BACK TO BLACK

Please remember this is a work of fiction. Roxanne's Pov. The announcer's voice fills the air, a symphony of precision and grace that pierces through the fog of my nerves. Her English is pristine, and each word is articulated with clarity that seems almost impossible for me to achieve right now. The confidence in her tone serves as a painful contrast to the turmoil within me. It's no wonder she secured a job at DCA Airport with that kind of poise. My breath is a fragile whisper, barely audible, as if any louder and the person next to me might sense my anxiety. I turn up the volume on my AirPods, letting "Wildest Dreams" wash over me. The song's rhythm pulses through my body, a blend of sharp intensity and gentle nostalgia, juxtaposed against the frenetic beat of my heart, which seems determined to leap from my chest. I feel a wave of exhaustion crashing over me, my energy siphoned by the effort of keeping my last meal down. The fear has seeped into my very bones, making them feel heavier than my overstuffed suitcases. My chest is a fortress of dread, my breath a prisoner within its walls, each inhale and exhale a battle. My shoulders slump under the invisible weight, my eyelids drooping as if bearing the burden of the world. I pride myself on my confidence, but some moments shake you to your core, leaving you wanting to hide away. I'm not afraid of all airports, just DCA. Despite the wonderful memories, my last experience there was unpleasant. One bad experience can taint the rest, and that's resonating with me now. Despite the fear, returning to Washington DC stirs a sense of excitement. The anticipation of reuniting with my family, whom I've missed dearly, is a beacon of hope. Yet, beneath that excitement lies a persistent anxiety. I'm scared. Scared of what it means to be back at home I missed it so much and yearned for it, but with that yearning comes a resurgence of everything I've tried to bury for four years. My therapist's warnings echo in my mind, and her advice to confront my fears before returning now rings true. I had been too busy, too distracted, to heed her words. But can we truly claim to be living if we continually postpone facing our problems? "Face your fears," they say, but they never mention how facing them can feel worse than the fear itself. Amidst this turmoil, there's a wedding—a joyous occasion to celebrate my best friend. It's the perfect time to have fun, but the anxiety threatens to overshadow my excitement. I adjust the wide-brimmed brown hat perched on my head, its shadow offering a semblance of anonymity. Behind dark sunglasses, I scan the sea of faces, my auburn waves tucked beneath a wig, a shield against recognition. The meticulous effort to remain unnoticed must hold until I reach the safety of home. The prospect of facing the Washington DC paparazzi, known for their ruthlessness, sends a shiver down my spine. I can already imagine the sensational headlines and invasive stories that will flood the gossip forums once my return is revealed. For the past four years, I've enjoyed a peaceful existence away from the spotlight. I could run errands without fear of physical or verbal attacks, and the internet death threats had subsided after I left. It was a much-needed break, allowing me to focus on my career without the constant scrutiny and judgment. But, I've returned for another reason. My second art exhibition at the Savoy Museum will take place in two months. The first month will be dedicated to my best friend and her wedding, but after that, my focus will shift entirely to the exhibition. I hesitated about holding it in Washington, D.C., because what if it fails? My reputation isn't the best, and my fan base is small. Yet, running away isn't an option anymore. With two suitcases and a backpack, I weave through the airport crowd. The white tiled floors gleam under harsh fluorescent lights, and my sneakers squeak softly with each step. I've donned a disguise to avoid attention. The last thing I need is to be thrust back into the spotlight. As I step outside, the sun's harsh rays scorch my skin, and the oppressive heat wraps around me like a suffocating blanket. The cacophony of cab drivers' voices mingles with the relentless blare of horns, making the air throb with chaos. I pull my phone from my pocket and dial my dad's number, but it goes straight to voicemail. Two more attempts yielded the same result, each beep amplifying my frustration. Desperation creeps in, and I call my mom. Her words are a mix of concern and confusion: Dad left a while ago. Lost in the digital void of unanswered calls, I momentarily forget my surroundings. A sudden tap on my back sends a jolt of fear coursing through me, causing my phone to slip from my hand and clatter onto the pavement. My heart races, each beat echoing a thousand paranoid thoughts: someone has recognized me, someone has seen through my disguise. But then, relief washed over me as I turned to see a familiar smile. He stands there, oblivious to the panic he induced. One