Angel's POV
Getting drunk two days in a row? Horrible idea. Ten out of ten do not recommend.
"Ugh. And I swore I wasn't drinking again," I mutter, dragging a palm down my face like I can scrub off the regret. The promise I made to myself barely lasted twenty-four hours. Pathetic. Seeing him? Yeah, that was the final straw that broke my barely present self-control.
Just thinking about it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine—not the sexy, breathy kind you get in the middle of a slow kiss. No. This one's the cold, nauseating kind that reminds you why vodka is not a coping mechanism. You're probably thinking, "Wow, drama queen much?"
Well, sue me. I made a reckless choice—out of anger, desperation, and the delusion that I could move on by crashing straight into someone else. It almost destroyed me. So no, I don't think I'm being dramatic. Just honest.
Anyway. Let's not spiral too early. First mission: Get out of bed without cracking my skull open on the floor. Baby steps.
---
Three Hours Later
Good news: I survived. Didn't fall. Didn't throw up. Didn't pass out again.
Growth, right?
Now I'm seated at the dining table, pretending to eat breakfast while mostly just pushing food around like it offended me. My head is pounding—like a tiny construction crew is jackhammering behind my eyes. Even the scraping of my fork against the plate makes me want to throw it across the room and scream.
"Angel?"
I flinch. Dad's voice cuts through my internal suffering like a sword.
"Yes, Daddy?" I reply, a little too quickly, blinking up at him.
"What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing much," I lie. The usual. Trauma, regret, emotional landmines. You know—fun stuff.
"Care to share?"
"Not really, Dad. I'm sorry," I say, dropping my eyes to the table like it holds all the answers.
"It's okay, darling."
"Thank you." My voice is small. Fragile.
He hesitates for a beat before going in for the kill.
"So… about last night."
Here it comes.
"Why were you crying?"
There it is. The question I knew was coming—I just thought I'd get more time before having to relive it.
I swallow hard, trying to form a reply that won't lead to more questions. "Just… bad memories," I finally say.
"Is it because Sam came here?" Mum chimes in now, and of course she's been eavesdropping. Don't even know why I thought otherwise.
"Well, not exactly…" I trail off, struggling to string words into something coherent. "It's more like he was the final tug that snapped the threads holding back all the memories and emotions. Everything just… spilled."
"Darling," Dad says, and guilt is thick in his voice. "We're so sorry we weren't there for you when you needed us."
"It's not your fault," I murmur. "I didn't exactly let anyone help, either. I found comfort in other things instead."
"Even so," Mum says gently. "We should've tried harder to reach you."
"Can we… not talk about this right now?" I sniff, blinking rapidly. I keep my gaze pinned to the floor.
"Alright, love," Dad says. "Just know we're here for you. Always."
"I know," I say quietly, pushing my chair back and slipping out before the emotional dam completely breaks. My room has never looked more inviting. Sweet, sacred, self-imposed exile.
---
Back under the safety of my sheets, I let the guilt wash over me. I know they love me. I do. And once upon a time, that would've made me feel warm and happy. But now? Now it just makes me feel like a fraud. Like they deserve a better daughter—one who talks, one who doesn't crumble under pressure, one who doesn't drown her sadness in bottles and excuses.
"Heck…" I whisper. "I think I need to start my meds again."
I thought I was over that chapter, thought I'd healed. But I've been home one day, and already I'm spiraling. Fast.
I grab my phone and call the only person I trust with this particular brand of mess.
---
"Hey babe," comes her cheerful voice.
"How are you, angel?"
"I'm… alright. How are things on your end?"
"All good. How's your side?"
"Meh. So-so. How's Alex?"
"He's good."
"Tell him I said hi."
"I will. Wait… are you back in town?"
"Uh, yeah. How'd you know?"
"Because you never call me unless there's a crisis, and you haven't needed a check-in for months."
"Fair," I admit. "But in my defense, I didn't need to before. I do now. I think I need my meds again."
"What happened?" Her voice drops into full-on concern mode, and just hearing it makes my chest tighten.
"Stuff," I say vaguely.
"I know that tone. If something is stressing you enough to make you call me, and you're already thinking of going back on meds, then you need to cut that thing out of your life. Fast."
"I know." I sigh. "Are you free today?"
"Free in two hours. Why?"
"Can I come early and wait in your office? I don't want to worry my parents."
"You haven't told them?" she asks, incredulous.
"Nope," I say, trying for nonchalance. I fail miserably.
"It's been years, Angel."
"Can we not do this now?" I snap, more sharply than I mean to.
"Fine," she huffs. "But don't think I'm not grilling you when I see you."
"Deal," I mutter before hanging up.
---
Now I have to actually get dressed. Apparently, society frowns on grown women showing up in SpongeBob pajamas. Honestly, I don't even know who invented the rule that says you have to look sane when you're not.
---
One Hour and Thirty Minutes Later
I settle on a blue t-shirt and black shorts. Basic, but not "somebody hug her" tragic. I head downstairs to say goodbye to my parents before remembering they're already at work.
Figures. I'm the only one slacking off while everyone else is being a functioning adult.
---
"Babe?" I call out as I knock on her office door.
"If you keep calling me that, Alex is going to think I'm cheating on him," she yells back.
"You could've just said come in!"
"Why even knock? You live in here."
"What if Alex was here and you guys were getting freaky?" I tease.
She laughs. "Fair. Very fair."
I flop into the chair across from her, and like clockwork, she slips into professional mode.
"Alright. Talk. What's going on?"
So I tell her. Everything. From the moment I stepped foot back into this house to the tears, to the ache, to the shame I can't quite explain.
She listens. No judgment. No interruptions. Just the steady, reassuring silence of someone who gets it. But when her expression changes—when her eyes start to narrow in concern—I feel like I've messed up worse than I thought. She's never looked this worried before. And that scares me more than anything else.
Maybe I've been broken for longer than I realized. And maybe I'm not as good at hiding it as I thought.
---