fractures

Nicole sits on the curb outside the 7-Eleven at two in the morning. The concrete is cold. She doesn't care.

Her phone screen is cracked. Has been for weeks. She stares at it anyway, at the message thread that stops abruptly three days ago. Jecka's last text just says "okay" and Nicole knows what that means. Everyone says okay when they're done with you but too chickenshit to actually say it.

She lights a cigarette. Her hands don't shake. They never do.

The thing is, she saw this coming. She always sees it coming. It's like watching a car accident in slow motion, except she's both the car and the person standing on the sidewalk knowing exactly what's about to happen. Jecka started pulling away two weeks ago. Maybe three. The gaps between texts got longer. The enthusiasm got faker. That's how it always starts.

Nicole takes a drag and thinks about her dad.

He killed himself last year. Gunshot. Nicole found out from a phone call. Some cop with a voice like he'd done this a thousand times before. Your father. I'm sorry for your loss. We'll need someone to. She stopped listening. Her mom cried for three days straight and then got angry, like his death was one more way he'd fucked them over. The school counselor kept trying to make her talk about her feelings. Nicole told her to fuck off. What's there to say? He chose death over staying. Pretty clear message.

Her mom's been a wreck ever since. Pills and wine. Sometimes just wine. Sometimes just pills. Nicole stopped keeping track. Stopped caring. Her mom looks at her sometimes with this expression like she's trying to find her dad in Nicole's face and getting pissed off that she can't. Or maybe getting pissed off that she can.

A car drives past. The bass is so loud she can feel it in her chest. For a second she imagines standing up, walking into traffic. But that's stupid. That's what people do when they think their death would mean something to someone. Her dad thought his would. He was wrong. Just made everything worse and added this new layer of fucked up nobody knows how to talk about.

Jecka isn't the first person to leave. Won't be the last.

There was Emily in middle school. Best friends until Emily's mom decided Nicole was trouble. Emily stopped sitting with her at lunch. Didn't even have the guts to say why.

Then there was Kyle freshman year. He acted like he gave a shit about her for maybe two weeks. Long enough to fuck her. Then he ghosted. She saw him in the hallway with some volleyball girl and he looked right through her like she was invisible.

Her mom's boyfriend left three months ago. Right after the funeral. Couldn't handle the grief, apparently. Didn't want to deal with a depressed woman and her fucked up kid. Nicole wasn't even surprised. People always leave when shit gets real.

Nicole flicks ash onto the pavement.

She thinks about Jecka's face the last time they hung out. How Jecka kept checking her phone. How she laughed at Nicole's jokes but it sounded wrong, like she was forcing it. How she made an excuse to leave early. How Nicole didn't stop her.

Because why would she? You can't make people stay. Nicole learned that the hard way. Even when staying means living. You can be funnier, hotter, more interesting. You can make yourself smaller, less difficult, easier to deal with. Doesn't matter. When someone decides you're not worth the effort anymore, that's it. You're done.

Her dad couldn't even be bothered to leave a note. Just decided one day that being dead was preferable to being her father. And everyone acted like it was this tragic thing, this mental health crisis, like he didn't make a choice. Like he didn't look at Nicole and her mom and think yeah, I'd rather be nothing.

A couple stumbles out of the 7-Eleven, drunk and giggly. The girl is hanging off the guy's neck. They're in love, probably. Or think they are. Give it six months. A year if they're lucky. Then it'll be the same shit. Someone will get bored. Someone will leave. One way or another.

Nicole's almost out of cigarettes. She should go home but home is just her room and her mom passed out on the couch with a wine bottle on the floor. At least out here the emptiness feels intentional.

She wonders if Jecka thinks about her. Probably not. People don't think about the things they throw away. They just feel relieved they finally took out the trash.

The worst part isn't even that Jecka's leaving. The worst part is Nicole let herself forget for a while. Let herself think maybe this time would be different. Let herself believe that someone might actually stay. Stupid. She knows better. She's always known better. People leave. That's what they do.

Her dad proved that. You can't even trust family to stick around. Why the fuck would she trust Jecka?

Her phone buzzes. For one pathetic second her heart does something stupid. But it's just a notification about her data usage. Not Jecka. Obviously not Jecka.

