7. Alex

Chapter seven

Alex

I tap the steering wheel with my fingers to the restless rhythm of my unsettled chest. The leather feels cool and smooth under my skin, but it does nothing to ease my bubbling anxiety. It reminds of the annoying hum of a broken refrigerator that you can’t fix or unplug.

And it’s getting louder.

I’m not suicidal—haven’t been for a while now—but the depression? Some days, I can ignore it by shoving it into a corner of my mind where it barely whispers.

But today, it’s screaming.

The thing about mental illness is, it doesn’t care who I am or what I have. It simply claws its way through, gripping tighter until it exhausts me enough to snap my control over the haze. Breathing is exhausting, and it hurts to be alive.

Every day, I’m slowly dying inside and no one knows.

On my worst days, I want the dirt surrounding my coffin to finally enter my throat and kill me .

I pull up outside Celeste’s apartment, the building towering over me—a monolith of steel and glass that reflects the waning sunlight. I turn off the engine and just sit there for a moment, trying to piece together the right words. It has to be done. I need to break things off with her.

There’s this small, twisted part of me that hopes Daphne is there. I want her to see it, to witness the end of my relationship. But as I climb the steps to Celeste’s door, I know that’s not going to happen. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

“Alex!” Celeste flings open the door and, in a sugary voice, chirps, “Alex!” She’s alone.

“Hey,” I manage, the word feeling like a stone on my tongue.

She steps aside, and I enter her apartment. It’s all pristine surfaces and expensive decor, a reflection of the life she’s used to: polished and perfect. Yet none of that glitters for me anymore.

“Can we talk?” I say, turning to face her.

“Of course, babe! What’s up?” Oblivious to the storm brewing within me, her eyes are bright and expectant.

I take a deep breath, bracing myself. This isn’t just the end of us; it’s the start of something new. For both of us, I hope.

For a brief moment, her brow furrows, and I suspect that she knows I’m about to break up with her. It’s written across her face. But then it’s gone and she must dismiss it, because she leaps into my arms, wraps her legs around my waist, and pulls me close. I can feel the force of her need, the desperation in her actions, and it only makes the pit in my stomach grow deeper. It’s like she thinks she can grind away the truth between us with lust.

Might have worked B.D.—before Daphne—but not anymore.

“Hey, hey,” I murmur, gently but firmly setting her down beside me on the couch. Ripping the band aid off, I say the words no woman wants to hear. “We need to talk.”

She’s unfazed. “Oh, come on, Alex,” she protests, her pout full and glossy, engineered for maximum effect. “Can’t it wait? I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

“Exactly why we can’t hold off,” I press, feeling the gnawing inside me that has nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with dread. The kind that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin or sleep for a year straight.

“Remember senior prom?” she says suddenly, eyes sparkling with the memory as she throws her hair back in a practiced move. “We were, like, the ultimate couple. You looked so hot in that tux, and we danced all night long.”

That night is etched vividly in my memory. It was one of those rare occasions when the heaviness lifted from my shoulders, and I felt weightless. We spun around the dance floor, laughter mingling with the music, and for those hours, my demons receded. I could pretend, for a little while, that I wasn’t shackled to this perpetual darkness.

“Those were good times,” I admit, voice softening despite myself. There’s an ache in acknowledging the past. They’re like ghosts now, haunting me with the reminder of how things used to be before everything got so complicated.

“Let’s have more of them,” she insists, her hands reaching for me again.

Yet I can’t let her, not when every touch feels like a lie.

A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek. If my old middle school bullies were here, they’d call me a pussy.

“Listen, Celeste, I care about you, a lot.” My words are as deliberate as the decision that brought me here. Victoria told me to be honest and to the point. So I will. “It’s time to move on and pursue other people.”

Her eyes urgently seek my attention. Unfortunately for her, there’s only truth in my gaze.

“Please, Alex, don’t say that,” she pleads, her voice stripped of its usual confidence. Her hands tremble as they clutch at mine, as if she could physically hold us together. “Let’s work this out. Don’t—”

I pull back gently, steady despite the quiver in my heart. “We can still be friends. I hope you know that.” Aiming to soften the blow I add, “I really don’t want this to affect your friendship with Victoria either.”

Celeste collapses into herself, her sobs ricocheting off the walls. I feel like shit. She gasps between tears, words jumbled and desperate. “No, please! I’ll do anything, Alex. Whatever I can do to keep you.”

Guilt gnaws at me. This is about Celeste too. She deserves a man who’s consumed with his entire being, like Daphne consumes mine.

