2 STRINGS

Bound by Confusion

Sunday, September 29

I woke up feeling drained. Not physically—I'd slept fine, which was rare for me—but emotionally. It was like my brain had been running laps in my sleep, replaying every fucking moment from yesterday. Mason showing up, his half-assed apology, that damn guitar pick. 

I rolled over in bed and groaned into my pillow. Why did everything with him have to be so complicated? Why couldn't we just go back to when things were easy? Before Jessica, before all the drama, before... whatever the hell this is. 

Dragging myself out of bed, I shuffled downstairs. My brothers were already yelling at each other over Mario Kart, their voices cutting through the house. My dad was at the table, sipping coffee and flipping through some old military magazine. His prosthetic leg sat in clear view, and as always, it hit me in the gut. 

Dad was always one of the strongest person I knew, but seeing that damn prosthetic still made me feel like the world had cheated him. He never complained, though. Even when I knew it hurt like hell. 

"Morning," I mumbled, grabbing a piece of toast. 

He looked up, gave me a nod. "Morning, kid. You alright?" 

"Yeah," I lied. 

He didn't push. Instead, he nodded toward the living room, where my brothers were getting louder. "Think you can stop World War III in there?" 

I snorted, grateful for the distraction. "On it." 

---

The day passed in a blur of noise and chores. I helped Mom with laundry, tried (and failed) to teach my little brother how to juggle a soccer ball, and even managed to clean my room a bit. Anything to keep my mind off Mason. 

But of course, I couldn't avoid him forever. 

Late that afternoon, my phone buzzed. 

Mason: Can we talk? Please.

I stared at the screen, my chest tightening. Part of me wanted to ignore the asshole. Let him sit in whatever guilt he was swimming in. But another part of me—the stupid, soft part that still cared—couldn't do it. 

Me: Fine. Where?

Mason: The park. By the field.

Of course, it had to be the field. Our field. The place where we used to spend hours kicking the ball around, making stupid bets, laughing about nothing. The place that used to feel like ours. 

---

When I got there, he was already waiting, sitting on the grass like he was trying to look casual. It pissed me off immediately. 

"What the fuck do you want now?" I asked, crossing my arms as I walked up. 

He looked up, his face a mix of guilt and something else I couldn't name. "Jamie—" 

"No," I snapped. "Cut the bullshit. You called me here, so spit it out." 

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I wanted to apologize again. For Friday . For leaving you like that. It wasn't fair." 

I scoffed. "You're damn right it wasn't fair." My voice cracked a little, but I didn't care. "Do you have any idea how much that hurt, Mason? How much *you've* hurt me?" 

"I know," he said quietly. "And I hate myself for it. But I didn't know what else to do. I... I'm with Jessica, and it didn't feel right being there with you." 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I snapped, my anger boiling over. "You made me feel like shit because you suddenly decided to grow a conscience? What about me, Mason? Did you even think about how I'd feel? Or is this all just about making yourself feel better?" 

His jaw tightened, and for a second, I thought he was going to yell back. But instead, he just said, "I'm sorry. I don't know how to fix this." 

I laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and humorless. "You can't fix it. You made your choice, Mason. You chose her. So why the fuck are you here?" 

He looked at me, his brown eyes filled with something that made my stomach twist. "Because you're still the one I think about, Jamie," he said, his voice soft. "You're the one I can't get out of my head." 

For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My anger wavered, replaced by something softer, something more dangerous. But then I shook my head, forcing myself to remember everything he'd put me through. 

"You don't get to do this," I said, my voice low and trembling. "You don't get to fuck with my head like this. If you want to be with Jessica, fine. But leave me the hell out of it." 

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, his voice breaking. 

"Then stop," I snapped. "Stop coming around. Stop apologizing. Just... stop." 

He opened his mouth to say something, but I didn't wait. I turned and walked away, ignoring the way my chest ached with every step. 

---

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the guitar pick he'd given me clutched in my hand. It was smooth and warm, like it had soaked up all the emotions I couldn't express. 

I hated him. I hated how much power he had over me, how he could ruin my whole fucking day with just one text. 

But more than that, I hated myself for still caring. For still hoping. For still being that stupid girl who let him pull her strings. 

I rolled over, clutching the pick tighter. "Fuck this," I muttered, even though I knew I didn't mean it. Not really.