Suffocating

Insomnia; II

Roxanne stared at her phone, lying on her back, on a bed, in a bedroom, debating on whether or not she should send a text message.

It was almost a silly sight. Like a young girl, debating on whether or not she'd send this confession of love to her crush, biting her lip, wondering if the confession was heartfelt enough, if it was too heartfelt, if it was a relationship worth pursuing, if it was going to change things forever between them, if that person loved her the way she loved that person, if they loved her at all. Wondering, wondering.

Things would've been much less shittier if it were.

But this wasn't her bed, nor her room, nor was it a reasonable time for her to be up, for anyone to be up.

Claire, I'm sorry. I was being too harsh. Can you please forgive me?

And it wasn't a confession of love she was scared of sending, it was something much more severe, heartbreaking. Much more pathetic.

It was Claire who'd broken things off. She hadn't been there, for the last few months. She'd been drifting, flaking out, doing God knew what. It was Claire who made her feel as though their friendship wasn't worth it, wasn't anything important, and could easily be replaced by something else, could be sacrificed for something far more significant.

Roxanne deleted the message.

The lights were on, despite how late it was. She should probably turn it off, but... the prospect of it scared her, for some reason. It reminded her of being in the dark, being alone, helpless. She didn't bother turning it off. I'll do it when I want to go to sleep, she reasoned, despite knowing how much of a shitty reason it was.

She didn't realise what was happening when her vision blurred. She blinked, and blinked again, confused as to why her throat was heavy, like there was something clogging it up.

She opened her glasses, scrubbed at it to remove any stains, dust, or grime or anything, anything at all, when the first tear fell, right into the lens.

For a pausing moment, Roxanne stared, unblinking, and more and more droplets of unknown liquid substance fell. Her chest became heavier and heavier, and it was so, so hard to breathe. She twitched. She hiccuped and sniffled and it didn't hit her, not yet, not until she was choking on air, rushing as she texted, relying on muscle memory and autocorrect rather than vision to type each words, forming them into sentences, pouring whatever it was that made everything ache so bad into this small box of technology.

Roxanne stopped.

Roxanne, through squinted, aching eyes, read.

If only you know, Claire, how much it hurts to feel like your best friend doesn't even want you. How much it hurts knowing that you can't rely on your best friend. Wondering if that person even is your friend.

And that was when it hit her.

Roxanne was crying.

And everything became a blur.

She was crying, and smiling, because wow, everything was so hilarious, wasn't it? She might be in mortal danger. She might disappear. Supernatural creatures fucking existed. There were people who weren't really people hiding in disguise amongst the civilians, and nobody could tell which one it was. People were disappearing. Teenagers, kids, even.

And yet- yet she was a complete mess because- because of a shitty friend being shitty.

She typed, hysteric.

Wow, Claire. People adore you, you know. You're cute, shy, polite. Everyone loves you, you know. How can I ever compare?! Why do you even hang out with me if you have better things to do, huh?! You're so busy, now! You clearly don't need me!