Yours Truly, Ramona

chapter thirty three | tragedy.

*trigger warning*

~

I can barely remember the events of yesterday evening. I remember Jasper's words and the way that they hurt, and I remember the rest of the day up until the point where I got my hands on a blunt.

It's not like alcohol, where the events are just completely blacked out from my memory, it's more like a blur. The weed made everything feel like a dream, or like it didn't really happen.

"We need to talk about last night."

Owen's voice coming up from behind me answers my questions in an instant. Everything that I think I remember happening did, in fact, happen.

I tried to tell him about the crushing numbness of my childhood memories and the way I've been feeling for the past few years—a tremendous mistake, on my part.

I watch from the island stool as Owen enters the kitchen and takes a stance across the counter from me. He takes authority in his position, and after he takes a quick second to turn around to start brewing his morning coffee, he turns right back to me with eyes that, like usual, are impossible to read.

I move my eyes up from my untouched bagel to his calm, confident stance and he peers back down on me with watchful eyes. He even tries to get me to make eye contact, but like a guilty puppy, I can't bring myself to look at him.

I wish more than ever that Mason were here to break the silence, but Owen's been letting him sleep in lately. So it's just us, the dripping sound of Owen's brewing coffee, and the lackluster countertops that my eyes can't look up from.

"I'm worried about you."

"Don't be."

I move my unsteady hand to my bagel and push it around on the plate. It was stupid of me to even try to eat. I thought that maybe, if I could preoccupy myself with eating, it would show Owen that I'm not in a position to have a talk. But I'm not hungry, and Owen doesn't seem to care that I'm 'trying to eat'.

"Stop wasting your breath on me," I speak up. I need to get the confidence to let him know with certainty that I don't want his help. "We both know I'm leaving here eventually. Don't waste your time."

"I don't care when you're leaving," he states calmly. "I care that something's hurting you."

Life is hurting me.

I sigh and push my plate away from me. I hadn't realized how much I don't want to have this conversation. At least not until he started trying to pry his way into my feelings.

I step off of the island stool and pick my jacket up from beside me. He notices my desire to end our conversation, but before he can jump in with more pointless words, I cut him off in a harsh tone.

"You don't know me," I bite. My eyes narrow on him in defiance, an act that makes me feel wonderfully powerful. "Stop acting like you can fucking fix me."

His eyebrows draw together in confusion as he backs off. He even steps back against the counter, and he moves his eyes off of me for a brief second. Silence fills the kitchen and begins to hang over us like a heavy blanket while I wait for my opportunity to officially end whatever conversation Owen is trying to have.

"I never said I was trying to fix you," he begins before he raises his eyes back to me. "There's nothing wrong with you."

I want to believe him. I really, truly do. From his patient stare to his serious composure, I know he deeply believes what he's saying. But he's wrong, because there's a huge part of me that he doesn't even know.