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The snap of metal. Mom’s trembling hands. The fear in her eyes.

The familiar urge to fill myself up to empty everything out again rises. To regain control, the only way I know how.

I punch the radio on. Bass thumps through the speakers, but it’s not loud enough. I crank it until the windows vibrate, until my teeth rattle, until I can’t hear my own thoughts anymore.

The phone lights up again on the passenger seat.

I take the next turn too fast, tires squealing, and the phone slides across the leather, tumbling onto the floor.

Let it rot there.

Let everything stay buried where it belongs.

I don’t remember the rest of the drive home. Don’t remember stumbling up the stairs to my apartment, fumbling with my keys.

Once inside, I ravage the kitchen, shoving whatever I can find into my mouth, cookies, chocolate, and—I cram another handful of chips in my mouth, not even tasting them anymore. The bag crinkles as I dig deeper, desperate for… something. Anything to fill this void.

My phone buzzes relentlessly.

Brandon: Answer your fucking phone.

Brandon: Naomi.

Brandon: I swear to god.

I grab the container of leftover fried rice, shoveling it in cold. The texture’s wrong, gummy and congealed, but I don’t care. Can’t care.

The phone rings.

“Just leave me the fuck alone!” I drop to my knees, burying my hands in my hair, nails scraping against my scalp.

Breathe. In and out. In and out.

I look up, taking in the empty wrappers and containers littering my kitchen counter like evidence at a crime scene. My fingers are sticky with chocolate and grease that I just smeared into my hair. The smell of artificial cheese and MSG makes my stomach roll.

What a mess.

SEVEN

NAOMI

Igrab my phone with trembling hands, ignoring the texts and calls from Brandon and instead hit Blake’s contact.

She answers on the second ring. “NayNay? Wh?—”

“B. I—” The words catch in my throat, shattering as I force them out. “I-I did it again.”

A rustling sound, then the jingle of keys. “Where are you?”

“Home.” I slide down against the kitchen cabinet, wrapping my free arm around my knees. “It’s getting worse.”

“Don’t move. I’m coming over.” Her voice sharpens with urgency. “Stay on the phone.”

“Can’t.” The pressure builds. “Gotta go.”

I lurch toward the bathroom, my phone slipping from my grip and clattering to the floor. My knees follow as I hunch over the toilet, shoving my fingers into my mouth. Inside me, everything twists and lurches.

It’s like a fist squeezing everything up and out—chips, rice, and all the other stuff while shame stays rooted deep inside.

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