn’t slice me open. It just… exists.

Chapter Text

I feel like I’m learning how to walk all over again. Every step seems scary as if I’d fall on my face and hurt myself in the process. I have to constantly remind myself that it won’t end up like this. That I’ll survive this. “I’m pathetic,” I groan out one morning on the couch with a half-eaten bowl of cereal on my lap. 

“Nah, you’re just being a Conklin,” Owen says as he eats his burned toast, sitting on the chair next to me. I glare at him and he raises his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright. I take it back,” he mumbles with his mouth full of toast. “But on a serious note, it’s been a week. Feel as pathetic as you want,” he adds.

I relax a bit as I hear that. “My therapist said the same.”

“In the first session? Damn, maybe it’s not as hard as I thought it would be.”

“Do you want me to throw a pillow at you?”
He rolls his eyes. “Nothing’s gonna hurt me at this point,” he mumbles.

I sigh deeply as he says that and I put the bowl aside, so I won’t spill milk on his couch again. “Did Jo text you?”

This time he’s the one that glares at me as he melts into the couch, crossing arms on his chest. We sit in silence for a while until he decides to speak: “No.” The answer is simple, but the emotions behind it tells me everything - pain, disappointment, anger, anxiety and self-loathing - it’s all there. And I get it. I really do. Especially the latter. “We should get going before we get late to class. I don’t want to start the new semester looking like a guy that’s too childish to let him foster a plant,” he mumbles as he gets up.

Ouch. Jo really had to make him feel bad about himself as it’s not in character for him to be this sulking. “Yeah, alright. Can you let me drive, though?” I ask as I follow suit, grabbing my coat on my way out and reaching for his car keys. He looks at me emptily and just nods. “Great, I should practice more before I fix my car,” I say quickly, trying to fill the silence with anything. 

“You need to find a job first,” he points out as we get downstairs. I sigh again as he says it. The air outside is piercing cold, causing us to see our own breath. I hate winter, there’s nothing nice about it. Well, almost nothing. I enjoyed it with Jeremiah, he could make even the worst weather seem fine with his presence, either because he was creative enough to come up with doing something fun or cuddly enough to make me spend the entire day wrapped in each other’s arms, watching TV and talking about our day. He made the worst days tolerable and the best days full of joy. I miss him. I miss making him smile. I quickly brush the thought off. We’re over. The chapter is closed. He made it clear. 

“Yeah, don’t remind me. I sent like dozens of applications in the last couple days.”

“Try hundreds, it will greatly improve your chances on the market.”

“The market terrifies me,” I say as I start the engine and drive off the parking lot. I’m a bit unsure at first, but Owen seems relaxed when I’m behind the wheel. Although, I’m not sure if that’s because he trusts me or he genuinely doesn’t care as he’s too grim at the moment. “I mean, why the hell do you need six stages of the recruitment process to decide whether I’m the right fit to work at the reception?”

“It’s all about sex,” he mumbles, head resting against the window. I take a glimpse at him - he’s wearing a stretched-out hoodie and his eyes are dim. My heart clenches at the sight. I wish that I could help him somehow, but I’m no better than he is. Owen’s just more vocal and expressive about it. Honestly? Part of me admires him for that as I already learned that letting it all out speeds up the healing process in most cases. Alas, the other part can’t help, but wonder if Jeremiah looked the same right after our breakup. He’s open about his feelings, never hiding anything, unlike me. He doesn’t let stuff bottle down, rather speaking up about what he’s going through. That’s one of those traits that I really appreciated about him, I never had to guess. But he had to guess when it came to me, I kept him so much in the dark and I shouldn’t have. 

“That’s the title of your biography?” I ask teasingly, accepting his gruffly glare. He shifts in his seat, but his body language is less stiff now. That’s a good sign.

“You know that it would make a better music album,” he replies nonchalantly and I can’t help, but chuckle. It lightens up the mood. 

“Right, a good pop album,” I nod as I turn to the left on the crossroad. We’re only five minutes away from campus. I hope that he won’t go straight to Marshall’s office and beg her to give them a chance. It never works out. It only leaves both sides with pain. It’s better to let go, isn’t it? 

“More like experimental techno one that was only published by a record company because someone’s daddy pulled strings,” he scoffs.

“So…no cute guitar strings, then?”

“No, those are probably taken care of by a guy that just flew back from Cambodia,” he grunts, clearly going back to thinking about Jo and her husband.

We arrive at the campus and look at our plan for this semester. “New classes, here we go,” I sigh deeply. 

“I'm thinking…we should really focus on our studies this semester,” Owen says as we walk fast toward the building. It's not about being late to class, it's about surviving the freezing cold temperature. “It would be good for us. Would take our minds off…people,” he says slowly.

“Sounds like a plan,” I nod as we walk inside, the warmth of the radiators hits our faces right away. “I think that maybe we could be better students.

“Maybe?” He raises his eyebrow. “I know we can. We barely survived midterms, it can't get worse than that.”

“In our defence - we went through a lot in our personal lives,” I point out. 

“Yeah, I know. But maybe we should stop searching for excuses and just…focus on finding solutions?”

I let his words sink in as we walk down the hallway. “I like that,” I finally say, smiling and he does the same. It’s good having Owen in my life. If last September someone told me that we’re going to be this close I wouldn’t believe them. Alas, last September I also didn’t believe that I could ever be happy again, but right now? I start to believe that I will. Eventually. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually. I just have to learn how to get that happiness from myself, not from others. 