“Alex, think about our parents and friends; they want us to get married! Everyone thinks we’re perfect together!” She’s grappling for any argument to sway me.

For so long, I cared about appearances. If I seemed happy and it appeared like I had friends, I could pretend that everything was okay. Now, having Daphne return to my life reminded me that pretending to be happy and being happy are two very different things.

“Being good on paper isn’t enough,” I counter, each word laced with conviction. Sometimes, I wonder if my parents are satisfied together. Dad’s always gone, and Mom’s a pain in my ass. They never share affection, and honestly, I have a hard time believing that they’ve had sex at least twice to make Vic and me. Do I want that for my own life?

Funny. When I was twelve, I think I would have grasped at any opportunity that involved friends and love. Pre-Daphne Alex would have come at the idea of just having a wife. I suppose that means I’m getting better. Mentally, that is.

Celeste’s pain claws at me, wanting me to relent.

“I gave you the best years of my life!” Her wails fill the room, each plea a dagger in my already bleeding conscience.

Oh God, I hope that when she said “best years of my life”, she didn’t mean we’ve reached our peak. I dream that the best is yet to come. So I remind her, “You’ll have more good years, and we’ll still be friends.”

You would think I said ”it’s not you; it’s me” because her stance changes to annoyed. With mascara running down her cheeks, she straightens her back. “Oh, look at you, nerdy dweeb Alex over there, afraid if we’re not friends, he’ll be alone again.”

She doesn’t mean it. She’s just mad and trying everything she can to keep me. Years ago, the word “dweeb” was a trigger for me. It still is, but I’m able to push past it enough to continue our breakup.

I stand up, leaving her diminutive form curled on the couch. It’s best I leave before we say something we regret. Before I walk to the door, I cast one last glance at Celeste, hoping to find some acceptance in her face.

Big mistake.

“Baby, please,” she rasps, voice cracked from crying. Her hand reaches out, trembling as it grasps mine. She looks exposed. Real. Vulnerable. “Homecoming is in two weeks. Can’t we just pretend until then? I don’t want to explain to the entire campus that you broke up with me after we’ve spent the last eight years together. You can’t just expect me to get over you in the matter of seconds. How can I heal while continuously having to describe how you broke up with me? Dumped me.”

I hate that word. Dumped.

I never wanted to be the villain in her story. Her blue eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, seek an answer I’m afraid to give.

“Everyone’s expecting us to go together,” she whispers, and I feel the weight of those expectations like chains around my ankles.

“Celly.” The nickname slips out. I want to pull my hand away, reclaim the part of me that agrees to this charade. But I’m frozen, caught between kindness and the truth.

“Please,” she continues, her grip tightening. “Just through homecoming. Then, I swear I’ll tell everyone. I just don’t want to face it all right now. I’d rather get over you in peace, without having to explain how you left me after eight years. Let me heal, go to homecoming, and then I’ll tell them. ”

She makes a good point. Just a few days ago, she was talking about marriage. I’m giving her whiplash. The least I can do is give her a few weeks to adjust to us broken up.

So I’m clear, I ask, “We won’t really be dating, but you want to pretend?”

“Yes, just until after homecoming. Ease me into it.”

I see her there, not as the cheerleader adored by the masses or the girl who craves the spotlight, but as someone who fears the solitude of walking into a room alone. It mirrors the void I so often feel.

Plus, it is short notice to search for a new homecoming date. Not that she couldn’t get any man she wanted just by batting her eyelashes.

“Two weeks,” I find myself saying. “And then you tell them.”

“Thank you, thank you!” She launches forward, pressing her lips against mine in a kiss that tastes like coffee. It’s a peck, with no tongue, so I allow her to get away with it. As she said, ease into the breakup.

I can almost hear the whispers at homecoming, can feel the stares that will follow our every move. And after, when the truth comes out, what then? Will it make her fall harder, or will it be a relief, a bandage ripped off to let the wound finally breathe?

“You won’t regret this,” Celeste breathes against my neck, her tears now replaced with a predatory smile .

Remorse is already a stone in my stomach. As she clings to me, I wonder if the lies we tell ourselves are kinder than the truths we hide from. If, for Celeste, the pretense of love is better than none at all.

As her arms wrap around me, I close my eyes. In my mind, I retreat to a kitchen filled with the aroma of spices and the heat of the oven, a place where things are simpler, where my heart doesn’t weigh me down.

“Only until homecoming,” I remind her and pray that the promise of an ending is enough to get us both through the performance ahead.