Beneath The Surface

Chapter 1 - Madison

The sunlight filtering through my blinds wakes me before my alarm does. Not that it matters—I've been drifting in and out of consciousness since four in the morning anyway. That's the thing about my brain; it never really turns off. It just cycles between racing thoughts and complete numbness, rarely finding that middle ground where normal people seem to exist.

I check my phone: 9:17 AM. Three missed texts from Mom asking if I'm coming down for breakfast. I've already pre-constructed my excuse: Sorry, already ate with Jess before you woke up. A simple lie that gets me out of another meal and another concerned look.

Mom stopped keeping track of my friends years ago, so she won't know that Jess and I haven't spoken since middle school. She'll just nod, maybe with a hint of relief that I'm socializing at all, and go about her Saturday.

The mirror on my closet door catches my reflection as I sit up. I've learned to avoid looking directly at it, performing a carefully choreographed dance around my room that keeps my eyes averted. But sometimes, like today, I slip up. The girl staring back at me is a stranger I've grown to hate—not thin enough, not pretty enough, not enough enough. I quickly look away, but the damage is done. The voice in my head has ammunition for the day.

Look at you. Disgusting. No wonder Nathan got paired with you—the teachers probably feel sorry for you.

I pull on an oversized hoodie and leggings, the uniform of someone trying to disappear. The hoodie swallows me, and that's the point. If no one can see my body, maybe I can forget about it too.My phone buzzes again.

Mom: Madison, are you up?

I type back: Been up for hours. Already had breakfast with Jess, going to work on some homework stuff.

Another lie. The homework part, at least. There's a mountain of assignments piling up, but the thought of tackling any of it sends a wave of anxiety through my chest that makes my breath catch. Just add it to the growing list of things Madison Williams is failing at.

The stairs creak as I make my way down. I can't avoid the kitchen entirely—I need water to take my meds, the ones that are supposed to make me "feel better" but mostly just make me tired in a different way than I was tired before.

"Morning, honey." Mom's voice is careful, measured. She's already dressed for her shift at the hospital, her nurse's bag packed by the door. "I made pancakes if you want some."

"I already ate," I say, the lie sliding easily from my lips as I fill a glass with water from the tap. "But thanks."

She studies me for a moment too long, and I can feel her eyes cataloging details—the dark circles under my eyes, the way my clothes hang, the brittleness of my hair. I turn away, pretending to look for something in the fridge.

"I have a double shift today, so I won't be home until tomorrow morning," she says finally. "There's money on the counter for food. Please eat something, Maddy."

The use of my childhood nickname makes my throat tighten. I nod without turning around, afraid that if I look at her, I'll see that mixture of worry and helplessness that makes me feel like the worst daughter in the world.

"I will," I promise, another lie to add to the collection.

After she leaves, the house falls into silence. It's both a relief and a terror. No one watching, no one to perform for. Just me and the thoughts that circle like vultures.

I take my pill and head back upstairs, passing the bathroom scale on the way. I've moved it to the hallway so I won't be tempted to step on it every time I use the bathroom, but it calls to me anyway. A quick check wouldn't hurt. Just to see if yesterday's half-apple for dinner made any difference.

The number that flashes feels like a personal betrayal. Higher than yesterday. Higher than it has any right to be when my stomach has been a hollow cave for days.

See? Nothing you do matters. You can't even do this right.

Back in my room, I sit cross-legged on my bed and open my laptop. The browser is still on the school portal where my grades glare back at me—a mosaic of Ds and Fs with one lonely C+ in English. The C+ is only there because Mr. Bryson gave us credit for in-class participation, and on my better days, I can string together enough coherent thoughts about Shakespeare to sound like I know what I'm talking about.

And then there's Nathan. Nathan with his perfect grades and his perfect life and his perfect everything. Nathan who somehow got saddled with me as a project. The teachers must have drawn straws, and he got the short one.

My phone buzzes again, and I expect it's Mom with more instructions for the weekend. But it's not.

Unknown Number: Hey, it's Nathan from school. Mr. Bryson gave me your number. I was thinking we could start working on the English project on Monday? Let me know what time works.

My stomach drops. I'd forgotten about the project, or maybe I'd deliberately blocked it out. The idea of spending time with someone who has their life so together while mine is in pieces makes me want to crawl under my covers and never come out.

I stare at the message for a long time, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. I should say something normal, something a regular person would say. But what would that even be?

Finally, I type: Sure, whatever. Afternoon is fine.

Short, a little rude, but not outright hostile. It's the best I can manage today.

His response comes back almost immediately: Great! 2 PM at the library? I'll bring my notes.

Of course he has notes already. Of course he's eager. Of course he chose a public place where I'll have to act like a functioning human being.

Fine. I respond, then toss my phone aside.

The rest of the day stretches before me like an empty desert. No school to structure the hours, no friends to fill the silence, no appetite to mark mealtimes. Just me and the thoughts that never stop, the anxiety that lives in my chest like an unwelcome roommate, and the hollowness that no amount of food—even if I wanted it—could fill.

This is my weekend. This is my life. One empty hour after another, trying to outrun a mind that's determined to destroy me from the inside out.

And Monday, I have to face Nathan Yearwood, who will undoubtedly see through every fake smile and half-truth I offer. The thought alone is exhausting.

I curl up on my side, pulling my knees to my chest, and close my eyes. Maybe I'll sleep until then. Maybe I'll sleep forever.

The weight on my chest doesn't lift, but if I lie still enough, sometimes it doesn't get heavier. And on days like today, that's the closest thing to peace I'm going to find.