Nicole stands up. Her legs are stiff from sitting. She drops the cigarette and grinds it under her heel. The couple is gone now. The parking lot is empty. Even the fluorescent lights seem dimmer than they were before.

She starts walking. Not toward home. Just away from here. One foot in front of the other. Maybe she'll walk until she's too tired to think. Maybe she'll walk until morning when she has to pretend none of this matters.

Her phone stays silent in her pocket.

The street is empty.

She's getting used to it.

Nicole thinks about reset buttons sometimes. Not for her life. Just for herself.

Like if there was a way to go back and undo all the shit that made her this way. Keep the memories, keep the scars, whatever. But strip out the parts of her personality that make everything harder than it needs to be.

The defensiveness. The way she turns every conversation into a fight before anyone else gets the chance. The sarcasm she uses like a knife, cutting people down before they can get too close. The way she ghosts when things start feeling real, when someone actually tries to know her instead of just fucking her or using her or tolerating her.

She knows she does this. That's the worst part. It's not like she's oblivious. She can see herself doing it in real time. Pushing Jecka away. Making her mom hate her more than she already does. Turning every potential connection into another reason for someone to leave.

It's automatic. Like breathing. Like flinching when someone raises their hand too fast.

She wants connection. She does. She wants someone to actually give a shit about her, to stick around, to see past all the bullshit and decide she's worth the effort.

But then someone tries and she panics. Makes a joke. Says something cruel. Disappears for three days. Does everything possible to prove them right for wanting to leave.

And then she's alone again. And she hates it. And she hates herself for making it happen.

The hypocrisy isn't lost on her. Isolating herself and then resenting the isolation. Pushing people away and then wondering why nobody stays. It's pathetic. She knows it's pathetic.

She can predict herself now. Knows exactly how she'll react to things before they happen. Someone gets too close, she'll find a way to ruin it. Someone shows genuine care, she'll make them regret it. It's like watching a rerun of a shitty show where you already know the ending.

She wasn't always like this.

There was a version of Nicole that was softer. Younger. The kind of kid who actually believed people when they said they cared. Who trusted easily. Who laughed without wondering what the punchline was going to cost her.

That Nicole is gone. Or buried. Or just... evolved into this.

Something happened. Or a lot of somethings. Small cuts that added up. Betrayals that taught her to expect them. Disappointments that became the baseline. At some point, mistrust stopped being a reaction and started being her default setting.

She armored up. Built walls. Learned to spot the exits before she even walked into a room. Survival instinct. Self-preservation. All the shit therapists talk about like it's temporary.

Except it's not temporary. It's who she is now. The armor fused to her skin. The walls became the foundation. The survival instincts became personality traits she can't separate from herself even when she wants to.

And she does want to. Sometimes. In the quiet moments at 3 AM when she's alone and can admit things she'd never say out loud. She wants to be different. Wants to be the kind of person someone could actually love without it feeling like defusing a bomb.

But she doesn't know how. Doesn't know where to start. Doesn't know if it's even possible to undo this much damage.

Maybe there is no reset button. Maybe this is just who she is now. The girl who ruins everything. The girl who can't be vulnerable without turning it into a weapon. The girl who's so afraid of being hurt that she hurts everyone first.

Maybe that younger, softer Nicole is gone for good.

And maybe Nicole deserves that.

She stares at her reflection sometimes, trying to find that kid in her face. Searching for evidence that she used to be different. That she used to be easier.

She can't find it anymore.

I swear I was easier to love before I learned how not to trust anyone.

Nicole has a collection. Not of anything physical. Just personas. Masks she keeps on rotation depending on who she's talking to and how much she wants them to know.

She doesn't plan it. It's automatic. Like her brain has a whole wardrobe of fake versions and picks one before she even opens her mouth.

There's the Sarcastic One. That's the default. The one who makes jokes too sharp to be funny but people laugh anyway because they don't know what else to do. Everything's a punchline. Nothing's serious. She can deflect anything with the right comment delivered at the right moment. This one's easy. This one keeps people entertained and at arm's length.

