Work Text:
All my friends are drunk again
And I'm stumblin' back to bed all by myself
I got nobody elsehttps://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbNs7tAUFkk
The bar pulsed like a living thing, an organism of sweat and skin and alcohol, writhing under the command of the masked DJ’s bass-heavy mix like he was some kind of puppeteer. Strobe lights cut jagged shadows across the bodies packed together on the dance floor, each movement fragmented, half-seen, like a film missing frames.
Somewhere in the corner, a couple was tangled in a kiss, their hands impatient, their bodies pressed together as though they’d never get enough. Glasses clinked, laughter spiked through the air, and the faint scent of something burning– maybe a cigarette, maybe something stronger– curled at the edges of it all, like smoke building.
In the middle of it, Angela danced.
It wasn’t exactly her kind of scene. Not in the way that counted, anyway. But she was here, tequila sloshing in her glass, the condensation dripping onto her fingers, small droplets of cold against the warmth of her skin. Her eyes were closed. Not out of reverence for the music, but out of necessity. If she looked, if she saw– saw the sea of strangers, the almost-too-close touches, the vacant eyes searching for some kind of meaning in the night, then maybe she’d remember she wasn’t supposed to be here.
So she let the beat claim her instead– she let it pull her out of herself, away from the thoughts she didn’t want to name. For now, she was just movement. Just breath. Just rhythm.
And for a little while, that was enough.
Through the sea of bodies, someone moved against the current– sharp, urgent, a force unwilling to be carried by the tide. Chanse.
He wasn’t drunk. Not even close. His eyes were clear, scanning, cutting through the haze of strobe lights and synthetic fog. It should’ve been easy to blend in here– this was his scene, after all. The kind of place where he knew the right people, the right doors to slip through when the night bled into morning. But tonight, he wasn’t part of it. Tonight, he was a foreign body pushing against the natural rhythm of the place, weaving through limbs and laughter and reckless abandon, his focus set on one thing.
Angela.
His jaw was tight, breath controlled, but inside, something knotted. He had told himself it wasn’t a big deal. That she could handle herself, that she wasn’t some lost girl who needed saving.
There she was, dead center in the chaos, eyes shut, lost to the music. Not stumbling. Not wasted. Just gone, in a way he couldn’t quite explain. And maybe that was worse.
He exhaled sharply, pushing forward. “Angela!” But the music swallowed him, and his voice, whole.
Chanse had seen Angela like this before.
At first, it had been small things– silences where there shouldn’t have been, laughter that sounded just a little off, like an echo of something real. She still showed up, still went through the motions, still played the part of herself well enough that most people wouldn’t notice the cracks. But Chanse did. He always did.
And he knew why.
Ever since Amanda left, Angela had been unraveling in ways she wouldn’t talk about. Wouldn’t even acknowledge. It wasn’t the loud, dramatic kind of heartbreak. Not the ugly-crying, wailing-in-the-bathroom kind. It was the slow, creeping kind. The kind that hollowed a person out from the inside until they were just going through the motions, existing because they didn’t know what else to do. It was nine long years that they’ve been together, after all.
And now, here she was, in the middle of a crowd that didn’t know her, didn’t care. Alcohol in one hand, body swaying to the music, eyes closed like if she just stayed there long enough, she could disappear into the rhythm.
Chanse pushed through the throng of people, ignoring the shove of a stranger’s shoulder against his, the stickiness of spilled alcohol under his shoes. The bass pounded in his ears, a steady, oppressive force, but the only sound that mattered was the rushing in his own head– the anxious, circling thoughts that had been getting louder for months now.
“ Angela ,” he called, but his voice barely cut through the music.
She didn’t react.
His heart kicked up, a coil of unease twisting in his chest. When he reached her, he gripped her shoulders– not hard, but firm enough to pull her out of whatever place she had disappeared into.
She swayed under his touch, too weightless.
Angela had always been light, but this was different. This was the kind of lightness that came from someone who wasn’t all there. His grip tightened instinctively. That should’ve snapped her out of it. She should’ve blinked at him, rolled her eyes, made some joke about him being overdramatic.
But when her eyes finally opened, they were empty. Not hazy from alcohol, not lost in a buzz– but empty.
Like she had already left, and only her body remained. A sharp breath punched out of him.
“Angela,” he tried again, shaking her slightly, ignoring the way his own voice wavered. “Hey. Look at me.”
Nothing.
His stomach twisted. He knew heartbreak– had held it, had lived through it– but he had never seen it like this. Never like this.
For the first time in months, real fear curled around his ribs. And the worst part? He wasn’t sure if there was anything left to save.
“Come on,” Chanse murmured, voice low but steady. “Let’s go back to the table.”
Angela didn’t argue. Didn’t even hesitate. She just let him guide her, moving through the dense, sweating crowd like driftwood caught in a current. The music continued to beat– bass-heavy, stomach-churning, the kind of sound that made everything feel distant, like life was happening underwater.
Someone’s arm brushed against hers, slick with sweat. A drink spilled near her boots. The smell of tequila and beer and something sweet (maybe rum) clung to the air, thick and dizzying.
The table was still there, glowing under the low neon lights, surrounded by their friends– loud, drunk, slipping in and out of focus like a bad dream, or a bad trip.