“Here you are!” Harper grins as soon as she sees us and joins us at the door to our first class this semester. Beck is right by her side. “How’s the roommate thing going on for you?”

We exchange looks before giving our answer. “Good,” we say.

“Did you exercise that?” Beck chuckles. “You know, if you murdered someone in that flat your secret is safe with us. I can provide a believable alibi.”

“Probably cleaning your half of the room,” Beck teases, nudging her slightly. “Ignore her, guys. Harper just got really into gruesome true crimes podcasts.”

“Wow, you must’ve been really bored during Christmas break,” I say as I poke out my tongue, much to Harper’s displeasure.

“They’re based on a true story! It’s only fair to assume that we’re all capable of doing extremely fucked up things,” she replies. “No judgement, of course,” she adds and we all roll our eyes.

“Let’s just get inside, alright?” Beck says and we all take our seats in the classroom. This one is smaller than the ones we got used to last semester. Maybe because it’s the Psychological Assessment and Testing class that is done in smaller groups consisting of only a dozen students per group. “I’m still surprised that we actually managed to sign up for the same group,” she says as we plop on our chairs, waiting for professor Singh to arrive. 

As soon as the professor enters the class the whole room goes quiet, there’s no place for whispers and chatter - there’s not enough people to let it go unnoticed. 

“Morning class. I’m professor Singh,” she greets us with a polite smile as she looks at us. “As you probably know by now, in this class we’ll learn how to execute a proper psychological assessment using various tests,” she informs as she hands us copies of documents that are still warm from the printer. “We’ll learn about different types of tests and of course, we’ll mainly focus on the practical aspect of it - test administration, scoring and interpretation of results. We’ll do that by choosing our case studies.”

“I already like her,” Beck scribbles in her notebook and I nod slightly. Singh is so full of energy and I need that in my life now. It will make it easier to stay present and positive about my studies. About my future. About everything. 

We start with a simple Attachment Style Questionnaire that professor Singh told us to take. “You can take it multiple times - you can analyze yourself, people around you, even your favourite TV characters. You must learn how to do it and interpret results,” she says. 

“I think we can do it while thinking about our relationships with others,” Beck suggests and we nod. All three of them - Beck, Owen and Harper start to mark their answers, but I stare at the questions for a good minute. Then I decide to simultaneously mark answers for my relationship with Jeremiah and Conrad. Simply out of curiosity, to understand myself better. I hope that this test will bring me some much needed insight as to why I made some of my choices and why I felt the way I did in both relationships. Relationships that pretty much defined me, relationships that were the focus point of my entire teenage and adult life. 

As the assessment is ready I blink twice, staring at its result. Conrad = Anxious/Avoidant. Jeremiah = Secure/Avoidant. I gulp as I look at my paper. How can it be possible? How can it make sense? It doesn’t. It’s stupid, isn’t it? I look at Singh, ready to ask my question, but she looks at her watch and smiles. “I think that’s it for today, but here’s your homework - take a really good look at those results and try to interpret it. Maybe come up with strategies on how to deal with those attachment styles. We’ll discuss it in our next class,” with that being said, the class ends and we’re asked to leave the room as she wants to prepare for another group of students.

“Well, that was…something,” Harper says, furrowing. “I wish the class would be longer, though.”

“It’s not her fault that we spent our whole lesson on taking tests,” I say, shrugging.

“Yeah, and now we’ll have a very long homework,” she sighs.

“Speak for yourself. Owen, Belly and I are going for the Psychology of Romantic Relationships lecture now,” Beck chuckles.

Harper groans miserably in response. “Now I wish I’d signed up for that.”

“Well, good luck on your Abnormal Psychology babe,” I chuckle as well.

“Laugh all you want, but out of our four, I’d be the only one to survive a real life Joe Goldberg,” she says proudly as we part our ways, walking to our own classes. I don’t think that I’ve ever had this many friends in my life. Yeah, I had a group of people in Paris, but our connection felt…shallow, unlike the one I’m forming with these three right now. 

We go to the auditorium and we can see that a bunch of students are already there, leaving little to no seats available for us. “Damn, you weren’t lying when you said that this class is popular,” Owen says as he looks around. 

“Professor Clusky is a real visionary, trust me,” Beck beams as we sit at the back of the room - yet another sign that people actually enjoy these lectures. Otherwise it would be the front row that’s still empty.
“Alright everyone,” an older woman walks in and it’s professor Clusky. I imagined her to be completely different - younger, but somehow she ends up being perfect exactly as she is. Lately I think about it a lot - how things end up different than what we thought they’d be, but it’s still good in its own way. I always imagined myself with one person and it turned out to be a disaster. I’ve never imagined myself with Jeremiah and he turned out to be everything I didn’t know I wanted. “Today’s the day we talk about the thing that secretly runs all your relationships: attachment. What influences it and how it affects our relationships? That is the question that we’ll try to answer today. Or at least get closer to finding one,” she announces and she puts on the slide show that explains each style. “First we should talk about the best one and sadly, the rarest one of all - secure attachment. These people grew up with caregivers who were consistent. They didn’t have to earn love. So as adults, they can ask for what they need without fearing rejection. They believe that closeness is safe, not suffocating,” she lets the words sink in and then she continues: “How many of you have been with someone who made you feel like you could breathe easier just by being near them?” She asks and there’s a hum of voices filling the classroom. “Don’t be afraid, raise your hands,” she encourages us and a few of us raise our hands, me included. “Lucky you,” she smiles at us. “That’s secure attachment in action. It’s not exciting in the fireworks sense - it’s calm, predictable, and safe. And that’s exactly why some of us mistake it for boring,” she states. 