Then there's the Cold One. The version that doesn't care. Doesn't feel. Acts like nothing touches her. Someone says something cruel? She shrugs. Someone tries to hurt her? She stares back blank until they get uncomfortable and leave. This one's useful for school, for dealing with people who think they can get a reaction. They can't. Not from this version.

The Indifferent One is similar but softer. Less aggressive. Just... unbothered. Things happen around her and she floats through like none of it matters. This one's for when she's too tired to fight but still needs protection. Apathy as armor. If she doesn't care about anything, nothing can hurt her.

Sometimes the Tough One comes out. All anger and edges. Ready to fight anyone over anything. This one's for when she feels cornered. When vulnerability is creeping in and she needs to remind everyone including herself that she's not someone you fuck with.

The Detached One shows up when things get too real. When someone starts asking questions that matter. When a conversation gets too close to something true. This version just... leaves. Not physically always. But emotionally. Checks out. Goes somewhere else in her head where she doesn't have to deal with whatever's happening.

Each one has a purpose. Each one exists to keep someone from getting too close. They're not who she is. They're shields. Defense mechanisms. Ways to survive interactions without actually being present for them.

And she uses them without thinking. It's reflex. Someone approaches and her brain just selects whichever mask fits the situation. She doesn't even realize she's doing it most of the time.

But underneath all of them is something else. Someone else. The real Nicole, maybe. The one who's scared all the time. Exhausted from keeping up the performance. Overwhelmed by everything she's pretending not to feel. The one who's hoping desperately that nobody looks too close because if they do they'll see how fragile she actually is.

That version stays buried. Has to. Because she can't afford to let anyone see that. Can't afford to be vulnerable. Can't afford to admit that she's barely holding it together and the only thing keeping her functional is the collection of fake versions she hides behind.

Sometimes she wants someone to call her out. To see through it. To look at her and say "I know that's not really you." To care enough to dig past the personas and find whoever's underneath.

Other times the thought terrifies her. Because what if there's nothing under there? What if she's been performing so long that the masks are all that's left? What if she's erased the real version so thoroughly that even she can't find it anymore?

She doesn't know who she is without the shields. Doesn't know how to exist without picking a persona first. Doesn't know if anyone has ever actually met her or just whatever version she was wearing that day.

Jecka's probably gotten closest. Seen more versions than most people. But even Jecka doesn't get the whole picture. Even Jecka gets a curated selection. The versions Nicole thinks are safe to show.

She didn't choose this. Didn't sit down one day and decide to become a collection of defense mechanisms. It just happened. Slow accumulation of survival tactics that became habits that became who she is. Or who she pretends to be. She's not sure there's a difference anymore.

Past hurt did this. Disappointments. Betrayals. People leaving. Her dad. Every time someone proved that letting them see the real her was a mistake. So she stopped. Built walls. Created versions that could take the hit so the real her didn't have to.

And now she's stuck. Living behind personas. Never quite present. Never quite real. Always performing even when she's alone because she's forgotten how to be anything else.

She wonders sometimes what would happen if she let all the masks drop. If she just existed as whatever's underneath. If she stopped deflecting and armoring up and disappearing.

Probably nothing good. Probably she'd fall apart. Probably whoever's under there isn't equipped to handle the world without protection.

So she keeps the collection. Keeps rotating through versions. Keeps hiding.

But sometimes, late at night when she's alone and the noise finally stops, she thinks about it. About being seen. Really seen. Not the jokes or the coldness or the anger. Just her. The tired, scared, overwhelmed version that only exists when nobody's looking.

I just wish someone could meet the me I only am when no one's looking.

Nicole's never been good at softness. It doesn't feel comforting. Feels like walking into a room with no exits and taking off all her armor so everyone can see exactly where to aim.

Vulnerability isn't strength. It's exposure. Handing someone a knife and trusting they won't use it. And they always use it.

Being soft means letting someone see the real her. The tired, scared version that wants things she won't admit to wanting. Means letting words actually land instead of bouncing them off with sarcasm. Means hoping. And hope's the most dangerous thing she knows.

She learned that early. Softness leads to heartbreak. Opening up just gives people ammunition. Caring about something makes it easier for them to destroy it.