Courtney was slumped against the booth, fingers lazily tracing the rim of her glass, eyes half-lidded and on Shayne in the way that meant she was two drinks away from blackout. Shayne was laughing at something Anthony said, head thrown back, spilling whiskey over his fingers without noticing. Damien had knocked over a beer bottle, and instead of cleaning it up, he had just shoved a handful of napkins over it, pretending the problem had been solved.
And Spencer was in the middle of an impassioned speech about something, hands waving, words slurring, making declarations that had long since lost their meaning. Whatever he was saying, it was important to him. Everyone else was just nodding along, drunk enough to humor him, not drunk enough to care.
A disaster. A beautiful, stupid, completely wasted disaster.
Angela sat down, barely registering the moment she did. Someone cheered. Maybe at her, maybe at nothing. A glass was shoved toward her, half-full of something neon blue.
“Drink, drink, drink!”
She stared at it. The chant died quickly when she didn’t respond, their attention already shifting, already lost to something else.
No one asked if she was okay.
Maybe they thought she was just drunk, same as them. Maybe they had stopped asking a long time ago. Or maybe– and this seemed more likely– they just didn’t want to deal with it.
Because everyone here had been friends with both of them.
Angela and Amanda had been together long enough that their relationship had woven itself into the fabric of this group. It wasn’t just their breakup– it was everyone’s breakup. And no one wanted to pick sides. No one wanted to acknowledge the fact that Angela was still unraveling. That some nights, when she sat at this very table, she felt like a ghost haunting her own life.
But some things couldn’t be avoided. Like Anthony’s wedding. Or Shayne’s book signing. Something as small as Courtney’s housewarming.
Events that forced them back into the same orbit where Amanda sat just a few seats away, laughing at something, looking so effortlessly fine, while Angela sat there, gripping her glass too tightly, counting the seconds until she could leave.
She had gotten good at it, like it was some sort of twisted performance. The careful arrangement of expressions, the well-timed nods, the automatic laughter (albeit sometimes a beat too late). But at the end of the night, when the makeup came off and the silence stretched long and unbearable, she was still just this. Whatever this was.
Chanse exhaled beside her, eyes flicking over her face like he was trying to gauge just how bad it was tonight. He didn’t say anything, didn’t reach for her again, but he sat close enough that their arms touched. Like maybe, if he stayed there long enough, he could stop her from slipping any further away.
Angela stared at the neon blue drink in front of her. It felt like a choice. She just wasn’t sure what she was choosing between anymore.
Angela picked up the glass.
The neon liquid inside glowed under the strobe lights, unnaturally bright, like something out of a laboratory. It reminded her of antifreeze, or the electric-blue syrup they poured over cheap slushies at gas stations. It didn’t look safe. It didn’t even look real.
But then again, nothing did to her at this point in time. So, she tipped it back.
The first hit was fire– sharp, cloying sweetness burning down her throat, making her lungs contract, her eyes water. The taste of synthetic fruit and ethanol clung to the back of her tongue, something too sugary, too chemical-like, designed to mask the very thing it was meant to do.
It went down too fast, and way too easy. And for a moment, the table went quiet.
Then, there were cheers. Loud and sloppy was their wave of drunken approval.
Courtney slammed their hand against the table, sending a few forgotten napkins fluttering to the sticky floor. Spencer let out a barely heard whistle, grinning wide, his head bobbing to music he was no longer fully in sync with. Damien, even in his half-functional state, lifted his beer in her direction, spilling half of it over his fingers, but not caring enough to wipe it off.
The noise swelled around her, bouncing off the walls of her skull, distant and hollow. Like listening to life from underwater. Angela barely reacted.
The warmth was spreading now, seeping into her fingers, her toes, coiling itself around the pit of her stomach. A pleasant sort of numbness, the kind that dulled the edges of everything– of sound, of light, and of thought. She could almost pretend she was just another person here, another body pressed into the rhythm of the night, no different from the hundreds of others who came here to drink, to dance, to forget.
But she wasn’t, and she knew it.
Because while everyone else was laughing, while the moment passed and the conversation moved forward, Chanse was still watching her. He hadn’t laughed. Hadn’t cheered. Hadn’t said a single word.
He sat perfectly still, but his hands were tense in his lap, fingers twitching like he wanted to grab her wrist, pry the empty glass from her fingers. His brows were drawn together, lips parted just slightly, like he had been about to speak but lost his nerve at the last second.
Angela turned away before he could. Because what was he going to say?
That this wasn’t normal? That she wasn’t fine? That she needed to stop?
She didn’t want to hear it.
Didn’t want to acknowledge the fact that the only reason she was drinking like this was because it made it easier– easier to be here, easier to exist in the same space as her, easier to sit across the room from Amanda and pretend that nothing inside of her had been fundamentally broken.
The alcohol didn’t fix it. But it made it bearable.
And that was enough. She reached for another drink.
And this time, Chanse still didn’t stop her. No one did.
But then, as if all in the same breath thereafter, the glass was gone. Not yanked. Not snatched. Just– removed. Softly. Carefully. As if the absence wouldn’t be noticed.
Angela barely had time to process the loss before she saw her. A stranger.
Deep brown eyes, wide and kind, the kind of eyes that made you want to trust them. A soft, open face, lips slightly parted like she was hesitating, debating whether or not to say more. Dark hair curling over one shoulder, loose waves catching the neon glow of the bar lights.
And for one terrible, gutting moment, Angela thought it was her. Not exactly. Not perfectly. But enough.
