WONDER | shawmila

nineteen.

Shawn didn't know what time it was when he opened his eyes, but the bright sun seemed to stab right through to his hungover brain.

He reached for the blanket, ready to pull it over his head and shut out the world again. He could hear the rattling of the bottles at the end of the bed and winced when one rolled onto the floor and shattered.

"Fuck."

He rolled onto his other side, his head pounding and his gaze settling on the alarm clock. It was only ten in the morning. He passed out at almost two last night, he could go back to sleep if he wanted, but he knew by now the stabbing in his whole body was probably dehydration.

He climbed out of bed, careful to avoid the glass on the floor, and stepped into the bathroom.

He hated his house, it was covered in her.

Camila's robe still hung on the back of the bathroom door. He eyed it as he turned on the sink and washed his face, the hot water doing little for his pounding head. He examined his reflection, the dark circles under his eyes and the shadow of stubble on his face.

It'd been almost a week since Camila ended things, and all Shawn had done since was drink himself into oblivion every night.

When he was sober, he tried to remember what happened, but each night made that one blurrier and blurrier.

One second, he was on top of the world, his life absolutely perfect. He was singing with Ashe, Camila beaming at him from the crowd—and the next—everything was over.

He couldn't demonize her in his mind. Part of her was right. He was defensive at the time, when she accused him of starving himself. He told himself he'd just been in caloric deficit, like athletes did. But there was a difference between counting calories and skipping meals entirely.

Shawn slowly pulled off the undershirt he was wearing and looked at himself shirtless in the mirror. There was a bruise on his rib and he had no idea where it came from—unless he fell down drunk last night, a distinct possibility.

He looked past that at his muscles. Six days of binge drinking and skipping the gym hadn't changed him, really. Just like days of overdoing the gym and skipping meals hadn't.

Camila was right, he looked fine. And if he didn't, it didn't matter anyways.

Shawn grabbed the glass by the sink and forced himself to drink water. He finished a full glass before reaching into the medicine cabinet for some Tylenol. His fingers brushed another bottle and he turned to read the label—Midol.

He hated his room, it was filled with her stuff. So was the living room, everywhere had her scent that seemed to fill his lungs and choke him. It was overwhelming.

Couldn't she come back and get it all the hell out of his house?

He didn't even know where she was, whether she'd made it back from New York or not. She didn't return his barrage of texts and calls he sent her the night it happened.

Did his serious girlfriend really ghost him?

Shawn had no clue where his phone was. He moved slowly, the sunlight in the bedroom still killing him as he stepped back out and began looking for it.

He pulled the sheets up, more bottles clinking and rolling onto the floor. He knocked the pillows aside, nearly jumping back when he found one of Camila's bras. Not what he was looking for.

He checked the living room next. It was almost pitch dark, he'd been keeping the blinds closed ever since he got home. It was eerily silent and it took him a moment to remember why.