cold. Hard. Cramped. Uncomfortable. But I don’t budge.
The darkness of the room consumes me. I don’t deserve light.
I tried calling Zane a dozen times. I sent twice as many texts. I tore through the box of letters he left out. If they held a clue for what to do next, I’d be grateful. They don’t. They hold nothing.
After hours, minutes, or days—I can’t be sure—of staring at the letters and my phone, waiting for something—anything—I gave up. Somehow, I ended up here. Alone.
Nothing makes the heartache better.
Time makes it worse.
So much worse.
I can’t fucking breathe, then I hyperventilate. I can’t speak, then I sob loudly—uncontrollably.
Olivia ignored the texts I sent her, too. She disappeared. She fucking walked out.
Fuck, I think that I need her more than she needs me.
Forcing myself from the floor takes almost all my strength.
I stumble into the kitchen and stop at the window to the backyard. I stare out, my eyes—my everything—fixed on the snow.
The bright sight makes my heart squeeze unbearably tight.
Zane loves snow, especially at Christmas.
A pounding on the door startles me. The aggressive banging continues despite my sluggish movements. I don’t realize that I’m answering it until I do.
“Olivia,” I gasp. My heart swells, then cracks again.
She stares at me, blank-faced, her foot tapping in impatience.
“I’m so glad you’re—"
“I need my money.” She’s curt.
“I was worried about you,” I say, shifting to allow her space to come in.
She doesn’t budge from her spot on the porch.
“Were you now?” Her question rumbles through me.
I’m taken aback. She’s never been mean. I didn’t think she could be. That’s why she needs me. Or needed me.
Nobody really needs me anymore.