The weekend crept by, each hour blending into the next in a blur of muted emotions and hollow thoughts. My room became my sanctuary, a place where I could hide from the world and wallow in the pain that clung to me like a second skin.
The bed felt too big, too empty, as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, replaying every detail of the argument, every hurtful word that had been exchanged.
I kept seeing Olivia's face, the way her expression had hardened when she accused me of neglecting her, of caring more about basketball than I ever did about her. The words echoed in my mind, relentless and cruel.
My siblings tried to pull me out of my cocoon of misery, their attempts at cheering me up both heartwarming and exasperating. Sophie, with her boundless energy, dragged me to the living room to watch cartoons with her.
I tried to smile, tried to let her enthusiasm lift my spirits, but all I could manage was a distant nod, my thoughts too tangled up in the betrayal I was grappling with.
Louise and Amélie, my younger twin sisters, were less direct, hovering around me like gentle shadows, offering small comforts a cup of tea, a silent hug, a shared moment of quiet. Their presence was a balm, but even they couldn't reach the depths of the hollow ache inside me.
Then there was Max, my little brother, who was too young to understand the full weight of what I was going through. He simply crawled into my lap, pressing his tiny hands against my cheeks, and whispered, "Don't be sad, Camille," as if his innocent words could erase the pain I felt.
I hugged him close, burying my face in his soft curls, and for a moment, I let myself cry. Not the angry, fierce tears from before, but the silent, desperate kind that slipped down my cheeks without warning.
But no matter how hard they tried, I remained distant, my mind lost in a labyrinth of hurt and confusion. I kept going over that night, picking apart every moment, searching for the exact point where everything had gone wrong.
Was it something I had said? Something I had done? Or had this been coming for a long time, and I had just been too blind to see it?
Saturday slipped away in a fog of numbness, the hours passing in a haze of restless sleep and sporadic bursts of tears.
I avoided my phone, unable to face the flood of messages that I knew were waiting for me friends checking in, Olivia's texts or calls, maybe even an apology. But I couldn't bear to look, couldn't bear to confront the reality of what had happened.
By Sunday, the numbness had begun to fade, replaced by a simmering anger that I didn't quite know how to handle.
I wanted to scream, to break something, to do anything that might relieve the pressure building up inside me. But instead, I retreated into the only thing that made sense anymore basketball.
The gym was quiet, the echoes of my footsteps the only sound as I walked onto the court. The air was cool and still, the smell of wood and sweat oddly comforting. I dribbled the ball slowly at first, each bounce a steady rhythm that matched the beat of my heart.
Then I picked up the pace, driving the ball harder and faster, letting the noise drown out the chaos in my head.
With each shot, I imagined Olivia's face, her betrayal, the pain she'd caused. I poured everything into those shots, the anger, the hurt, the frustration.
The ball sliced through the air, hitting the backboard with a satisfying thud before sinking through the net. Again and again, I shot, the repetition soothing in its simplicity, the physical exertion a welcome distraction from the storm inside me.
I lost track of time, the minutes slipping away as I pushed myself harder and harder, trying to outrun the pain that threatened to consume me.
My muscles burned, my breath coming in ragged gasps, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. This was the only thing that made sense, the only thing that kept me from falling apart completely.
Eventually, exhaustion set in, my body trembling from the effort. I collapsed onto the floor, the cold surface grounding me as I lay there, staring up at the ceiling. My chest heaved with the effort of breathing, my mind blessedly blank for the first time all weekend.
But as the adrenaline faded, the reality of my situation came crashing back. There were no more matches left for the season, no more opportunities to lose myself in the game. The team was done, the courts empty, and I was left alone with nothing but my thoughts.
My friends had tried to reach out, of course. I'd seen the missed calls, the unread messages piling up on my phone. But I wasn't ready to talk to them, not yet. I wasn't ready to explain what had happened, to see the pity in their eyes or hear their reassurances that I'd be okay.
I didn't want to be comforted; I wanted to be angry. I wanted to hold onto that anger because it was the only thing keeping me from completely falling apart.
By Sunday night, though, reality began to creep back in, the looming pressure of exams forcing me to confront the fact that I couldn't let this break me.
I had worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let my grades slip now. I couldn't afford to let my emotions derail everything I had been working towards.
So I forced myself to refocus, dragging out my textbooks and notes from where they had been abandoned on my desk.
The familiar weight of the books in my hands was oddly comforting, a reminder that there was still structure, still order in my life, even if everything else felt like it was falling apart.
I spread my notes out across the desk, my eyes scanning the pages as I tried to absorb the information. It was difficult to concentrate, my mind still wandering back to Olivia, to the hurt that lingered just beneath the surface.
But I pushed those thoughts away, forcing myself to focus on the words in front of me, on the equations and theories that had once seemed so important.
Hours passed in a blur of studying, the steady rhythm of note-taking and problem-solving soothing in its predictability. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. I had managed to pull myself out of the spiral of despair, if only for a little while, and that was something.
As the clock ticked closer to midnight, I finally allowed myself to stop, my eyes heavy with exhaustion. I set my alarm for the early morning, knowing that I would need every minute to prepare for the upcoming exams.
I couldn't afford to slack off, not now, not when everything I had worked for was on the line.
But even as I climbed into bed, the exhaustion pulling me towards sleep, the hurt lingered. The pain of betrayal was a dull ache in my chest, a reminder that no matter how hard I tried to focus on the future, the past was still there, waiting to pull me back under.
As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I knew that this wasn't something I could just push aside, no matter how much I wanted to. It was going to take time, time to heal, time to process what had happened, time to figure out how to move forward.
But I also knew that I couldn't let this define me. I couldn't let Olivia's betrayal derail everything I had worked so hard for.
So as the weekend came to a close, I made a silent promise to myself. I would get through this, somehow. I would focus on my exams, on my future, on the things that I could control. The hurt would fade, eventually, and when it did, I would be stronger for it.
The tears might still come, the anger might still flare up, but I wouldn't let it break me. I couldn't afford to. I had too much at stake, too much to lose. And even though the path ahead was uncertain, one thing was clear I would keep moving forward, one step at a time.
As I drifted off to sleep, the weight of the weekend still heavy on my shoulders, I knew that the days ahead would be difficult. But I also knew that I would face them head-on, just like I always had. Because no matter what life threw at me, I was a fighter. And I wasn't about to let one heartbreak change that.