Page 67 of Undone

My eyes burn and I press my hand to my forehead, trying to rub away the tears before they can fall. Regret churns in my stomach.

“It’s selfish, Lillian.”

My dad’s voice feels sharp in my childhood bedroom. Out of place. I don’t like having him in here, but I’m drowning and I can’t get up.

I nod, biting my lip. I haven’t left my room in a week, unable to really move. Flunking out of Harvard was hard enough on my self-esteem. Coming back home to this burning building, perpetually breathing in the air of the past that smells like Toren Kane just snuck out is somehow harder.

But that’s not why I feel like this.

“Just tell me what’s wrong so we can fix it.”

My mouth sticks, tongue moving slow as I try to push up off the bed but it’s like I physically can’t.

“I don’t know,” I whisper, the words slow as they pour out. I feel charred inside, exhausted and angry and sad. And every part of me feels like getting up, moving at all, would be ten times harder. “I’m just tired.”

And I feel like crying. Like someone is sitting on my chest, forcing the tears out of me.

“Lillian,” my dad breathes. He sounds angry and upset too. Maybe he can help me. “I’m not doing this again. You have to stop. Get out of bed.”

I can’t, I want to beg. Can you just hold me? I think that would make it better.

But I won’t ask him. I tried it before, and he’s never opened his arms to me.

“You’re being selfish, Lillian. Stop it—”

I blink now and I’m in the shower. I don’t really remember how long I’ve been standing here, but it’s better than my bed.

Washing my hair, my face, indulging in a ritual I like, feels so much better. It helps to wash away some of the guilt. Some of the regret.

But it doesn’t stop me from crawling back into my bed with wet hair, staring at the ceiling, wishing there were glow-in-the-dark stars above me again.

• • •

The next day feels better, at least in that I manage to both get out of bed and go to class. It’s Tuesday, which means I don’t see Holden or Toren. But as I make my way to the library—mostly in an attempt to avoid sinking into the hole of my bed in my own room, I spot a tall hockey boy hunched into a small chair on the first floor.

Or maybe not spotting him; clearly, Holden’s already seen me.

“Lily,” he calls, unafraid of the booming volume of his voice disturbing those around him. The two girls at the end of his table turn to look at me, as well as half the library it seems.

I clear my throat and straighten my spine, looking for joy, the happiness of seeing him. Something—anything is better than this disinterested sluggish feeling I can’t escape from.

But it’s not there.

Maybe it’s buried in the exhaustion of my dip—the lethargy that seems to plague me for days after an episode. Or maybe I’m just incapable of happiness really, just like my dad has told me a million times over.

“Hey,” I say, stepping close to his table, skirt swishing around my tights-clad legs. “What are you working on?”

“Math,” he says. “Do you want to sit with me?”

It’s easy to nod, to sit at the head of the table with him near my right side, partially because I’m wearing my hearing aid.

Holden only looks down at his textbook for a moment, not really reading as I settle into the seat and pull out my notebook, pen, and laptop.

“So Toren said you two knew each other . . . from before?”

I nod, biting down on my lip. “Um, yes.”

“That you were friends.”