I look at my Attachment Style Questionnaire and think about my answers. I wouldn’t call my love with Jeremiah boring, not at all. It wasn’t fireworks, yes. It was sparklers - flickering softly between our fingers, never meant to impress, just to be felt. And it was definitely calm, safe and predictable. Until it wasn't. Until things started to fall apart before our wedding. No, earlier than that. It started with Cabo. No, even earlier. It started with Christmas.

“Now, anxious attachment. These are the ones who love with intensity. They text first. And second. And fourth. They crave closeness, but also fear losing it - constantly reading between the lines, searching for signs of distance. Sounds familiar to anyone?”

Some of the students raise their hands, including me and Owen. I take a glimpse of him, it feels like he’s trying to disappear into his seat, becoming one. His face is red and I give him a gentle squeeze which grounds him a bit. “We got this,” I whisper and he nods, sighing deeply before he straightens his back.

“The anxious partner is often the emotional engine of the relationship. But here’s the tragedy: their fear of abandonment sometimes creates the very distance they dread. They try to hold tighter, and the other person pulls away. If you’ve ever felt like love is something you have to chase or prove, that’s not passion. That’s your nervous system reenacting an old story.”

Huh. That’s exactly how I felt with Conrad when I was a teenager. I always had to chase after him, never feeling good enough for him. I always felt like I had to go out of my way to prove myself deserving not of his love, but merely his attention. I’ve never even believed that he’d love me. Suddenly the realization dawns upon me. Is that how Jeremiah felt in our relationship? He showed signs of that type of attachment in our relationship at the beginning and at the very end. When Conrad got back in the picture, I realize. My heart clenches and it’s not a good feeling. I can feel my whole face burning and stomach squeezing painfully, but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. You and Conrad are quite similar if you think about it, Jeremiah’s words echo in my head. I swallow hard, eyes filling with tears.

“Now, avoidant attachment. The cool, independent, mysterious ones,” Clusky says as she leans against her desk, looking at us. Her words snap me back to reality, but only partially as half of me is still focused on the immense damage I caused to the person I claim to love. Not just claim, I really do love him. “They learned early that needing people led to disappointment. So they built a wall, polished it, even. They’ll be charming and attentive until intimacy feels too real. Then they vanish, emotionally or literally.”

And that’s Conrad. That’s how he’s always been. Months, even years of avoidance and pushing me away just for occasional bread crumbs of love confessions that he takes back whenever he sees fit, making it unable for me to figure out when will be the next time, causing me to clutch onto whatever he gives. No more, I tell myself and for the first time in my life - I actually mean it. 

“Avoidance isn’t the absence of feeling. It’s feeling too much, and not knowing where to put it. Avoidant people don’t fear being alone. They fear being known. Because being known meant being hurt once.”

Oh. Is that how it is for Conrad? Doesn’t matter. I won’t excuse his behaviour any more. I deserve better. But so does Jeremiah, the thought appears rather suddenly, but it sinks. I acted like this in our relationship when I got confused with Conrad. And I acted the same at the end of my relationship with Conrad as well, I finally grasp it.  You and Conrad are quite similar if you think about it, I can hear Jeremiah’s words all over again and I hate it. I hate the fact that he’s right. That I was this person. Maybe I still am this person. God, I hope I’m not. 

In the meantime professor Clusky shows us another slide - where a shaky line is drawn between anxious and avoidant. “And this,” she says, “is the disorganized style - where anxiety and avoidance collide.” As soon as she says it I start taking notes, trying to distract myself from the pain that’s seeping from all corners of my mind. “These are people who crave connection but fear it at the same time. They want to be close, but the moment someone gets near alarm bells go off. It’s the ‘come here-no, go away’ dance. It’s often the result of inconsistent caregiving - love mixed with fear, affection tangled with chaos. These people learn: love hurts, but loneliness hurts more. So they live in between.”

“That’s basically my mom,” Owen whispers. “It was honestly so exhausting to look at. So now I’m not disorganized, I’m just anxious,” he chuckles bitterly.

“At least you’re not all over the place with your styles,” I say grimly and this time he’s the one that gives me a soothing squeeze of hand.

And just like that, as if at command - professor Clusky brings up parents: “Let’s talk about where all of this begins. Attachment isn’t something that appears out of nowhere when we start dating. It’s formed in the earliest years of our lives, long before we have the language to describe what love even is,” as she says it she puts on another slide that shows parents with a toddler. “Our parents,” she continues, “are the first models of what love feels like. If they were consistent, if they responded to your needs with warmth and reliability…you probably learned that closeness is safe. That’s the foundation of secure attachment,” she pauses, scanning the faces in the room. “But if love felt unpredictable… maybe your parents were sometimes attentive and other times distracted or emotionally unavailable, your nervous system learned something different - that love requires vigilance, that you have to earn affection. That’s anxious attachment. Whereas, avoidant attachment often develops when a child’s emotions are dismissed or when independence is praised over vulnerability. Those children grow up believing that needing others is a weakness. They learn to rely only on themselves, but deep down they still crave connection. It’s not a lack of feeling - it’s a fear of what feeling might bring.”