So she sharpened herself instead.

Made her edges hard. Her words cutting. Her face blank. Built everything out of sarcasm and indifference and anger. Being blunt feels safer than being honest. Being cold feels safer than being vulnerable. Being untouchable feels safer than being touched.

When she's sharp, she has control. Or thinks she does. When she keeps people far enough away, they can't get close enough to hurt her.

But there's a cost.

Even when she wants connection, she ruins it. Cuts people down before they can get too close. Makes jokes that land wrong. Pushes away anyone who tries to see past the bullshit.

People stop trying. And she doesn't blame them. Who wants to deal with someone who turns every soft moment into a fight?

She built this wall around herself and now nobody can reach her. She hates how lonely it is. But softness scares her more than being alone.

Because when she does soften, even a little, she feels everything. Too much. All at once. Like every word, every look, every silence goes straight through her.

She doesn't know how to be gentle without breaking.

Sometimes she wants to. Wants to let her guard down without waiting for the hit. Wants to be vulnerable without feeling like she's bleeding out.

She wonders if anyone's seen the softer parts. If Jecka has. If they even exist anymore or if she buried them so deep they're gone.

She's either completely shut down or feeling too much. No middle ground. Either numb or raw. Both feel wrong.

Something taught her this. That opening up means pain. That letting people in is how you fall apart. That soft is just another word for weak.

She didn't choose it. Just learned it. And now she doesn't know how to stop.

Doesn't know how to exist without the armor. Doesn't know if she's capable of being gentle anymore or if she's too far gone.

Other people do it somehow. Be vulnerable and open and trusting. They survive it. But when Nicole tries, even just thinking about it, it feels like stepping off a cliff.

So she stays sharp. Keeps the edges. Keeps people out.

Bleeds anyway. Just where nobody sees.

Every time I soften, something cuts deeper.

Nicole can't stand silence.

Not the comfortable kind. Not the peaceful kind people talk about when they mention meditation or whatever bullshit self-care trend is popular this week. The kind where her thoughts get too loud. Where there's nothing to distract from the voice in her head that sounds like her but meaner.

She keeps her headphones in constantly. Music blasting so loud her ears ring after. Doesn't matter what it is. Rap, rock, pop, anything with enough bass to rattle her skull. Enough noise to fill the space where her brain would otherwise start listing all the ways she's fucked up.

At night it's worse. She'll lie in bed with her phone playing videos, music, podcasts, anything. Sometimes all three at once. Just noise layered on noise until her thoughts can't break through.

Because when it gets quiet, that's when it starts.

The replay of every stupid thing she said that day. Every moment she could've been different, better, less of a disaster. Every person she's disappointed. Every relationship she's destroyed. Every reason people have for leaving.

It's like her brain waits for silence to ambush her with everything she's been avoiding. And there's no escape from it because it's coming from inside her own head. Can't outrun yourself.

She tried quiet once. Sat in her apartment with nothing on. Thought maybe she was being dramatic. Maybe it wouldn't be that bad.

It was worse.

The thoughts came fast. Vicious. A greatest hits compilation of every way she's failing at being a person. Her dad's death. Jecka pulling away. That thing that happened at the party. The way she feels most days like she's barely holding it together and nobody can tell because she's gotten so good at pretending.

She lasted maybe ten minutes before she grabbed her phone and cranked the volume.

People think she's just being difficult. That she's trying to be edgy or cool or whatever. They don't get it. The music isn't a choice. It's survival.

Silence feels like drowning. Like being trapped in a room with someone who hates her and that someone is herself. And she can't argue back because the voice knows all her weak spots. Knows exactly what to say to hurt the most.

So she drowns it out. Fills every second with noise. Keeps her brain too busy to turn on her.

Her ears hurt sometimes. That persistent ache from too much volume. She ignores it. Better than the alternative.

She's scared to be alone with her thoughts. Scared of what they'll say. Scared of how true it might be. Scared that if she actually listened, actually sat with the quiet long enough to hear herself clearly, she'd have to face things she's not ready to face.

So she doesn't. She keeps the music loud. Keeps the noise constant. Keeps running from herself like she runs from everything else.

