1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

08 | sagitta

ELOISE HAD BOUGHT HERSELF ICE CREAM AT THE SMALL DESSERT PARLOR NEAR SUE'S. Dark chocolate for her; a non-dairy raspberry sherbet for him. Jonah looked at her like she was the goddamn universe herself, her small smile shining like fiery lights through abysmal shades of grey matter.

She didn't want to say goodbye.

***

Gripping the phone closer to her right ear, fingertips cold and nearly frozen, the balls of her feet fall back as she stumbles a bit. Her heart hurts—hurts so much, and it's unbearable, really, at the uncontrollable emotion squeezing her ribs.

A dry laugh escapes between cracked lips. "What?"

Her nails dig into the warm screen with so much pressure that she's afraid it'll shatter.

On the other side of the line, there's an odd warm crackling before the wave of silence ends and her nightmare begins. The beginnings are always like this: crystallized vengeance comes to twist the flesh of her veins, all inky and black and spiraling, and there's no escape.

"Why didn't you call me back? You—you're not picking up my calls," her father croaks out. There's a crack between his statement, and she knows exactly what he's doing. He's probably sitting on the couch with the phone cradled in his left hand, ridden with guilt but face impassive. If people could win awards for deception, Matthew Park would be the reigning champion.

"I don't answer to you anymore. Stop calling me, Dad. I can't—" She breaks off, and it's getting harder to breathe. Everything goes black for a moment. And she. Can't. Think.

Muffling comes through the line. "You can't avoid me forever, Eloise," her father confronts. "What would your mother think about your actions?"

Reality chokes her at the base of her throat, blood pressure rising and eyes turning glassy. "My mother," Elosie manages to get out, gasping for air, "is dead. So no, I can't wonder what she would think because she's six feet under the fucking ground." She exhales. "Don't use her as a piece of bait."

The absence of noise for several minutes leaves her shoulders shaking. "I'm sober," he slowly, sorrowfully, admits. "Today makes seven months."

You said that last year, too, so don't make me believe in something that reaches the heights of insanity.

The pounding of blood rushes through the hollowness of her veins, sluggish adrenaline striking her pulse. "That's great," Eloise says quietly. Voice callous and empty. "Really. That's good, dad."

"Will you come home now?"

"You and I—we have... different definitions of home."

"This will always be your home, Eloise."

The nails digging into her palm cut flesh. "No," she whispers. "Any—any place is better than that hellhole. It's best that I don't visit you, and—and I can't. I can't."

On the other side of the conversation, she hears her father sigh lowly. "When are you going to forgive me?"

Tiny knives make incisions in her heart, bleeding and bleeding and bleeding. She feels as if the ground is slipping out from under her, as if her body will fall endlessly into an empty abyss full of heartbreak and misery. Eloise is panting now—desperately, wildly panting. Hot air passes through her lips, salty tears forming a delicate stream down her cheeks before meeting at the base of her chin.

"I, um," Eloise mumbles incoherently. Her father remains silent in anticipation for her answer. "I have to go."

"El, wait—"