I raise my hand, despite the fact that Clusky didn’t ask if any of us have a question for her, not yet. I just can’t wait. Yes, it’s probably the impatience of system 1 all over again, but it seems harmless in this particular situation. “Professor, can people switch attachment styles depending on who they’re with?” I ask as the question is eating me alive. I need to understand it better.

She smiles, her eyes light up as she listens. “Absolutely! Attachment is contextual. If someone’s safe and consistent they can draw out your secure side. If someone’s unpredictable or emotionally distant they can activate your anxious or avoidant tendencies. It’s like your nervous system saying: we’ve been here before,” she answers and it’s truly a light bulb moment for me. Like everything makes sense suddenly. “In essence, none of these styles are fixed. They’re adaptive. So, maybe instead of asking: what’s my attachment style?, you should rather ask: who brings out the secure version of me?’” She looks at us. The room goes still. A few students scribble notes, but most just sit there, reflecting. “Let me rephrase it - none of these styles are life sentences given by your parents or previous partners. They’re just blueprints. And blueprints can be redrawn. But it’s important to remember - the goal isn’t to find someone who fixes your attachment wounds. It’s to find someone who holds steady while you learn to fix them yourself. And that’s what you should always bear in mind, whether it’s for private use or for your future clients,” with that being said, she ends the lecture and we all get up slowly, dragging our feet. 

“It was…,” I inhale deeply, trying to find the right words as we walk downstairs.

“Everything,” Owen finishes for me and I nod, agreeing.

“Told ya,” Beck grins as we walk outside. 

Harper already waits for us, cigarette in hand - her new habit that she picked up while studying for midterms. “Alright, the gang is back together!” Owen beams and takes a cigarette from her. “What are we doing tonight?”

“Nothing,” Harper says firmly.

“Nothing?” He pouts as he looks at her and she exchanges looks with Beck.

“You’re both too miserable to party with, no offense,” Harper blurts as she looks at me and Owen. He opens his mouth to say something in our defence, but Beck chimes in before these two manage to start arguing.

“What Harper meant is, you shouldn’t be drinking excessively until you get to feel better,” she explains softly.

“Yeah, alcohol is the poison,” Harper nods right away.

“Says the person that can chug a whole barrel,” Owen mumbles under his nose and I nudge him. “Alright, fine. We’ll go shopping instead. Maybe we’ll find another awesome poison. And maybe it won’t be from Cambodia,” he adds quietly in the last bit.

“See? That’s what I’m talking about,” Harper says and I glare at her as if I want to say: don’t you start. She raises her hands in defeat and mumbles a quiet sorry as we part our ways. 

“Can I drive again?” I ask and Owen just nods. I take occasional glimpses at him, thinking how much he reminds me of Jeremiah - feelings things so deeply. I can’t help, but wonder - was that how Jere felt after I left? Probably. Undoubtedly. I want to cry my eyes out as I think about it. I want to say I’m sorry. I want to fix what I broke. But seeing Owen like this I realize that the best fix I can offer is to keep my distance, just how I promised. Giving him space to heal, no matter how much I want to be by his side. Because it’s not about my needs, at least it shouldn’t be. It should be about his needs. “Do you ever…,” I open my mouth to ask Owen my question, but I pause, realizing that asking him whether he’d forgive Jo for dropping him would be insensitive at the moment. “...feel like you have time for one more hobby to pick up?” I ask instead.

He seems genuinely surprised with my question. “No, I think that gaming and keeping up with pop culture hold too much space in my heart to find a place for one more thing,” he says after a few seconds. “But you should find one.”

“I do have hobbies. I solve Sudoku.”

“Yeah, and tell me - you don’t think about Jeremiah while doing it?”

I sigh. “I do. But on a good note - my ability to multitask greatly improved.” One look at him and I see that he doesn’t buy it. “I’m this boring to hang out with, huh?” I chuckle.

“No, but I think that you can’t have your life be all about two guys,” he says carefully as he looks at me. “I mean, look at me. I have things in my life that I’m passionate about and yet I still feel like dying from heartbreak. I can’t imagine what that's like for you.”

I sigh deeply as I focus on the road, trying to find the shortcut to the mall. I still feel so rusty behind the wheel. “It’s…consuming, to say the least,” my words are met with silence as he lets me speak. “I…I try not to think about it, just like you guys suggested. Stick to that one designated hour, but…I just bury myself with studying, with job finding and-”

“And there’s no time to actually enjoy things?” He gently suggests.

“Yeah,” I nod. “But I feel like I don’t deserve to enjoy anything, you know? And my therapist told me that I don’t have to be the bad guy, but I’m not so sure that I believe it yet,” I say at one breath. 

“Give yourself time, alright? Healing is a process,” he says as I park the car and we go into the mall. “Look, let’s make a deal,” he adds when he sees that I’m still not entirely convinced. “If you pick up a hobby today, I’ll sign up for therapy as well. Deal?”

My eyes widen for a second, but then I smile and shake his hand. “Deal.”