Enough that something inside her twisted, sharp and immediate. Enough that her stomach plummeted, her fingers twitched, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and refused to move.
“You okay, honey ?”
The air was sucked out of her lungs.
Honey.
It crashed through her, fast and brutal, like a knife between the ribs.
Amanda used to call her that.
Always soft. Always gentle. In the morning, when Angela was still half-asleep, curled into her chest. In the grocery store, when Amanda would hold up two different kinds of coffee creamer and ask which one they should get this week. In the middle of the sidewalk, when Angela would get distracted mid-story, and Amanda would laugh, touching her arm just slightly, just enough to bring her back.
And in fights, too.
Amanda never raised her voice, she remembers.
She never yelled, never snapped, never threw words like weapons the way Angela did. She would just look at her, with that same patient sadness, like she was already grieving something Angela hadn’t realized they were losing yet.
And then, just before Angela could storm off, just before she could push too hard– Amanda would sigh, tilt her head slightly, and say it.
“ It’s okay, honey. I get it. ”
And somehow, that was worse. Because Amanda never fought for her. Never clung, never begged, never tried to convince her to stay. She would just stand there, quiet and steady, and let Angela walk away.
Let her go.
And now, months later, this girl– this stranger with Amanda’s voice, Amanda’s face, Amanda’s goddamn softness– was looking at her the same way.
Angela couldn’t breathe. She tried to say something. To brush it off, to laugh, to pretend it hadn’t reached inside her chest and ripped something open. But her throat had closed.
And all she could do was sit there, frozen. A raw, gaping thing, still bleeding, still breaking. Has been for the past few months.
The stranger spoke again, voice cutting through the noise. “What’s your name?”
Angela blinked.
Something about the way the words landed felt intrusive, like a hand reaching into a space it didn’t belong. She hadn’t expected them, hadn’t braced for them, and suddenly the bar around her came back into sharp relief– the shifting neon lights, the pulse of bass-heavy music pressing against her skin, the warmth of bodies too close together.
She smiled. Or at least, she did something that resembled a smile. A faint curve of the lips, nothing that touched her eyes. Then she shook her head.
Not an answer. Not a refusal. Just a vague, empty movement.
She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because the question was too simple, or too real. Something about it felt misplaced here, like it didn’t belong among the clatter of empty shot glasses, the cigarette smoke curling in the air, the faceless figures pressing against each other in the dark.
Or maybe because it didn’t matter.
Because she had been here before. Not just here– this bar, this night– but here, in this moment. Sitting across from someone new, someone reaching out, someone looking at her with the possibility of something. And she had entertained it before. Let herself fall into it, if only to see if she could still feel something.
She had fucked around.
She had let people kiss her, let them take her home, let them whisper things in the dark that she barely registered, could hardly understand. Had let unfamiliar fingers trail down her spine, let unfamiliar voices say her name, let uncertain warmth try to replace what she had lost.
And for a while, in the dimness of half-sleep or the lingering haze of alcohol, it worked.
Or at least, it pretended to.
But in the morning, when the weight of someone else’s arm was draped over her waist, when their breath fanned against her shoulder, when she was expected to turn around and look at them– really look at them– she would feel it.
The cold, empty nothingness lodged deep in her chest. Because none of them were Amanda. And none of them would ever be.
Because it wasn’t just Amanda that was gone. It was something else. Something inside her. Something she had either lost along the way or had never possessed to begin with.
Because who the fuck loses someone like Amanda?
Who the fuck has that– someone so soft, so patient, so kind– and still finds a way to fuck it all up? She did.
She had Amanda’s love in her hands, warm and steady, and she let it slip through her fingers like sand, like it was disposable. Like it wasn’t the most real thing she had ever touched.
And maybe that was proof that she wasn’t made for love. Maybe she was built for self-destruction. For fucking things up just enough to feel the pain of it, just enough to know she was still alive.
Maybe she would always feel like this– adrift, distant, watching her own life from behind glass, waiting for something she already knew was never coming back.
She exhaled, long and slow, before reaching for her drink again.
The stranger didn’t stop her this time. In fact, she was long gone.
Then, so suddenly, Angela stood while slamming her glass down on the table.
It was abrupt, almost unnatural, the way she pulled herself upright with the kind of steadiness that shouldn’t have belonged to someone as drunk as she was. The lights cast uneven shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the vacant look in her eyes.
“I’m heading home.” She didn’t raise her voice, didn’t demand attention– just stated it, as if it were an afterthought.
And, just like that, the night went on without her. No protests. No questions.
Damien was too focused on the useless flicker of his disposable lighter, clicking it over and over, frustration flickering across his face. Spencer had his arm draped around some girl he’d forget by morning. Shayne was hunched over their phone, laughing at something no one else was looking at. Courtney, already half-asleep, barely stirred.
A few lazy waves. Slurred goodbyes.
Thanks for coming, Ang. Or, see you next time.
Like she was just another body fading into the night. Like she wasn’t falling apart in plain sight.
But Chanse stood.
Slower, more hesitant, eyes scanning her face like he was searching for something. Proof she wasn’t as far gone as she seemed. Proof she wouldn’t just dissolve the moment she stepped out of the bar.
He leaned in close, his voice low, careful.
“You gonna be okay?”
Angela met his gaze, and for a second, she just looked at him.
At the crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for her but wasn’t sure if she’d let him.