Because quiet means thinking. And thinking means remembering. And remembering means feeling. And feeling means breaking.

And Nicole can't afford to break. Not now. Not ever.

I'm scared of quiet because that's when the real shit starts talking.

Nicole knows exactly what she's doing.

She's not spiraling. Not lost. Not making mistakes she doesn't see coming. Every pill, every drink, every line, every person, every deliberate mark she leaves on her own skin, it's all calculated. A menu of options for making herself bearable.

Weed's the baseline. The thing that gets her through most days without falling apart.

It softens the edges. Slows her thoughts down from a scream to a murmur. Makes the hours blur together so she doesn't have to count them. She can go to work, go home, exist in the space between without actually engaging with any of it.

It's functional numbness. She can still move. Still talk. Still pretend everything's fine while feeling nothing at all.

Alcohol's for when numb isn't enough. When the emptiness gets so heavy she needs to break the dam just to feel something.

It turns sadness into recklessness. Makes her louder, meaner, more impulsive. She'll pick fights. Text people she shouldn't. Make decisions she knows are stupid.

But at least she's feeling something. Even if it's regret. Even if it's guilt. Better than the hollow nothing that sits in her chest when she's sober.

Molly's different. That's artificial warmth when she can't stand the cold anymore.

It convinces her, temporarily, that she's loved. Wanted. Safe. She can hug people and mean it. Can tell strangers she cares about them and believe it in the moment. Can feel connected to something outside herself.

The comedown's brutal. Reminds her that the warmth was borrowed. Fake. That she's still alone. Still empty. And now she feels worse because she knows what she's missing.

But those few hours of feeling okay make it worth it. Even if it intensifies the loneliness after. Even if it reinforces that warmth never lasts.

Ketamine's not about feeling good. It's about controlled disappearance.

She uses it when she wants to stop being present entirely. When existing in her own body is too much and she needs to just not be there for a while.

It detaches her. From her body. From her past. From the idea of herself as a person. She's just floating somewhere else. Observing from a distance. Not really here.

It's not recreational. It's dissociation. And she knows how dangerous that is. How easy it would be to just stay gone. But she does it anyway because sometimes not feeling anything is the only relief she gets.

Xanax is the emergency option. The panic kill switch.

When thoughts spiral too fast. When anxiety climbs so high she can't breathe. When emotions threaten to spill over and she can't contain them. One pill and everything flattens.

The panic stops. The thoughts quiet. She can function again.

It turns her numb in a clean way. No fog. No high. Just nothing. And she's aware of how dangerous that kind of quiet is. How tempting it is to just shut everything off instead of dealing with it.

But she uses it anyway.

And then there's the other thing. The one she doesn't talk about. Not to anyone. Barely even to herself.

When the drugs don't quiet her enough. When the emotions feel too big for her body. When she needs proof she's still real and not just floating through life disconnected from everything.

It's control when everything else fails. Grounding when nothing else works. Punishment for being like this in the first place.

She hides it after. Long sleeves. Careful angles. Silence. The shame sits heavy but not heavy enough to make her stop.

She knows it doesn't fix anything. Knows it's just another way to interrupt the spiral. But sometimes that's all she needs. Just an interruption. A pause. Something to break the loop.

Sex fits in there too. Different method, same purpose.

She disappears into other people. Lets them want her because being wanted feels easier than being understood. Physical closeness without emotional exposure. Bodies without questions.

She chooses situations where she doesn't have to stay. Where she can leave after and not carry anything with her. Where nobody expects more than what she's willing to give.

Nicole tells herself she's managing it. Spacing things out. Keeping it under control. She's not an addict. She's just surviving.

But mornings feel heavier. Guilt stacks up. The relief gets shorter every time and the crashes get worse.

Nothing actually helps for long. She knows that. Knows she's stacking coping mechanisms instead of dealing with the actual pain underneath.

But dealing with it means stopping. Means sobriety. Means quiet. Means sitting with herself and all the shit she's been running from.

And that feels unbearable.

More unbearable than the hangovers. More unbearable than the strangers. More unbearable than the slow erosion of whatever's left of her.