That’s how I end up with an easel and a bunch of paint by number paintings that are now stacked in the corner of the living room, waiting to be opened and colored by me. I smile as I take a look at them - in various sizes and with different themes. “I’m really proud of you, Conklin,” Owen says as he hands me the bowl full of popcorn and plops on the sofa right next to me. It’s another evening this week that we watch Friends like he suggested. Somewhere half through season 2 I check my phone and see texts that I got. “I don’t know who manipulated you to act like this, but come back to your senses, bean.” I read the message from my mom and I nearly groan out in frustration. She’s unbelievable. Why is it that every time I do something out of my own will she sees it this way and when I’m sticking to her wishes it’s somehow normal? It’s infuriating, but I don’t feel like explaining myself to her. It wouldn’t change anything, would it? As I think about it I understand more and more where my avoidant tendencies stem from - it’s her. Her love was always conditional, always dependent on whether I follow her plan that she designed for me or not. Whenever I decide to anticipate she takes her support and love away, leaving me all alone until I come back to my senses as she would say. Just like Conrad. 

Thus, I don’t reply. Instead, I delete the message and god, it’s so freeing. Like I can finally breathe without the worry that it would offend someone. There’s also a text from Conrad, but I skip it entirely and go straight to the one from my dad. “My dad wants to come and visit me tomorrow,” I say to Owen.

“Really? Great, I have a long shift at work tomorrow so I won’t disrupt your time too much,” he says. “And speaking of work, I’ll ask my boss if there would be any openings for a job. If yes, I’ll recommend you.”

“Really?” My eyes light up, glimmering with hope and he smiles, nodding. “Thank you,” I hug him briefly as we go back to watching the show. Finally, things begin to slowly work out for me.

The next day I start off with my therapy session in Dr. Melanie Roberts. It’s a good way to start a weekend. “Isabel, I’m glad to see you again. How are you today?” She asks, with that gentle smile that I could get used to.

“Not bad. Not good either. Just…surviving,” I give her a faint smile as I try to relax in the chair, but I fail miserably. She notices my struggle right away.

“Just surviving, huh? That sounds like you’re holding things together, but it’s taking some effort.”

“It does,” I nod.

“Sometimes, when we’re just surviving our bodies stay in fight-or-flight mode. Even in safe spaces. You don’t have to force yourself to be okay here, Isabel. You just have to be,” she reassures me, which helps me to get less tense eventually.

“I just…I feel like I’m learning stuff that I’m supposed to already know - how to not hurt people, how to respect boundaries, how to make my own choices without listening to what other people say,” I confess with a heavy breath.

“Usually that happens when we’re focused on surviving. Your environment, mostly your mother, was pretty hostile and so you were in a survival mode. Now that you’re away from that influence you get a real chance at finding yourself. In other words, you can’t expect to be as thriving in adulthood as others that didn’t go through the same experience.”

“But other people went through trauma as well. Maybe different than mine, but trauma is trauma, right? Why do I feel like they’re better at becoming their own people than I am?”
“Because we’re all different. It’s as simple as that,” she lets the words sink in before she continues: “And it’s okay that you’re different, Isabel. Healing isn’t a race. It’s not a competition for who becomes whole the fastest,” she shakes her head slowly as if to make her words hit harder. “You said something important a moment ago. That you’re learning how not to hurt people, how to make your own choices. That’s real work. Most people don’t even reach that awareness until much later, sometimes never. The fact that you’re seeing it now means you’re not stuck anymore. You’re waking up to yourself,” as she says that I look down, twisting my fingers and thinking about her words. They’re a source of comfort, but at the same time the reason for worry. Worry that I’m still behind, still not in a place that I crave to be at. Just as if she could read my mind, Dr. Roberts continues: “I know that when you look at others it might seem like they’ve got it all figured out. But often, the people who seem the most in control are the ones who’ve never had to rebuild themselves from the ground up.
You’re not behind, Isabel. You’re just starting at a different point. What matters isn’t where they are. It’s that you’re finally in a place where you can stop surviving and start living.”

I look at her and I can see the amount of empathy in her eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time. It keeps my heart warm, it gives me hope. “Last time, we talked about my biggest regret when it comes to Jeremiah,” I swallow hard as I say it, still playing with my fingers.

“I remember,” she nods and opens her notes. “You talked about the moment when you said on the day of your wedding that part of you will always love Conrad.”

“Yeah,” my voice barely a whisper as I look down for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. “I don’t understand why I even said that.”

“Sometimes, when we’re under emotional pressure, especially in moments as intense as that one…we don’t speak from logic. We speak from confusion, fear, or guilt. And I think what you said to Jeremiah that day wasn’t about Conrad as much as it was about you not knowing how to separate what you felt then from what you thought you were supposed to feel. You’d been caught between the two brothers for years, right? Between what your heart wanted and what everyone else - your mom, their family - expected of you. So, in that moment, maybe saying ‘a part of me will always love Conrad’ wasn’t about loving him, but feeling that you’re supposed to?

My eyes well up with tears as she says that and I start to sob quietly, accepting the tissue that Dr. Roberts hands me.

“You know, I learned about attachment styles in my classes yesterday. And I realized that Conrad triggers the same patterns that my mom does. Their avoidant tendencies trigger my anxious ones.”

“That’s an incredible insight, Isabel. You’re starting to make connections between what you’ve studied and what you’ve lived, that's real emotional work. When someone triggers the same patterns we experienced growing up, it can feel magnetic, almost addictive. Our nervous system mistakes that anxiety for passion. It’s not love, it’s familiarity. When you were around Conrad, your body probably felt the same pull it did when you were trying to win your mom’s attention, that sense of if I can just do or say the right thing, they’ll finally choose me. And when they did pull away, it reinforced the fear that you weren’t enough. That’s not love, Isabel. That’s a wound being re-opened again and again.