Chanse always saw too much. Always noticed the cracks, the way they had deepened over time.
She should say something. Reassure him. Tell him she’d be fine, that this was just another night, that one day, she’d wake up and not feel like there was something rotting inside her.
But that wasn’t true. And she was too tired to lie. So she just smiled.
Soft. Small. Empty.
Not an answer. Not a promise. Just a quiet way of saying, as okay as I’ll ever be.
And then she turned, and walked away.
The way out was easier to find than it should have been.
Even in her intoxicated state, even with the blur of neon bleeding into the darkness, even with the deep, vibrating bass still thrumming under her skin– her feet carried her to the exit like muscle memory. Like some part of her already knew it was time to leave before she had even decided it herself.
Cool air slapped against her skin the moment she stepped outside. She barely registered it.
Her fingers were already fumbling inside her bag, blindly searching for her phone. It took longer than it should have– her coordination dulled by alcohol, her movements sluggish, imprecise. Loose change, an old pack of gum, a receipt from a place she didn’t remember eating at. Where the fuck was it?
Finally, the cold slab of glass met her fingertips.
She pulled it out, the screen glaring too bright in the dark, and stared at it for a long moment.
Her car was parked right out front.
She could see it, standing still and waiting, the reflection of passing headlights skimming across its surface. For a brief second, the thought surfaced– she could just get in. She could turn the key in the ignition, feel the quiet rumble of the engine under her hands, let the empty streets swallow her whole.
But she wouldn’t. She knew better than that. Surprisingly, she wasn’t that far gone.
Because, despite everything– despite the endless pit of nothing yawning wide inside her– she knew she didn’t want to die.
Or at least, she wasn’t sure if she did.
She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Existence felt unfathomable now. Like something distant, something abstract. She was here, she was standing, she was breathing, but none of it felt particularly real.
She dragged in a deep breath, more out of habit than need, and tapped at her phone with unsteady fingers. It took a few tries before the ride-hailing app opened, the little spinning wheel loading, the estimated arrival time flashing across the screen.
Three minutes.
She swayed slightly on her feet, locking her knees to stay steady.
The city stretched out in front of her, indifferent and vast. Cars passed, voices murmured, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance. Life moved on, as it always did.
She stood on the sidewalk, waiting, untethered.
The car pulls up, headlights cutting through the thick blur of city lights and lingering cigarette smoke. Angela steps in without hesitation, her body moving on autopilot, her limbs too loose, too light, like she’s floating just above herself.
She sinks into the seat, the faux leather cool against her skin.
The driver, a man in his late forties, maybe early fifties, offers a polite nod through the rearview mirror. “Good evening.”
Angela musters a small smile, the kind you give out of obligation rather than intent. “Evening.”
It’s muscle memory, this exchange. The familiar back-and-forth between strangers sharing a brief, forgettable moment in time.
“Long night?” he asks, voice mild, neutral, and modulated.
She hums, noncommittal. “Something like that.”
And that’s the extent of it.
No probing, no unnecessary further small talk. He doesn’t ask why her makeup is slightly smudged, why she smells like tequila and secondhand smoke, why she’s looking out the window like the city outside might offer her some kind of answer she hasn’t been able to find within herself.
Angela figures he’s seen too much of this before.
Too many people sinking into his backseat with hearts too heavy for their bodies to carry. Too many breakups, too many regrets, too many silences thick with the weight of unsaid things.
Maybe there’s an unspoken rule among drivers. Maybe they know when someone is just trying to disappear into the ride.
So she lets the city blur past her, lets the hum of the engine drown out the noise in her head, and for the first time all night, she exhales.
The ride is short. Too short for her liking. She barely has time to disappear into the quiet hum of the engine before the car eases to a stop at the curb.
“We’re here,” the driver says.
Angela blinks. Nods. Hands over some cash without checking how much, stepping out before she even hears the quiet murmur of take care.
The night air is sharp against her skin, cutting through the alcohol haze but doing nothing for the heaviness in her chest. She grips her keys, the carabiner clinking against the metal, her movements sluggish, detached, like her body is moving out of sheer habit rather than intent.
Inside the apartment complex, the hallway is hollow and fluorescent-lit. Everything smells like industrial cleaner and something stale. She pushes open her door.
And then, her body folds in on itself.
Before she can even think about taking another step, her knees buckle, and she crashes to the floor.
Her hands fly to her chest, pressing down– hard, desperate– as if she’s trying to stop something inside her from spilling out. As if holding herself together physically will keep everything else from unraveling.
But it doesn’t. It never does.
Her breath shudders out of her, uneven and broken. She grips the fabric of her shirt, twisting it in her fists, pressing her palms harder against herself, but the ache doesn’t lessen. If anything, it swells. It crawls up her throat, thick and unbearable.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Her friends are probably still at the bar.
Still drinking. Still laughing. Still existing in a world where pain is diluted with cheap cocktails and too-loud music. Where everything is bright and easy and simple, because nobody lets anything real linger for too long.
They think she’s fine. Why wouldn’t they? She still shows up. She still drinks. She still plays along. That’s enough for them.
They don’t see the way she grips the edge of the table when the room starts feeling too big. They don’t hear how silent her apartment is when she steps inside.
Only Chanse notices. Only he watches her like she’s made of glass, like he’s waiting for the moment she finally cracks. But even he doesn’t know what it feels like.
