LAYLA

CHAPTER 4

My head hurt. Not just a normal headache—something deeper, like my skull had been stuffed with cotton and regret. My whole body ached too, heavy and slow, like it didn’t belong to me.

I pushed myself up from the bed, every movement dragging. For a second, I just sat there, staring at nothing, trying to remember how I even got here.

My room.

I looked around slowly. The same walls. The same mess. My jacket half on the floor. My shoes still on.

How did I—

The last thing I remembered was the street. Cold air. The taste of something bitter in my mouth. Throwing up while someone held my hair back. A car door opening.

Someone driving me home.

"Wait…"

I stood up too fast, the room tilting slightly. I grabbed the edge of my desk until everything settled, then stumbled toward the window.

My car was there.

Parked properly. Not crooked. Not abandoned.

I exhaled, a quiet, shaky breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

So I made it home.

Somehow.

I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass for a second, letting the coolness ground me, then pulled away.

No time to think.

School.

I checked the time and swore under my breath. Thirty minutes.

Of course.

I dragged myself into the bathroom, turning on the shower. The water hit my skin too hard at first, too hot, but I didn’t bother adjusting it. I just stood there under it, letting it burn, letting it wash over me.

Maybe it would wash everything else away too.

It didn’t.

I got out, dried off quickly, and stared at myself in the mirror.

Dark circles. Puffy eyes. Skin dull.

I looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks.

I grabbed my makeup and covered what I could. Not too much—just enough to make it less obvious. Just enough so no one would ask questions I didn’t feel like answering.

Not that I’d answer them anyway.

I got dressed fast, threw my books into my bag without really checking what I needed, and headed downstairs.

And there she was.

Of course she was.

My mom stood in the kitchen, already dressed, already alert. Too alert.

I didn’t slow down. I didn’t look at her. I just walked straight toward the door, keys already in my hand.

"Won’t you eat something?"

There it was, she was always asking questions, I know she cares but...

I didn’t even pause. "Not hungry."

My voice came out flat. Empty. Even to me, it sounded like it didn’t belong to a real person.

"How so?" I could feel her watching me now. Waiting.

Expecting something, I gave her nothing.

Silence stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable.

She sighed. "You came back home really late, and you were drunk." Her tone shifted—less casual now. Sharper. "Plus, let's not forget that you left your brother at school."

I rolled my eyes, gripping my keys tighter. "I waited for him. He didn’t show up." That part was true. Everything else she said—I just let it pass through me like it didn’t matter.

"Don't be ridiculous, he had football practice," she said. "You will drop him off today, and ensure you both come back together."

I clenched my jaw.

Why couldn’t she do it?

Why was it always—

"Sure." The word came out before I could stop it. Automatic. Empty.

I turned the handle, ready to leave.

"I also want you to promise me that you are fine," she added, softer now, but somehow worse. "And you aren't drinking because of what happened."

That made something twist inside my chest.

Of course I was.

And maybe if you actually paid attention—

"I'm not," I cut in. "And every teenager drinks."

The lie sat heavy in my mouth, but I didn’t care.

I walked out before she could say anything else.

The air outside felt different. Quieter. Easier to breathe.

I got into my car and shut the door harder than necessary.

For a second, I just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

Then the passenger door opened.

Luke. He got in without saying anything, closing the door gently, like he didn’t want to set me off.

I started the engine and we pulled out.

I drove faster than I should have, the road blurring slightly at the edges. I checked the time again.

Ten minutes.

Perfect.

I heard Luke clear his throat beside me. I didn’t look at him.

"Um… I saw that you’ve almost run out of your anxiety pills," he said carefully. "Do you still get them?"

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.

"Get what?"

"The attacks."

For a second, everything went quiet. Even the sound of the engine felt distant.

I used to have panic attacks. Used to, but it was a long time ago. That’s why my doctor prescribed Xanax. I kept my eyes on the road. I didn’t have them anymore though, but I still took the pills. Just… not for the same reason.

If I told him I didn’t have any left, he’d tell Mom.

If I told him I still had them, he’d still tell her.

There was no right answer.

"I don’t have them anymore," I said finally. "It just came often then. That’s why they’ve run out." It sounded believable enough. I think.

"Okay."

That was it.

No more questions.

The rest of the ride stayed quiet. Not peaceful quiet—just empty.

We pulled into the school parking lot. I parked in my usual spot and turned off the engine. Luke didn’t move right away. "I might be a little late," he said, already opening the door. Then he left.

I sat there for a second longer, staring at nothing again, before forcing myself out of the car.

The school felt louder than usual. Too many voices. Too much movement.

I walked straight to my locker, dumped everything inside, and grabbed only my English notebook. One class at a time.

That’s how I survived.

I shut the locker and turned, walking faster than I needed to

—and bumped into someone. I looked up, already annoyed, already ready to snap—

Then I froze.

It was him.

The guy from the bar. "Oh, it’s you again," he said, that same lopsided smile on his face, like this was funny. I rolled my eyes and walked past him without saying anything. Not today.

Not ever.

I got to my English class and dropped into my seat, pulling out my earbuds immediately. I wasn’t doing this.

Music filled my ears, drowning everything else out. I didn’t even care what was playing—just something loud enough to keep my thoughts away.

I opened my notebook and started doodling random shapes, lines crossing over each other, filling space without meaning anything. Just like everything else.

Time passed.

I think.

When the class ended, I stood up quickly and walked out, heading toward the field.

I needed air. Space. Anything.

I was halfway there when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I pulled out one earbud and turned.

Simon.

Of course.

I just stared at him, waiting for him to say whatever he came to say.

"You weren’t really focused in class," he said, a little awkward. "So I jotted down the homework for you." He handed me a small piece of paper. I took it, glancing at it briefly. A two-page essay on the ocean. Great.

I shoved it into my bag and zipped it up. "Thanks." I turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" he asked. Why did he care?

"The field," I said. "To take a smoke."

"Okay," he said quietly. But I could feel it. He wasn’t done.

When I reached the field, I dropped down onto the grass, the coolness seeping through my clothes. For a second, I just sat there, staring ahead. Then I felt someone sit beside me. I didn’t even need to look. I knew it was Simon. I pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag. The smoke filled my lungs, heavy and familiar. Without this, I’d probably lose it. At least this made everything… quieter.

"Can I say something?" he asked. I exhaled, watching the smoke disappear into the air. Why did people keep trying?

I turned to him, finally looking properly.

He looked nervous. Scratching the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure he should even be here. "...What is it?" I said. It came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t fix it.

"I need your help," he said. I held his gaze, waiting.

He hesitated, then continued, "I need you to come over to my house after school today."

I just stared at him.

Why me?

Out of everyone—why me?

When I didn’t respond, he rushed to explain. "We have to work on a book for lit class."

Oh. Right. I let out a small laugh before I could stop myself. It sounded wrong. Out of place. Like I didn’t belong in my own body. School, Grades, Graduating. As if any of that mattered.

I crushed the cigarette into the ground and flicked it away.

"Sure," I said, pushing myself up.