Because if she stops, she has to feel it all. The grief. The loneliness. The anger. The fear. Everything she's been numbing and avoiding and drowning out.

She's not ready for that.

So she keeps going. Keeps choosing the pills and the drinks and the people and the pain. Keeps interrupting the spiral before it reaches her chest.

Not because she wants to disappear.

Just because she's trying to get through the night.

I don't want to die. I just don't want to feel like this.

The bathroom light buzzes. Fluorescent and flickering. Makes everything look worse than it is. Or maybe just honest.

Nicole stands at the sink. Cold porcelain under her palms. Water running even though she's not using it. Just the sound of it. The drip from the faucet. The hum of the light overhead.

The space feels too small. Too bright. Like it's forcing her to look at things she'd rather ignore.

She glances at the mirror. Looks away immediately.

Her reflection isn't neutral. It's accusatory. Shows her everything she's trying not to see. Smeared mascara. Red eyes. The evidence of whatever the fuck just happened written all over her face.

She registers it clinically. Notes it like a list. Doesn't let herself feel anything about it.

She should clean up. That's what people do. Fix themselves. Make it look like nothing happened.

She reaches for her face. Wipes under one eye with her thumb. The mascara just spreads. Makes it worse. She rubs harder. Now her skin's red and the black's still there, just smudged into a bigger mess.

She splashes water on her face. It doesn't help. Just makes everything wet and streaky. Her attempts at damage control are pointless but she keeps trying anyway because standing here doing nothing feels worse.

Her inner voice starts up. That sarcastic commentary that never shuts off.

Look at you. What a fucking disaster.

This is really a great look. Very put-together.

Congratulations on the emotional breakdown in a public bathroom. Real classy.

The cruelty is controlled. Intentional. She'd rather tear herself apart than let anyone else do it. At least this way she's in charge.

She won't give herself sympathy. Won't soften. That's not allowed.

For a second she considers sitting down. Just stopping. Maybe looking at herself a little longer. Actually acknowledging what she's feeling instead of mocking it.

She shuts that down immediately.

Gentleness isn't safe. Not even from herself. Especially not from herself. Because if she starts being gentle she might break completely and she can't afford that.

The anger kicks in. Easier than sadness. More useful.

She resents the mirror for showing her this. Resents the light for being so harsh. Resents the quiet for making her thoughts too loud.

She feels exposed. Vulnerable. And nobody's even watching. Just her. But that's bad enough.

Being seen, even by herself, feels invasive. Like she's looking at something she shouldn't. Something private that was supposed to stay hidden.

She lets the water keep running. Focuses on the sound. On the mechanical action of turning the faucet. On the cold porcelain. On anything except what she's actually feeling.

Routine helps. Repetition helps. Keeps her hands busy. Keeps her brain from spinning too hard.

She's just waiting for the emotional spike to pass. For the sharpness to dull. For whatever this is to go away so she can go back to functioning.

She stands there longer than necessary. Water still running. Light still buzzing. Reflection still staring back.

Nothing resolves. Nothing gets better. She doesn't feel fixed or calm or okay.

Just less sharp. Less raw. Enough to leave. Enough to pretend.

She waits to feel like herself again.

Doesn't believe she will.

But waits anyway.

The noise is everywhere. Voices layered over each other. TV playing something she's not watching. Someone laughing in another room. The hum of the fridge. Traffic outside. All of it blending together into one continuous sound that doesn't mean anything.

Nicole hears it but doesn't register it. Like it's happening underwater. Distant and muffled. There but not quite real.

She's on the couch. Or the floor. She's not sure which and it doesn't really matter. Her body feels heavy. Anchored. Like moving would take more energy than she has.

She's curled in on herself. Knees pulled up. Arms wrapped around them. Small and still in the middle of all the noise.

The contrast is weird. Everything around her is loud and chaotic but inside she's just... nothing. Flat. Numb. Empty.

She looks around the room. Sees the clutter. The mess. Coffee cups on the table. Clothes on the floor. Signs that someone lives here.

None of it feels like hers. None of it feels real. It's all borrowed or temporary or just wrong somehow. Like she's occupying a space that belongs to someone else.

She doesn't feel connected to any of it.