“I didn’t really love him. I just kept chasing the feeling of being chosen,” I say it aloud for the first time.

“Yes,” she nods, looking at me intently.

“Jeremiah brought out the secure style in me and I…I’d like to think that I brought out the same in him. At least I think that was the case for the most part. But…,” I hesitate before I continue. “At the end of it…I became avoidant, after Conrad came back in the picture. And Jeremiah started being anxious.”

“That’s a really powerful observation, Isabel. It sounds like when the balance between you and Jeremiah shifted, when that old pattern with Conrad was reactivated…it pulled you both out of that sense of security you’d built together.”

“Yeah…yeah, I guess,” I whisper, my voice full of shame and Dr. Roberts picks up on that immediately.

“What often happens in relationships is that when one partner’s attachment system gets triggered, the other naturally responds in the opposite direction. It’s like a dance - one person moves closer, the other steps back. You became avoidant to protect yourself, as you mentioned before - things started happening too fast, and Jeremiah became anxious because he felt you slipping away. Both of you were acting out of fear, not because you stopped caring,” she says. I bite my lip nervously, looking at my feet as I listen to her words. I feel extremely guilty for my behaviour, for my lack of self-awareness in the past, for the damage that I’ve done to Jere. “You and Jeremiah might have triggered each other’s fears at the end, but that doesn’t erase the security you once shared. It just means that when stress entered the picture - family pressure, Conrad’s return, unresolved grief - your old survival patterns came back. And now, in therapy, you’re learning how to notice them instead of letting them take over.”

I nod slowly and take a deep breath. “Sometimes…sometimes I worry that I’m as bad for Jeremiah as Conrad was for me,” I keep my voice low, as if saying it quietly could soften the fear.

“Isabel, I can’t speak for Jeremiah, obviously. But I can tell you this - from what you told me your relationships were entirely different and so those dynamics aren’t the same. There were different reasons for hurt, different timeline, different aspects of what worked in them…finally - all three of you are different people,” she says slowly. “And what matters is that you’re aware of your part now - that awareness alone keeps you from ever becoming what hurt you.”

“On the conscious level I get it, but on the subconscious one…it doesn’t stick. At least not yet,” I give her an apologetic, shy smile.

She nods and leans a bit. “Okay, then allow me to rephrase it. Conrad triggered your anxious attachment because of who he was - avoidant, manipulative, unavailable. You, on the other hand, are aware of your patterns. You care about how your actions affect Jeremiah. That’s not the same as what Conrad did to you. Your love with Jeremiah…it wasn’t built on fear or control. It was built on connection,” as she says it I can feel hope building up in me again, just a tiny spark of it. But it’s a good start, a start that actually makes me feel steadier in the belief that I might not be the villain, or maybe I still am, but the one that can be redeemed.

Then I meet with dad and oh, it’s awkward. He’s trying his best, I know he does, but every look he gives me tells me just how worried he is. Thank god that Owen stayed for lunch with us, otherwise I would have to answer uncomfortable questions earlier. That way I got an extra hour to prepare myself for the inevitable. That way we can talk first about lighter subjects - like what I did the last couple of days, how’s Steven and Taylor, how’s my studies and dad’s work. Only then we dive into the worse part. “How are you holding up, kid?” He asks.

I wince at the kid part, but answer nonetheless: “Alright,” the answer is well-studied at this point as it feels like I was asked about it countless times since Christmas. “I’ll be better when I get my stuff back from his apartment, though,” I say as soon as Owen leaves for work and there’s only the two of us left in the flat.

Dad nods, his fingers tapping on the table as if he’s bracing yourself for asking something heavier. “That Owen guy…are you with him?”

“What?” My eyes widen in utter surprise. Whatever I expected to hear…it certainly wasn’t that. “No!” I immediately deny his suspicion. “We’re just friends. Where does it come from?”
He shrugs, his cheeks slightly red as he averts the eye contact. I rarely see him this flustered, only when he’s really embarrassed. It’s so different from mom. She’s never embarrassed about anything, even when she should. “I guess…I’m just not used to you being friends with a boy without getting romantically involved with him,” he apologizes as he finally looks at me. My heart breaks as I hear that and this time I’m the one that’s blushing, looking awkwardly. “Sorry, that was wrong of me to assume-”

“No, it’s alright,” I cut in, surprising both of us. “I didn’t give you reasons to think otherwise, did I?” I say flatly and follow with a sad chuckle. He seems guilty after hearing my words and he opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t let him, instead I keep going: “I think I finally learned that, dad. I finally learned how to be just friends with no lingering feelings for a guy,” I smile softly. “I guess that…that I felt ugly for such a big part of my life that when I finally turned pretty…I got lost for a while.”

“You were always pretty, Belly,” he reassures me and I let that slip. He’s my dad. Of course he’s obligated to say that.

“Please, let me finish…,” I say quietly and continue after a moment of pause: “Part of me…part of me felt like I finally got to make up for all those years when I had no attention and I ended up choosing every person that showed me even the slightest interest. Which was immature, but I think I finally got over it. I no longer chase that, dad. Really.”