To sit here, on the cold floor of her apartment, with nothing but the weight of herself.
No Amanda.
No warm body to curl into, no gentle voice to tell her she’s home, she’s safe. No one to unbutton her shirt when she’s too tired to move, to pull something soft over her head before tucking her into bed. No one to cup her face, brush damp hair from her forehead. No one to kiss her on the mouth, slow and familiar, even when she tastes like alcohol and exhaustion.
The kind of kiss that lingers, that grounds, that makes her feel real.
She presses her hands harder against herself, as if that will bring Amanda back. As if that will make any of this hurt less.
But she is alone, and there is no one left to hold her together.
There have been many nights like this.
Nights where she crumbles just past the doorway, knees giving, body falling before she even reaches the bedroom. Nights where she stares blankly at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sound of a car passing on the street below, the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall– reminders that time is moving forward even when she feels stuck.
Nights where she lies curled up on the floor, hands pressed to her chest, as if she can physically hold herself together. As if she can keep the aching thing inside her from splitting open and spilling out.
But tonight feels different. Like something has shifted. Like she is standing at the very edge of herself, toes curled over the precipice, wind pressing at her back.
Like she is about to fall.
Her breath hitches as something raw and desperate takes hold of her, and she moves– sudden, frantic.
She scrambles across the floor, palms dragging against the rough carpet, knees knocking against the hard surface. Her body is clumsy, uncoordinated, drunk in more ways than just alcohol. Her bag. She had dropped it when she collapsed.
Her hands sweep blindly through the dark, fingertips grazing cold metal, the soft fabric of a discarded sweater, before finally landing on something smooth, familiar.
Leather. She grips it tight, dragging it toward her, fingers trembling as she fumbles with the zipper.
The contents spill inside– wallet, keys, a half-used lipstick. None of it matters.
She plunges her hand inside, searching, until her fingers close around glass and metal. Her phone.
She exhales sharply, the sound barely audible over the pounding of her pulse.
Her hands shake as she presses the power button, the screen illuminating her face in the dim light of the apartment.
For the first time in months, she feels awake.
Not just conscious, but aware. The dull, muffled haze that she had been living in is gone, replaced by something cold, sharp, immediate. Her finger hovers over the screen.
And then, she dials. Button by button, slow, deliberate, like each press is a decision she is making with her whole body.
The number is burned into her muscles, into her bones. She could erase it from her contacts a hundred times, a thousand, and it would still be there, buried deep beneath her skin, ready to resurface at a moment’s notice.
She presses call. The dial tone hums against her ear.
Her heart pounds, so hard she can feel it in her throat, in her fingertips, in the hollow of her stomach.
The silence in the apartment is deafening. And then– she waits.
The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
Each tone stretches, endless and excruciating, filling the spaces between her ribs, pressing against her sternum. The apartment feels smaller, the walls inching closer with every second that passes.
She should hang up. She should press the red button, throw the phone across the room, swallow down whatever possessed her to do this in the first place.
But she doesn’t. The ringing stops.
And then, silence. Just for a breath. Just for a beat.
"Angela."
It isn’t a question. It isn’t a greeting. Just her name, spoken in a voice she has spent months trying to forget.
A voice she had once heard in half-sleep murmurs and lazy Sunday mornings. A voice she had memorized, even the smallest inflections, the way it softened when speaking in hushed tones, the way it curled around pet names, the way it never ever rose in anger.
Even now, it doesn’t rise. But it is different.
There is something in it– a quiet knowing, a kind of weariness that sinks into the spaces between the syllables. A resignation. Maybe even disappointment. But even through all of that, it grounds her.
Like the moment Amanda spoke, she was filled in again. Like she had been a hollow outline all this time, walking through the world in grayscale, and now, suddenly, she is something solid.
And it’s too much.
Angela folds in on herself, knees pulling closer to her chest. She presses the back of her hand to her lips, as if she can trap the sob before it escapes, as if she can hold it in, keep it contained– but it breaks free anyway.
And once it starts, it doesn’t stop. It tears through her, violent and unrelenting, like something being ripped open from the inside.
She curls tighter, forehead pressing against her knee, her other arm wrapping around herself, fingers digging into her ribs, clutching the fabric of her shirt over her heart as if she can physically hold herself together. As if she can stop whatever is breaking inside her from spilling out across the floor.
She tries to speak, but her voice fractures, dissolves into gasps, into choked breaths. She grips the phone tighter, nails pressing hard against the sleek surface, her hands damp with sweat.
And then, finally– "Amanda."
A whisper, barely there. But it escapes her lips anyway, like something sacred, something she shouldn’t still have the right to say.
"Amanda."
Again. More desperate this time. More raw.
Like a wound being prodded, like something pulled too tight, fraying, about to snap. She is not thinking, not filtering, not controlling the way the name spills out of her, over and over, like a prayer or a curse or an anchor to keep her from floating away completely.
She doesn’t even know what she’s asking for.
Just that the silence she has been drowning in for the past three months is unbearable, and Amanda’s voice is the only thing that has ever cut through it.
The silence between them is thick, stretching wide and yawning like an open wound. Angela can almost hear it, can feel it pressing against her, dense and suffocating.
She knows why Amanda hasn’t spoken yet.
Because even if she were here– really here, not just a distant voice on the other end of the line– she still wouldn’t say anything to comfort her. Amanda never filled silences with empty words.
