Page 95 of Before We Were

It wasn't always like this. Back when I was numbing myself with whatever I could get my hands on, the memories stayed buried, fuzzy around the edges. But now? Now they're in HD, surround sound, playing on repeat. My legs shake as I stumble to my feet, running trembling hands over my face. I've gotten good at hiding it all: the sleepless nights, the tremors, the constant gnawing need that lives in my bones. I can't afford to crack now. Not when things are finally shifting. Not when I'm starting to believe that maybe I'm capable of not destroying everything I touch.

But fuck, the withdrawals are hell.

Every nerve ending feels like a live wire, muscles seizing up like they're trying to tear free from my body. The headaches drill into my skull, and nausea rolls through me in waves. It would be so easy to make it stop. Just one pill. But I can't. I won't.

Instead, I let the nightmares remind me of who I am—still that helpless kid who couldn't fight back, who never managed to protect the people who needed him. Only now, there's nothing to dull the edges of that truth.

The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I expect: a fucking train wreck. Dark circles carve shadows under my eyes, skin pale as a ghost. I lean against the sink, studying the stranger staring back at me. He's a mess, but at least he's trying. The cold water hits my face like needles, and I welcome the sting. It grounds me to this moment, but my mind drifts anyway—to her.

Fuck.

I wrap a towel around my waist, bare skin still damp—who the hell would be awake now?

Wrong.

She's awake.

Of course she's awake and she’s pressed up against me.

My brain short-circuits. All that separates us right now is her sports bra, skin-tight shorts and my towel. Sweat from her run is making her glisten like something dangerous. Those eyes—they're wild. Hunted. I know that look. I've worn it my whole life. Running. Always running.

Nora freezes.

I freeze.

We're this weird snapshot of tension, while every breath I’m trying to take is catching in my throat. Close enough to feel her heat, to count the way her chest rises and falls.

I drop to retrieve her phone, and fuck me. Being on my knees for her changes everything. The angle. The vulnerability. All I can think is how easy it would be to press her against the wall and taste the mix of sweat and desperation on her skin. She's beautiful like this, raw and unguarded. Strength coiled tight beneath her surface.

After getting her fresh towels, we part ways, but my mind keeps circling back to one thought:

What would Nora say if she knew everything?

Would she still look at me the same way? Still trust me?

Still let me be someone she feels safe enough to turn to?

I don't know. I'm not sure I want to find out.

The sunroom smellsof dust and forgotten things, morning light filtering through cracked blinds to illuminate years of careful avoidance. I roll up my sleeves, surveying the cluttered space. Boxes crowd every corner, each one filled with memories we tried to bury. I want to give Nora somewhere quiet to write, and this room—this shadowed corner we've long abandoned—feels destined for transformation.

My muscles protest as I start clearing boxes, exhaustion gnawing at my bones, but I welcome the distraction. This is for her. That thought alone keeps me moving.

Something catches my eye as I shift a heavy box—photo frames, hastily packed away like someone couldn't bear to look at them anymore. I pull one out, wiping away years of dust with my thumb. There we are—me, Jake, Mom, and... him. Dad. We're smiling: the perfect Sullivan family portrait.

What a fucking joke.

Every smile was a performance, every pose carefully arranged to maintain the illusion. The cracks were already there, spreading beneath the surface like spider webs, but we painted over them again and again. Broken glass held together with cheap glue and cheaper lies.

My hands shake as I stare at my father's face, his proud grin making my stomach turn. The frame slips, shattering against hardwood in a spray of glass and splintered wood. I stare at the pieces, breathing hard. The metaphor isn't lost on me—cracks everywhere, in the glass, in my family, in me. No matter how hard we try to piece things back together, the breaks are always visible.

After hours of work, the room looks different.

Still rough, but with potential. I decide to take a break and head toward the kitchen.

The note on the fridge is in Mom's neat script:

Went out with the girls for the morning.

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