Matthew (now)
Therapy. The word used to hang in the air like a promise, a whispered hope of reclaiming normalcy. Dr. Evans, with her calm demeanor and endless supply of tissues, had seemed like the answer. Now, years later, perched on a hard plastic chair in Cereus' class room, I realized the bitter truth. Therapy hadn't fixed me. It had broken me further, chipping away at my already fragile trust until it fractured into a million paranoid shards.
The irony was suffocating. The very thing designed to heal had become the source of my deepest wound. The endless sessions dissecting my childhood trauma, the affair that had shattered Sarah's family, and the subsequent implosion of my own, had left me hyper-aware of every perceived slight, every hidden motive. It turned the world into a minefield, every one a potential threat.
Medication, a cocktail of chemicals designed to quiet the storm raging within, had become a constant companion. The dulling of emotions was a double-edged sword. It blunted the sharp edges of anxiety, but also stole the vibrancy of life, leaving behind a muted, colourless existence.
My mother, unsurprisingly, hadn't been thrilled about the revelation that I was the one who'd spilled the beans to Sarah. The accusation hung heavy in the air, unspoken but deafening. Shame, a hot, searing ember, had burned in my gut. Her subsequent departure, a terse note left on the kitchen counter, had confirmed the final severing of our already frayed bond.
The orphanage, a sterile building filled with echoing hallways and the ghosts of lost childhoods, became my new home. The scholarship I'd clutched to like a lifeline took care of tuition, and the orphanage provided food and shelter. But there were other needs, a gnawing hunger for something beyond the bare minimum. So, I started working part-time, juggling school and a demanding job that left me perpetually exhausted but surprisingly content. The physical tiredness was a welcome distraction from the mental turmoil within.
College. An escape from the institutional walls of the orphanage, a chance to carve out my own space in the world. Years of part-time jobs had accumulated in a small savings account, a nest egg that allowed me a certain sense of security. The scholarship, thankfully, continued, but the pressure was immense. One slip-up in grades, one semester of academic failure, and the fragile bubble of my carefully constructed life could burst.
Years had passed, and a silent chasm separated me from Sarah and my mother. No calls, no emails, just a hollow silence that echoed the emptiness within. Yet, life, in its strange way, had started to bloom again. Cereus, with her fiery red hair and a laugh that could melt glaciers, had become my anchor.
Our relationship was a fragile thing, built on trust and a shared understanding of loneliness. I loved her, fiercely and with a desperation that scared the living hell out of me. But the paranoia, that unwelcome shadow, clung to me like a second skin. Every text message I received, every phone call, felt like a potential trigger. Was she hiding something? Was this the moment she'd tire of my baggage, of the constant need for reassurance?
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After a year
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Cereus
A guttural laugh escaped Matthew, sending a tremor through the lane as he released the bowling ball. It careened down the oiled surface, pummeling the pins with a satisfying crash. Ten down. Showoff. I rolled my eyes, a playful smile tugging at my lips. My own throw, embarrassingly, resulted in a measly three pins.
"Easy there, champ," I teased, nudging him with my shoulder. "Don't scare the newbies with your pro-bowler skills."
Matthew winked, that familiar arrogance flashing in his eyes. It used to be endearing, a sign of his confidence. Lately, though, it felt…off-putting. Like a switch had flipped, and that playful competitiveness had morphed into something possessive.
We'd been dating for over a year now. Time had flown by in a whirlwind of stolen kisses, late-night study sessions fueled by takeout, and whispered promises under starry skies. Yet, lately, a distance had grown between us. Arguments flared over seemingly trivial things, his jealousy a constant undercurrent. It was confusing, because Matthew truly was a good boyfriend. Supportive, attentive, always there with a goofy grin and a kind word.
"Hey, lovebirds!" Molly's voice cut through my thoughts. Beside me, Matthew wrapped his arm around my waist, pulling me close. My best friend, Molly, and her boyfriend, Leo, stood at the other end of the lane, their laughter echoing around the brightly lit bowling alley.
College sophomores now, the summer heat hung heavy in the air. With summer approaching, the university had sprung its mandatory internship requirement on us like a surprise pop quiz. Molly and Matthew, ever the overachievers, were practically drowning in offers. Leo, ever the practical one, had already secured a spot at his brother's company. Me? Well, my inbox remained stubbornly empty.