Because Amanda knew that some things couldn’t be softened by language. That sometimes, the only real comfort was the warmth of her arms, the quiet steadiness of her presence, the way she would hold Angela like she was something fragile but not broken. But Amanda isn’t here.
And before she can respond– before she can try to find something measured and gentle to say, something that won’t open wounds that haven’t healed– Angela speaks.
And it all spills out. “I’m sorry.”
The words leave her in a breath, hoarse and desperate. “God, Amanda, I’m so fucking sorry.”
She presses her palm to her forehead, fingers threading into her hair, gripping at the roots like she can somehow pull herself back together. Her other hand clutches the phone so tightly her knuckles ache, as if she’s afraid the connection will sever if she loosens her grip.
“I didn’t mean to need you like that,” she whispers. “I swear , I didn’t.”
The weight of it all is unbearable now.
Her body folds further into itself, knees pressing up against her chest, arms wrapping around them like she’s trying to keep herself from spilling out onto the floor.
"But I– I got so used to you. To the way you always caught me before I could fall. And I let it happen. I let myself turn into someone who couldn’t fucking function without you. And that’s not fair, is it?”
She squeezes her eyes shut, as if blocking out the world will make it easier to breathe. But it doesn’t. "I was just so fucking tired, Amanda."
Her voice is raw now, stripped down to its barest form.
"I spent so much of my life holding myself together, stitching up every crack before anyone could see them. I had to be strong– I had to. Because if I wasn’t, then who the fuck would be? And then you came along. And you held me."
Her breath hitches, uneven.
“And I– I let myself crumble into you. I let myself lean too much, take too much. Until there was nothing left of me outside of you.”
Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her shirt, pressing against her chest as if she can hold herself in place, as if she can keep her insides from breaking open.
"And that’s not love, is it?"
Her mouth twists, bitter and self-loathing.
"I made you carry me. And I hated myself for it. I hated myself every time you had to pay my bills because I couldn't keep my fucking life together, every time I called you in the middle of the day just to ask if I was making the right decision, every time I fell apart over something stupid and you had to be the one to fix it.”
She lets out a sharp, broken laugh, one that barely makes it past her lips.
"I hated myself," she admits, voice shaking, "but I still did it. And I don’t know what’s worse.”
The apartment is so quiet now that she can hear the static hum of the silence. The air feels too still, pressing against her skin like something alive, something heavy.
Her next words come out barely above a whisper.
"I don’t blame you for leaving me."
She forces herself to swallow the lump in her throat, blinking rapidly, as if that will stop the tears from spilling over.
"I would’ve left me too, or however pathetic people like me say it."
She sucks in a breath, but it’s unsteady, broken apart in the middle.
"But, Amanda–” Her voice is barely there now, the last thread of something unraveling. "I don’t know how to do this without you.”
She presses the phone tighter against her ear, as if she can will Amanda closer, as if she can reach through the line and touch something real.
But there’s nothing. Just silence. And she has never felt so completely, utterly alone.
Amanda doesn’t say a word. Just silence, but that’s exactly what Angela needed.
Because Amanda always knew. She had this way of understanding Angela without her having to say anything at all. And maybe that’s what had made it so easy to lean on her, to let herself dissolve into the spaces Amanda made for her.
Angela exhales shakily, pressing the heel of her palm against her forehead. Her body feels wrung out, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol still burning low in her system.
So she starts talking again. Because now that she’s started, she doesn’t know how to stop.
“I tried,” she says, voice hoarse. “I swear I tried, Amanda.”
The words pour out of her like water through cracked fingers, impossible to hold back.
“I met people. I fucked people. I let them touch me, let them hold me, let them fill up the empty spaces you left behind. And for a second, it worked. I’d close my eyes and pretend it was you. Pretend that when they held me after, when they pressed lazy kisses to my shoulder, that it mattered.”
She lets out a hollow laugh, shaking her head at herself. “But it never did.”
The quiet hum of the phone line is the only thing that fills the space between them.
“I got my life together, you know,” she continues, voice thick. “I– somehow– managed to pull my shit together. Got a job. Just something to get by. Starbucks barista, can you imagine?” She lets out a weak, breathy laugh. “I make the worst coffee, Amanda. You know that.”
She swipes a hand over her damp cheeks, sniffling.
“But it’s something, right? While I wait for the comedy gigs to take off. While I wait for—” She stops. Because she doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. What exactly is she waiting for? For something to make sense? For time to dull the ache? For her?
Her chest caves in a little, fingers curling into her shirt again, pressing into the space over her ribs.
“I even prayed,” she admits, softer now. “To a god I don’t even know exists. Just– just in case. Just in case someone up there was listening. Just in case I could be fixed. Just in case I could feel whole again.”
She closes her eyes, tilting her head back against the wall, blinking up at the ceiling.
“I traveled too,” she adds, voice distant. “Not far. Just the places I could afford. The beach, the mountains, places where people say you go to find yourself.”
She laughs, but it sounds more like a sob.
“But I think I left myself somewhere between your sheets and your front door, Amanda. Maybe the cave your arms make when I feel like sleeping in. Because no matter where I went, no matter how many times I left town, I was still there, in the space you used to hold for me.”
Her throat tightens, words clawing their way up.
"And it wasn’t enough," she finally whispers. "None of it was enough."
Her voice shakes. Her body trembles. And she realizes, with something close to defeat, that she has spent all this time running, clawing, grasping for something that simply no longer exists.