Her phone's next to her. Screen dark. She picks it up. Stares at it. Considers texting someone. Jecka maybe. Or anyone.

She doesn't.

Instead she scrolls. Through old photos. Messages from weeks ago. Half-remembered moments that feel like they happened to someone else.

Nothing helps. Nothing brings relief or clarity or makes her feel less disconnected. She's just moving her thumb. Filling time. The act is compulsive and empty.

She keeps scrolling anyway.

The room looks wrong. Colors too muted. Edges blurred. Everything faded like someone turned down the saturation. The world doesn't look real. Looks flat. Two-dimensional.

Matches how she feels inside. Visual distortion mirroring the internal flatness.

A thought breaks through the numbness. Quiet and exhausted.

What have I been doing with my life.

Not a question really. More like an observation. She says it out loud. Or thinks it deliberately. Hard to tell the difference.

Nothing answers back.

She tries to think of something comforting. Something that might make this easier. Tries to remember Jecka's laugh. The sound of her voice. The shape of her smile.

The memory hurts instead of helping. Nostalgia twisting into ache. Making everything worse.

She stops trying to remember.

Focuses on breathing instead. In and out. Deliberate. Counts to four. Tries to feel her heartbeat. The weight of her body against whatever she's sitting on. Physical sensations to ground herself.

The effort is conscious. Intentional. She's trying to stabilize. Trying to pull herself back into her body.

It doesn't work.

Time keeps moving outside. The TV changes channels. Voices shift. The light in the room changes as the sun moves.

But inside everything's frozen. Stuck. She's waiting for the feeling to pass. For the numbness to lift. For something to shift.

It doesn't.

She just sits there. Heavy and still. Surrounded by noise that doesn't reach her. In a room that doesn't feel real. In a body that feels like it's not quite hers.

Waiting.

Nicole notices it on a Tuesday.

She's scrolling through Instagram, not looking for anything specific, definitely not looking for Jecka. Except she is. And that's when she sees it.

The photos are gone.

Not archived. Gone. Every picture of them together, every stupid selfie, every shot from parties or late nights or that one time they drove to the beach at 2 AM just because. Deleted. Like they never existed.

She clicks on Jecka's profile again. Scrolls back further. Nothing. Not a single trace of her. It's all pictures of Jecka alone now, or with other people, or with some new girl Nicole doesn't recognize who's suddenly in half the recent posts.

Her stomach drops. That sick, hollow feeling of watching yourself get erased from someone's life in real time.

She checks her messages next. The thread's still there but shorter than it should be. Jecka deleted whole conversations. Months of late-night texts and inside jokes and "I miss you" messages that Nicole screenshot because they made her feel real. Gone.

The anger hits first. Sharp and instant.

Fuck her. Fuck this. If Jecka wants to pretend Nicole never happened, fine. Nicole doesn't need those memories anyway. Doesn't need proof that they mattered. She's better off.

If you're gonna delete me, at least do it to my face.

She wants to text that. Wants to call Jecka and scream it. Wants to show up at her place and demand an explanation. But that would mean admitting it hurts. That would mean showing Jecka she cares.

So she sits there. Stares at the screen. Lets the bitterness build.

Congratulations. You finally figured out how to pretend I never happened.

The anger feels safer than the truth underneath it. The anger gives her something to hold onto. Something sharp and solid instead of the sick, spiraling feeling trying to claw its way up her throat.

Because the real truth, the one she won't acknowledge yet, is that it only hurts this much because she did matter. Because she thought she mattered.

But under the rage is something worse.

Devastation.

Nicole can handle fighting. She's good at fighting. Can handle distance, coldness, even losing someone. That's familiar territory. But this? Being erased? Treated like she was never there to begin with?

That's different.

Being erased feels worse than being hated. At least hate means she made an impact. At least anger means she mattered enough to provoke a reaction. But deletion? That's nothing. That's being told she was so insignificant that removing her didn't even require a conversation.

Was I really that easy to remove?

The question loops in her head. Over and over. She doesn't want to ask it but it's already there, burrowing in.

Did any of it mean anything to you?

Was I just a placeholder until someone better came along?