look at my hastily thrown-together disguise and he chuckles. "Is this your way of blending in?" His voice is a rich baritone, soothing and familiar, like a comforting embrace. "Why did you have to scare me that much?" I managed, trying to steady my voice. "It's not my fault you're scared of your own shadow," he teases, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Your disguise is cute." His face glows with a mix of amusement and appreciation. "No one noticed me," I said, adjusting my hat and wig, and casting furtive glances around to ensure we were still unnoticed. "I did," he replied simply. "That's because you were looking for me," I retorted. "True," he says, his blue eyes locking onto mine. Malakai Savoy, an Internet heartthrob and famous content creator, stands before me. We met in Paris two years ago, where he helped me sell some of my paintings. He helped me connect with his mother, Kristen Savoy, and I was offered the chance to exhibit my art at the Savoy Museum. Despite my initial reluctance, Malakai's stubborn charm eventually won me over. "What are you doing here?" I asked, my eyes still scanning the bustling crowd. "Picking you up, of course," he responds with a smile. "Although, I might have picked the wrong person, considering they don't seem thrilled to see me." "I am happy to see you," I argue, though my voice betrays my anxiety. "You just attract a lot of attention, which I am trying to avoid right now." I had told him my dad was supposed to pick me up, but clearly, he had his plans. His presence is both a comfort and a complication, a reminder of the life I'm trying to navigate and the attention I'm desperately trying to escape. As I shift from leg to leg, trying to regulate my suddenly heavy body, I fiddle with the heart-shaped pendant around my neck, feeling its cool metal against my skin. My senses are on high alert, scanning every movement around us, not wanting to be caught off guard again. The weight of my anxiety presses down on me, and I rub my sweaty palms together as kai picks up my phone from the ground. "But... I am waiting for my dad," I said hesitantly. He should be here by now. I didn't want to be stranded, so I followed Malakai. "Wait for him in my car," he suggested. "Let's go," he says, effortlessly hoisting both of my suitcases and leaving me with just the backpack. His confidence is a stark contrast to my jittery state. The summer heat is relentless, and even in my cut-off shorts and tank top, it feels like a furnace. Each step I take feels like wading through thick, humid air. Kai slides into the car just as my phone starts buzzing. The caller ID reads "Dad." I swipe to answer, bringing the phone to my ear. My dad’s familiar voice, tinged with worry, greets me. "Hey, Dad," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm so sorry," he started, his words rushed. "There was an accident on the highway, and traffic was backed up for miles. I couldn't get to you in time." "It's okay, Dad," I reassured him, glancing at Kai as he smoothly pulled out of the parking lot. His focused expression contrasts with the chaotic energy outside. "I met a friend, and we're leaving the airport now." "A friend?" my dad asks, the worry in his voice giving way to curiosity. "Yeah, remember Malakai Savoy?" I said, my eyes meeting Kai’s for a moment. He offers me a small, encouraging smile. "He's driving me home. We'll just meet you there." "Alright," Dad sighed, relief evident in his tone. "Drive safe, and I'll see you soon." "Will do, Dad," I replied, ending the call and leaning back in my seat. The hum of the car and the cool blast of the air conditioning provide a stark contrast to the chaotic heat outside. Kai glances over at me, one eyebrow raised in question. "Everything okay?" he asks, his voice a calm anchor. "Yeah," I nodded, trying to shake off the lingering anxiety. "Dad's stuck in traffic because of an accident. But it's fine. He'll meet us at home." Kai's eyes softened with understanding. "You should thank your charming and thoughtful friend for not listening to you," Kai boasted with a grin, glancing over at me. "If I do that, I’ll have to get out of this car because me, you, and your ego will not fit," I retorted, trying to suppress a smile. "My ego could use a little stroking, among other things," he smirks, his eyes glinting with mischief. He's such a shameless flirt. I roll my eyes, but a laugh escapes me. "Get me home first," I play along, the tension from earlier slowly dissipating. "Then we can talk about stroking." "I'll hold you to that promise," he says, accelerating slightly, the car smoothly gliding down the road. The banter brings a sense of normalcy, a reprieve from the anxiety that had gripped me moments before. The cityscape rushed by in a blur of colors and lights, and I found myself relaxing on the seat, the heart-shaped pendant now a comforting weight against my chest. Kai's confidence is infectious, and as we speed towards home, I can't help but feel a flicker of excitement about what lies ahead.