SELF DESTRUCTION
1271 Words
---
Iceland
The air was crisp enough to steal Arabella's breath when they stepped out onto the overlook. Steam curled up from the Blue Lagoon below, pale blue against black volcanic rock, the sky wide and clean in a way New York never allowed.
"This is unreal," Adriana murmured.
Aliana stood perfectly still, eyes glassy. "This is where I'm getting married."
Atticus wrapped an arm around her, visibly emotional. "I'm not crying," he said immediately.
"You are," Beckett replied flatly.
Arabella barely heard them. Her fingers were laced with Soren's, their hands swinging easily between them like it had always been this way. She leaned into him, forehead brushing his shoulder as the cold bit at her cheeks.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She smiled up at him. "More than okay."
He pressed a kiss to her temple without thinking. She kissed his jaw in return, quick and warm.
"Ugh," Adriana groaned. "You two are disgusting."
"Truly," Beckett added. "I miss when you were normal."
Arabella laughed, bright and easy. "Jealousy doesn't suit you."
Soren smiled, something quiet and full in his chest. He didn't say it-but he felt it. This was right. This was good. Whatever had been heavy before felt... lighter now. Manageable.
Surely it was.
---
Later....
No one noticed that Arabella had slept maybe two hours.
She wore sunglasses indoors the next morning, claiming the light was "brutal in Iceland." She laughed it off when Adriana raised a brow. Made a joke about jet lag. Offered to help unpack. Complimented Aliana's dress bag like it was sacred.
She was perfect.
She always was.
At breakfast, she made the hotel staff laugh, asking questions about local traditions, thanking them profusely, making sure everyone had what they needed. She played translator between cultures, warmth incarnate.
Soren watched her with fond pride.
She's better, he thought.
She has support now.
When she slipped away between conversations to step outside, he assumed she needed air.
When she came back smelling faintly like alcohol at noon, he assumed it was someone else nearby.
When she joked a little too loudly, laughed a second too long, he told himself she was just happy.
They all did.
---
The Outing
They wandered the town together that evening-six of them, bundled in coats, laughter echoing down narrow streets. Arabella walked at the center, talking animatedly to a tour guide, making him laugh so hard he nearly tripped.
"You should move here," he told her. "You'd be a hit."
She smiled wide. "Tempting."
Soren caught her hand, squeezing. "You okay, sunshine?"
She turned to him, eyes bright, smile perfect. "I'm great."
And she meant it-sort of. In the way people mean it when they don't want to feel what's underneath.
Because beneath the affection, beneath the love, beneath the support-
the ache was still there.
The pressure hadn't lifted.
The noise in her head hadn't quieted.
The instinct to disappear hadn't vanished just because someone loved her now.
So she stayed out later than she should've.
Drank when she didn't need to.
Slept when she could, smiled when she couldn't.
Not to be reckless for attention.
Not to be dramatic.
Just trying to feel something other than the weight.
And no one noticed yet.
Not really.
Soren walked beside her, hand warm in his, believing-hoping-that things were finally stabilizing.
Arabella leaned into him, the picture of happiness, determined that if she couldn't feel okay...
She could at least make everyone else feel safe.
---
Iceland - Night
The hotel was quiet in the way only expensive places ever were-soft lights, muted footsteps, the illusion of calm. Soren adjusted his coat as he walked down the corridor, already smiling to himself.
This was it, he thought.
A pause in the chaos.
Just them.
He knew her suite by heart now. Had memorized it the way you memorize exits, safe places, routines. But when he knocked, there was no answer.
He frowned.
At the concierge desk, a woman recognized him immediately. She smiled politely. "Looking for Arabella?"
"Yes," he said, relieved. "Have you seen her?"
"She was just here with you earlier, wasn't she?" the woman said. "She stepped out a little while ago. I think she said the bar next door."
The smile faded from his face.
---
The bar was loud-too loud. Music thumped through the walls, lights low and warm, bodies packed too close. Soren scanned the room instinctively, his chest tightening before he even saw her.
Arabella was in the center of it.
Laughing.
Dancing.
Spinning with strangers like they'd known her forever.
She had a drink in one hand, her head tipped back as she told a story, arms animated, energy electric.
"And I swear," she said, breathless with laughter, "they were the same color. I was late, okay? I didn't notice until third period. Everyone thought it was a rebellious fashion statement."
The group around her erupted in giggles.
"Iconic," someone said.
She curtsied exaggeratedly. "I do what I can."
Soren stood frozen.
This wasn't joy.
It was momentum.
She was too bright. Too fast. Like she was trying to outrun something that had finally caught up with her.
He took a step toward her just as her laughter faltered.
Arabella blinked, swaying slightly. Her smile slipped-just a fraction.
"I-" she started, then shook her head. "I need to go. Like. Right now."
Someone laughed. "Already?"
She waved them off. "Bathroom. Air. The universe calling me."
She turned-and saw Soren.
The look on her face flickered through recognition, relief, and something dangerously close to shame.
"Oh," she said, voice softening. "Hey."
Something was wrong.
He reached her in seconds. "Bella."
She leaned into him immediately, fingers clutching his jacket like she'd been holding herself upright by will alone. "Can we go? I feel... weird."
That word landed wrong.
He didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate. Just nodded. "Yeah. We're going."
She let him guide her out, the cold Icelandic air hitting them like a shock. She stumbled once, catching herself too late.
Soren's arm wrapped around her instinctively.
"Easy," he murmured. "I've got you."
Her head rested briefly against his chest. "You always do."
The words hit him harder than anything else had.
---
Back in the hotel, the quiet was overwhelming. The door clicked shut behind them, and Arabella sagged immediately, breath shallow, skin pale beneath her makeup.
"I think I drank too much," she said weakly, trying to laugh it off.
Soren's mind raced. Too much? She didn't drink like that. Not like this.
He guided her toward the bed, kneeling in front of her, searching her face. "Bella. Talk to me."
She frowned, confused. "I was fine a minute ago."
And then, softly-too softly-
"I think something's wrong."
That was when it hit him.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Just the quiet, devastating clarity:
He hadn't fixed anything.
He'd adjusted schedules.
Smoothed paths.
Removed obstacles.
But he hadn't asked the right questions.
Hadn't seen how desperately she was holding herself together for everyone else.
He helped her lie down, staying alert, counting her breaths, brushing her hair back gently. His hand never left her arm.
"I'm here," he said, over and over. "You're safe."
Her fingers curled weakly into his shirt. "I didn't want to ruin anything," she whispered. "Everyone's happy. I didn't want to be... heavy."
Soren swallowed hard.
This wasn't something to manage.
This wasn't a problem to solve.
This was a person he loved-spiraling quietly while the world applauded her shine.
And for the first time since falling for her, Soren was afraid.
Not of losing her to someone else.
But of losing her to herself.
- Writer