The next few rounds were a blur of clanging pins and lighthearted banter. Leo, bless his heart, seemed determined to lighten the mood. Between throws, he casually mentioned needing some help out at his brother's firm. My head snapped up, surprise jolting through me.
"Intern?" I clarified, unsure if I'd heard him right.
"Yeah," he shrugged, a sheepish grin on his face. "Didn't know if you were interested, but hey, it's a start, right?"
A wave of relief washed over me, nearly knocking me off balance. Internship. Any internship at this point felt like a lifeline.
"Interested? I'm practically begging!" I blurted, ignoring the flicker of something unreadable in Matthew's eyes. "Seriously, Leo, I'm so grateful. You're a lifesaver!"
The rest of the evening passed in a haze of excited planning and nervous anticipation. As Matthew drove me home, the silence in the car felt deafening. I stole a glance at him, but his gaze was fixed on the road ahead, a muscle clenched tight in his jaw.
"Hey," I ventured tentatively, "about Leo's offer…"
"Good for you," he finally muttered, his voice clipped.
Disappointment coiled in my gut. Was that…resentment? Is possessiveness rearing its ugly head again?
"Matt," I began, but the words caught in my throat.
He pulled into my driveway, the engine cutting out with a sigh. We sat there for a moment, the silence stretching between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
"Look," he finally sighed, his gaze softening, "I'm happy for you, Cereus. Really. Just…" He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "Just don't spend too much time with Leo, okay?"
The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. It wasn't Leo I was worried about. It was the distance growing between us, a chasm threatening to swallow us whole. But for now, with an internship secured and a weight lifted off my shoulders, I decided to deal with that another day.
The following week was a whirlwind. Summer was about to start in two weeks, and so, our exams were approaching. Juggling classes, packing in study sessions with Molly (Matthew seemed mysteriously "busy" every time we tried to schedule one), and diving headfirst into my exam preparation kept me on my toes. We decided to try out a cafe for studying. It was vibrant with paintings adorned on the walls, and the air buzzed with a creative energy.
One afternoon, while Molly and I were quizzing each other on the exam portion, Leo leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So," he began, "how's it going with Matthew?"
My stomach lurched. Matthew and I had managed a few awkward phone calls, the distance between us painfully evident. We were supposed to grab dinner that Friday, but even that felt like a chore.
"Uh, fine, I guess," I mumbled, avoiding eye contact. "Just busy with school and everything."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Everything?"
I sighed, guilt gnawing at me. Leo and Molly deserved honesty, especially since he was the one pulling my chestnuts out of the fire and Molly was my best friend ever since childhood. In a rushed torrent, I spilled the anxieties swirling within me – the constant arguments, Matthew's possessiveness, and the growing distance.
Leo listened patiently, his face unreadable. When I finished, he simply said, "Cereus, a good relationship shouldn't make you feel like you have to walk on eggshells."
His words hit me like a physical blow. Was that what it had come to? Eggshells?
"Maybe you two need to talk," he suggested gently.
"We have talked," I said defensively. "But it just…doesn't seem to get anywhere."
"Then maybe…" Leo hesitated, then blurted out, "Maybe you need a break."
The suggestion hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. A break? From Matthew? My heart hammered in my chest. The thought was terrifying, yet strangely liberating.
"I don't know," I whispered, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of conflicting emotions.
Leo gave me a reassuring smile. "Just some food for thought, okay? No pressure."
Later that evening, as I sat across from Matthew at a dimly lit Italian restaurant, the weight of Leo's words pressed heavily on me. Each forced smile, and each awkward conversation felt like a performance. The spark, once so bright, had dimmed to a flicker.
The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the red and white checkered tablecloth. The air in the quaint Italian restaurant was thick with the aroma of garlic and herbs, but my stomach churned with a different kind of nervous tension.
Across from me, Matthew tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, his usual playful glint in his eyes replaced by a seriousness that mirrored my own. We hadn't spoken much the entire dinner, the forced conversation about the weather feeling like a flimsy band aid on a gaping wound.
Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself. "Matthew," I began, my voice barely above a whisper, "we need to talk."
His hand reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine. The touch sent a familiar spark through me, momentarily disarming me. "About what, Cereus?"
"About us," I replied, the words catching in my throat.