“It’s good to hear, darling,” he smiles and squeezes my hand in a comforting manner. I smile back. “So…you and Conrad, huh? Finally over? For good?” He looks at me carefully, the sudden shift in topic feels off at first, but ultimately it’s understandable. That’s probably one of the reasons why he came here in the first place - to make sure that I won’t slip back into that.

“For good,” I nod. “I was actually thinking about picking my stuff today. Just to get it over with.”

“Want me to go with you?” He asks right away.

“Um…yeah, you can. I mean, I need someone to drive me so I can take everything with me without the need to ever come back.”

He seems pleased with my words and so he urges us to leave the flat and insists on going there right away. “There’s no point in waiting,” he says. I’m actually taken aback by his eagerness to do that, but I’m thankful. Finally, I can close that chapter.

As we drive, the silence in the car seems so thick it can be cut with a knife. I take one glimpse at dad, ready to ask him what’s on his mind, but he breaks it for me: “I saw Jeremiah last night.”

I blink twice, thinking that maybe I misheard him. “You did…you did what?” I mumble.

“Yeah…,” his voice is full of remorse as he sighs deeply. “I’m sorry. I met him accidentally and we talked. It wasn’t on purpose.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have. I mean, he deserves peace. Trust me,” I whisper, looking down. “Besides, one parent talking to my ex is more than enough,” I say bitterly.

“Your mother is…difficult,” he says carefully. “That doesn’t mean that she doesn’t care.”

“Yeah, cares about Conrad and their needs. Not mine.”

“She cares about you too.”

“If she does, she has a strange way of showing it,” I cut the conversation and we continue our drive in silence. I only speak up again once we’re at the parking lot in front of his apartment. The apartment that I once shared with him, that he insisted on calling ours. But it was never really mine. And it would never be. I’d be a guest there for the rest of my life. Just like he’d be the guest in my heart, not its inhabitant. Unlike Jere. I may have lost him, but he’ll be the resident of my everything - heart, soul, body and mind - for the rest of my life. I know it. 

“I didn’t want to upset you…,” he says slowly.

“I know,” I nod quickly. “But I…I don’t want to talk about her. At least not for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” he says solemnly and I give him a faint smile. “Let’s go upstairs,” he adds.

“No,” I say quickly before he manages to unbuckle his seatbelt. “I’ll go alone.”

“Are you sure? What if he’s at home?” As he asks that question I realize something. Suddenly all pieces of the puzzle come together - why Steven was so eager to go with him and why dad wants to go there with me now. They don’t trust me. They don’t trust that I won’t go back together with him. 

I stare at my hands for a while, my body feeling heavy as if a stone was placed on my back, pressing down on me and forcing me to go down. But I don’t want to go down. I want to throw that stone the fuck away. “Yeah. I’m sure. That’s the thing that I should do on my own,” I finally say. “Trust me, please,” I look at him when he doesn’t say anything and we stare at each other for a few seconds before he finally nods, accepting it. Good. I would go there by myself even if he didn’t agree. 

I get out of the car, my steps heavy as I enter the familiar hallway and press the lift’s button up. There's familiar music playing and I tap my fingers nervously on my thigh as I’m getting closer to the right floor. The key to his apartment is heavy in my pocket and I grab it as soon as I see the door leading to his flat. I take a deep breath and count to ten before opening it. Still, my hands are shaking.

It feels so odd to be here again, every corner of the room a reminder of what we had. Alas, it’s not a good reminder. Every memory is painful. It’s never been like that with Jere. My memories with him are full of joy and intimacy, yes sadness too, but it doesn’t overshadow everything else, unlike with Conrad.

I look around and realize that the apartment is empty. I exhale shakily, my heartbeat slowing down. I open the suitcase that I brought with myself and start collecting my stuff. Thankfully, there’s not much to pick up - yet another reminder that I never belonged here. Not really. I was committed to the idea instead of reality that turned to be far more painful and lonely than it should. Luckily, now I know it doesn’t have to be this way. Love, the real kind, doesn’t feel like this. 

I pack a few books that I had in here. Books that I never finished as I dropped my passion for reading. Yet another thing that I should reclaim. Then I go to the bedroom and grab my clothes. They’re neatly folded, but I just throw them inside the suitcase. I don’t care about doing it nice. It just has to be done. The faster the better. When I’m done with that part I look for the jewelry box. I feel a sense of panic spreading across me as I can’t find it. Where the hell did I put it?! I look around hecticly, feeling like I’m fighting against time, but I finally find it and press it close to my chest, almost kissing the box in utter joy when I open it and find the only thing that I came back for - Jeremiah’s ring. It’s still there, untouched, carrying the memory of my true love. Love that I destroyed, but it was still love. It was real. As real as it could be. I put it back on my finger, not wanting to lose it out of my sight again. Then I look at another piece of jewelry that’s there - the silver infinity necklace. I stare at it for a few seconds before I close the box and put it back in place. I don’t need that one anymore. Hell, I don’t think I even need anything else from this place. 

I’m ready to leave the apartment, but as I’m about to grab the doorknob, it goes down and the door opens. Conrad. He’s in front of me. Old me, the one that was still infatuated with the idea of him, would think that it’s a dream come true, a wish granted, a freaking romcom. But that old me doesn’t exist anymore, or at least doesn’t have power over me anymore. Thus, the current version of me finds his presence unwanted and drama-like.