Amanda was silent for a moment, and for a second, Angela let herself believe that maybe this was where the conversation ended. That maybe Amanda would just sigh and say it’s okay in that soft, understanding way she always did, even when it wasn’t. She was half expecting the dial tone to sound, indicating the end of the phone call.
But then Amanda spoke again. And this time, there was something sharp beneath her voice, something raw and unfiltered. Something Angela had never heard from her before.
“All you ever did was take , Angela,” Amanda said, quiet but firm. "Take and take and take, until there was nothing left of me."
Angela’s breath stuttered. She pressed a hand against her chest as if to steady something inside her, as if to keep herself from unraveling.
Because Amanda didn’t say things like this. She didn’t cut, didn’t wound. Amanda had always been gentle, always been careful with her words. Even when she was hurt, even when Angela deserved worse.
But now, there was no softness. Just exhaustion. Just the weight of everything she had carried, spilling out in words Angela wasn’t sure she was ready to hear.
"I tried," Amanda continued, voice steady, but Angela could hear the tremor beneath it. "I tried so hard to be everything you needed. I gave you my time, my patience, my love– I gave you everything, Angela. And you–" she let out a bitter, breathy laugh, "you just let me "
Angela squeezed her eyes shut, fingers curling against the fabric of her shirt, pressing down over her ribs like she could stop whatever was breaking inside her.
Because it was true. She let Amanda carry it all. She let her be strong, let her shoulder the weight of them, took and took and took until Amanda had nothing left to give. And she never even noticed.
Not until Amanda had already started breaking in front of her. Not until she was already gone.
She thought back to those nights– the ones where Amanda sat on the edge of their bed, head in her hands, exhaustion lining the edges of her voice as she asked, Angela, do you even want to be here ?
She thought of all the times Amanda had held her, carried her, gave and gave and gave– until there was nothing left for herself. And Angela had let her.
Because she thought Amanda could take it. Because Amanda was always so strong. Because she didn’t notice– didn’t let herself notice– the way the cracks had started forming beneath her skin.
"Why did it have to take me breaking," Amanda murmured, "for you to get your shit together?"
Angela felt something inside her cave in. She wanted to answer, wanted to explain, wanted to tell Amanda that she never meant for it to happen like this– that she never wanted to be this person, this version of herself that Amanda had to clean up after.
But what would she even say?
That she thought Amanda would always be there? That she assumed there would always be another chance, another time, another tomorrow? That she had been selfish? That she had let herself be selfish? That she had never really thought Amanda would leave?
She swallowed against the ache in her throat, pressing both hands to her chest, as if to keep something vital from spilling out.
"I love you," Amanda said, softer now. "I really love you, Angela."
And Angela held onto that.
She clutched onto those words like they were a lifeline, like they were the only thing tethering her to this moment, to Amanda, to whatever fragile thing still existed between them.
She wanted to say I love you too. She wanted to say I always will
And this time, she did. But she didn’t know if it was enough.
Because she was starting to realize that maybe love– as deep and desperate and all-consuming as it was– might never be enough. Yet, she still wanted to try.
Even with everything Amanda said, even with the weight of her words pressing down on her chest, even with the knowledge that she had taken too much for too long– she still wanted to try.
Because Amanda was it. Amanda had always been it.
And she was a fool– an absolute, blind, selfish fool– to think she could ever let her go and still be whole.
Angela parted her lips, breath shaky, trying to form the words– trying to find a way to say please, let me fix this. Let me fix us.
But before she could, Amanda spoke. like she had read Angela’s mind. Like she already knew.
“I want to try again,” Amanda admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m scared.”
Angela exhaled, and it was almost a sob.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead to her knee, fingers digging into her skin.
She didn’t ask what Amanda was scared of. She already knew. Angela swallowed, gripping the phone so tightly her fingers ached.
"I know," she finally said, voice raw. "I know, Amanda. And I don’t blame you."
There was a pause, heavy and fragile. Amanda’s breath wavered slightly on the other end.
"I don’t know if we can go back," Amanda admitted. "I don’t know if I can go back. To how things were. To who I was."
Angela nodded, even though Amanda couldn’t see her. She understood. God, did she understand.
"I don’t want to go back," she said, surprising even herself. "I want to go forward. I want to try. I want to be better for you."
Amanda let out a breath, something tired but not unkind.
"You say that now," she murmured. "But what about when things get hard again? What about when I need you, and you don’t know how to be there?"
Angela flinched. Because Amanda had a point.
Angela had always needed Amanda, had clung to her like she was the only thing tethering her to reality. But when Amanda had needed her– when Amanda had been exhausted and breaking and aching for someone to lean on– Angela had just taken more.
Amanda had spent years holding them both up, and Angela had let her. But now– now, Angela wanted to be the one reaching out. She wanted to be the one making sure Amanda didn’t have to hold everything on her own anymore.
"I don’t have an answer for that," Angela admitted. "I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again. I probably will. But if you’ll let me– I want to try. I want to learn how to be better. I want to be enough for you."
Another pause. And then, Amanda sighed. A deep, weary, bone-deep sigh that felt like it had been building for months.
"Come over," she said, finally.
Angela’s breath hitched.
"What?"
"Come to my apartment," Amanda repeated. "I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t know if it’ll change anything. But I–" she exhaled sharply, and when she spoke again, her voice was quieter. Softer. "I don’t want to hang up."