She knew this was temporary. Always knew. Didn't let herself believe anything else because believing in permanence just makes it hurt more when it ends. But there's a difference between knowing something won't last and being treated like it never existed at all.

And now it's confirmed. She was temporary. Forgettable. Disposable.

The memories are still in her head. That's the worst part. She remembers everything. The way Jecka laughed. The way she looked at Nicole sometimes like she was worth looking at. The way her hand felt. The stupid shit they talked about at 3 AM. All of it.

Those memories feel like ghosts now. Haunting a place where she's been evicted. She's still holding onto all these moments that Jecka's already thrown away.

Meanwhile Jecka gets to rewrite the story. Gets to scroll through her own feed and see a version of her life where Nicole was never part of it. Gets to move on clean. Gets to pretend.

Nicole doesn't get that. She's stuck with all of it. Every memory, every feeling, every stupid hope she let herself have. She can't delete any of it. It's just there. Taking up space. Reminding her that she cared about something that didn't care back.

She doesn't want to beg. Won't chase. Won't give Jecka the satisfaction of knowing how much this wrecked her.

But it does wreck her.

Not because Jecka left. People leave. Nicole's used to that. It's the implication that kills her. That she was so easy to erase. That she meant so little that getting rid of her required nothing more than a few taps on a screen.

She thought she was more than that. Thought maybe, for once, she was someone worth keeping. Even just in photos. Even just in memories.

Guess not.

She closes Instagram. Stares at her ceiling. The familiar numbness starts creeping in. The same emptiness she's been running from. The same void she fills with pills and drinks and strangers.

She could text someone. Find a party. Get high enough that this stops mattering.

She will, probably. In an hour. Or ten minutes. Or right now.

But for this moment she just lies there. Lets it hurt. Lets herself feel the full weight of being forgettable. Of being erased like she never mattered at all.

Because she's still here. Still remembering. Still hurting.

And Jecka's already moved on.

The cycle starts again. The same patterns. The same masks. The same sharp edges and careful numbness. The same ways of disappearing without actually leaving.

Nothing changes.

Nothing ever does.

I'm still full of memories you've already deleted.

Nicole notices herself in the stillness. No crisis happening. No emotional peak. Just the quiet after everything else.

She's aware of the damage. Can see it clearly without reliving it. Takes stock like someone checking inventory after a storm.

Things are fractured. She knows that.

Trust, obviously. That broke a long time ago. Habits next. The patterns she used to rely on don't work the same way anymore. Relationships too. Most of them anyway. And parts of herself. The soft ones. The ones that used to believe in things.

She catalogs it clinically. No blame. No drama. Just recognition. This is what broke. This is what didn't make it.

But some things survived.

The instinct to keep breathing. Still there. The awareness of herself, even when she wishes it wasn't. The capacity to notice things. To be present even when presence hurts.

Small survivals. Unglamorous. Not strengths. Just facts.

She's not going to promise she'll get better. Won't vow to change. Won't claim she's learned some profound lesson or found meaning in the pain.

That's not how this works. Neat endings are bullshit. Redemption arcs are for people who believe in redemption.

She's not healing. She's enduring. There's a difference.

Unbroken doesn't mean whole. Doesn't mean fixed or recovered or okay.

It just means still intact enough to exist. Still here. Not erased. Not gone.

The damage didn't finish the job.

She focuses on her breath. In and out. The weight of her body against whatever she's sitting on. The distant sound of traffic outside. Grounds herself briefly in the present.

Not panicking this time. Not spiraling. Just noticing. Just being here.

She's still fractured. Still carrying all the breaks. Still sharp-edged and guarded and numbed out more often than not.

Still cycling through the same patterns. The same masks. The same ways of protecting herself that also isolate her.

Nothing's resolved. Nothing's better.

But she's still here. Still herself, even in pieces. Still unbroken in the only way that matters.

No catharsis. No relief. No sudden clarity or hope.

Just continuation.

The cycle starts again tomorrow. The same struggles. The same survival mechanisms. The same careful distance from anything that might hurt.

But for now, in this moment, she's still standing. Still breathing. Still Nicole.

Fractured but not finished.

Not whole. Not fixed. Still unbroken.