“You’re back?” He whispers, his eyes lighting up for a second in triumph, but the sense of victory quickly vanishes as he looks at the suitcase.”What are you doing?” Now he’s back to being the pained version of him. It honestly stuns me how quickly his mood can change, depending on the situation. It feels…unnatural. It feels fake. Just like our relationship did.

“I came to pick up my stuff,” I say simply.

“Belly…it doesn’t have to be this way,” he shakes his head as he takes a step toward me. I take a step back, matching his pace. He purses his lips into a thin line as he sees that. “Belly…come on. I told you I’m sorry. I…I love you,” as he says that he looks at me with puppy eyes and I want to chuckle bitterly. I stop myself, though. I don’t need this conversation to be longer than necessary. Frankly, I don't want to speak to him at all. Alas, I should. I should for the sake of closure - something we didn’t really get before and maybe it was another reason for my uncertainty in the past - the fact that things seemed unfinished, words left unsaid.

“I don’t think you do,” I sigh deeply as I take my hand off the suitcase.

“You can’t say that,” he shakes his head, his words adamant. “I do love you.”

“Maybe…but not in a way that I need you to. Not in a way that I…that I can accept.”

I see panic in his eyes. He searches mine as if he hopes that he’ll find something to clutch onto, but he fails. He fails and it angers him, I can tell by the way he clenches his fists, his knuckles turning white. I take another step back, not risking a slap that I expect at this point. “I can change it. I’m not the same person that I used to be.”

I wince as he says that. “You said the very same thing when you came to Paris and nothing has changed. If anything, things became worse. All of our differences became even more intense and defining than when we were teenagers,” I insist, my leg bouncing nervously in place. “Look, it…it was a mistake even back then. We shouldn’t have gotten back together at all.”

“No,” he refuses to accept my words, putting his foot on the ground and I honestly feel so lost, so misunderstood, so exhausted. Just like I always did with him. “The only mistake was letting you study at Brown. It clearly messed with your head, with your way of thinking, with-”

“Letting me study at Brown?!” I repeat his words, completely infuriated with his words. The way he said it, like it’s the only truth, like his words are sacred. It makes me realize that’s just who he is. He always knows best. He always has the best opinion. It’s always his words that matter and should be made into a law. That’s the same issue that my mother has. Hell, she’s probably the one that enabled that kind of thinking in him. Part of me feels sorry for him, but it’s a tiny one. The bigger part is angry and wants to get out of this place. “I’m not your doll to make decisions about my life, about anything,” I shake my head hecticly.

“You’re not a doll,” he says as he takes another step closer, his eyes searching mine. My heart races, but it’s not a good kind of race that makes you excited for what’s about to come. It’s the kind of race that makes you want to run away, because it’s a threat. Don’t let yourself get trapped again, I order myself. “But you’re acting like a fucking child. Grow up, Belly. We have a life together, you can’t just walk out of it like it means nothing,” he throws his hands helplessly.

“You know who I had a life with?” I ask flatly, my eyes fixed on him. Don’t be afraid. “I had a life with Jeremiah. A good fucking life and you just couldn’t leave me be, could you? You had to…you had to come and mess with my head and-”

“It’s not-” he tries to deny my accusation, but I don’t let him, I’m on the roll now. 

“It’s not your fault that I fell for it, that’s on me. That’s true. But it’s on you for not letting go of me. It’s on you for intentionally messing with my head. That was…that was cruel. Not only to me, but to Jere as well. Mostly to Jere. To your brother,” I say the last sentence as a reminder, because sometimes it feels like he forgets about that part, like it means nothing to him. 

“Belly, I didn’t want you to waste your life with him. He cheated, remember? He left the whole wedding planning on your head while he probably slacked off in Boston,” he tried to convince me in a different way this time and it’s so obvious. How could I not notice that pattern in the past? He’s…he’s so manipulative.

“Bullshit. You asked me that night why I can’t move in with him instead of marrying him, by that logic - wouldn’t that be wasting my life as well? You just didn’t want him to have me, admit it.”

“No, that’s not it,” he shakes his head again, closing the distance between us, his hands painfully gripping my arms. He realizes what he’s doing and lets go of me, but doesn’t take a step back, invading my space. “I thought I could give you better. I know I can. I love you,” he repeats, probably thinking that it will sink in this time, but it won’t. His words don’t work like an anchor anymore. I’m immune now. It took me a long time, but I can feel it in my bones - I know myself enough at this point to know what I don’t want. And what I don’t want is Conrad.

“If you really did you’d actually be with me. You’d actually try. You wouldn’t belittle me or force your ideas on me. You wouldn’t…you wouldn’t make love feel so conditional and lonely,” I shake my head. My eyes are full of tears, not because I’m sad for the relationship, not because I need to mourn it, but because I can finally say what’s always bothered me about us. It’s as if something unlocked inside of me, all walls broken. “It’s time to face it. It wasn’t love. It never was. It was…a mistake. A big one,” I say as I grab my suitcase again, ready to leave.

“You don’t mean that,” he makes his last attempt, but he’s not so confident anymore. He’s angry, he’s in fear. It brings no satisfaction as that isn’t the point. The point is closure and it’s finally happening for me.

“I do,” I say, looking him straight in the eyes, everything about my face says that I’m honest in my words. “Goodbye, Conrad,” I say on my way out.

The door closes behind me with a soft click that feels louder than any fight we ever had.