Angela felt something in her chest tighten, something unbearable and aching and hopeful. She stood up on shaking legs, grabbing her keys with unsteady hands.
"Okay," she whispered. And then, without another word, she walked out the door.
Angela stepped out onto the curb, barely glancing at the traffic before throwing her arm up, fingers twitching as she flagged down a taxi. She could have booked a ride, but that would have taken minutes. Minutes she didn’t have, minutes she wasn’t sure she could survive.
The cab slowed, tires screeching faintly against the pavement. She yanked the door open and slid inside, barely waiting for the driver to acknowledge her before she spat out Amanda’s address. No pleasantries, no hesitation. Just urgency. Just the feeling of something about to break, something fragile and dangerous teetering on the edge of collapse.
Her phone was still pressed against her ear. Amanda was still there. Neither of them had hung up.
It felt like if they did, something irreversible would happen.
Angela could hear her own breathing, unsteady and uneven, could hear the low hum of the engine as the taxi sped through the city. But beneath all that, beneath the noise and the movement and the weight in her chest– she could hear Amanda.
Soft, shallow breaths. The occasional sniffle, hastily muffled. Angela closed her eyes, pressing her forehead against the cool window.
"I’m still here," she whispered. "I’m almost there."
A small sound on the other end, barely audible. She wasn’t sure if Amanda had meant for her to hear it. Time stretched, minutes feeling like hours. And then, as the cab neared its destination, the sound changed.
A hitched breath. A sharp inhale. And then— a sob. Angela froze.
It was small at first, like Amanda had been holding it back for as long as she could. But then another came, and another, until they weren’t quiet anymore, until Angela could hear the way Amanda was breaking apart on the other end.
Angela’s fingers tightened around the phone.
"I’m here," she murmured again, like she could reach through the phone and pull Amanda close. "I’m right here."
Amanda didn’t answer. But she didn’t hang up, either.
Angela all but throws a handful of bills at the driver, barely waiting for her change before shoving the door open and sprinting onto the pavement. Her lungs burn as she runs through the lobby, past the half-hearted glance of the night guard, and into the elevator.
She jabs the button for the 30th floor, her pulse hammering as the doors slide shut.
And then, the worst thing happens. The call drops. The second the elevator ascends, the signal dies, and the line goes silent.
Angela stares at her phone in horror, her breath catching in her throat. She knows Amanda is still there, in her apartment, waiting. She knows it’s just the metal and the altitude swallowing their connection. But the emptiness, the absence of Amanda’s soft, tear-worn breathing—it claws at her, makes her insides twist.
Minutes stretch like eternity as she rises floor by floor, the numbers flickering in front of her eyes. 22… 25… 28…
And then, finally– 30. The doors groan open, and she bolts.
Her feet barely touch the ground as she races down the hall, her heart in her throat. The fifth door to the right. It’s there. It’s right there. She barely raises her fist to knock when the door swings open.
And there stands Amanda. Angela’s breath leaves her in one violent exhale.
Amanda is crying. Silent, steady tears that haven’t stopped since their call. And yet– she’s still the most beautiful thing Angela has ever seen, just like the first time she saw her. Still the person she fell in love with all those years ago.
Still Amanda.
Angela swallows, feeling something tighten so painfully in her chest she almost gasps.
"Amanda–" But she doesn’t get to finish. Because the next second, Amanda pulls her in.
The door swings shut behind them, closing out the world, the noise, the months of separation that had stretched like an endless winter.
And in Amanda’s arms, Angela breaks.
She sinks into her, body folding as though her bones had been made only to fit against Amanda’s. She grips the fabric of Amanda’s shirt like she’s afraid she might disappear, like if she lets go, everything will shatter all over again.
Amanda holds her just as tightly.
Her fingers curl into Angela’s back, her breath shuddering against Angela’s temple. She’s crying too– silent tears at first, just the occasional tremor in her breathing. But then Angela feels it, the way Amanda buries her face into her hair, the way her body shakes against her own.
It’s unbearable, it’s everything, it’s the most real thing Angela has felt in months.
She doesn’t realize she’s crying again until Amanda shifts, her hands moving to cup Angela’s face, thumbs swiping at the tears streaking down her cheeks. Angela closes her eyes at the touch, exhaling sharply, because it’s familiar and maybe, just maybe, she’s not lost after all.
Then, in the thick of it, Amanda lets out a choked little laugh.
"Jesus, Angela," she murmurs, pressing her forehead against hers, voice raw, frayed at the edges. "You smell like cigarettes and vomit."
Angela lets out something between a laugh and a sob, her hands still tangled in Amanda’s shirt.
"Yeah," she whispers, voice shaking. "I know."
And still– Amanda doesn’t let go.
Amanda’s fingers trembled against Angela’s damp cheeks, her thumbs moving absently, as if she could wipe away more than just the tears. As if she could erase the months of silence, the distance, the weight of everything they had let break between them.
And then, Amanda spoke. Not in whispers, not in restrained murmurs, but in something raw, something real, something that felt like it had been clawing its way out of her all this time.
“I love you,” she breathed, forehead still pressed to Angela’s, her voice thick, unsteady. “I love you so, so, so much, Angela.”
Angela swore she felt something inside her crack open, split apart at the seams.
Amanda inhaled sharply, her eyes never leaving Angela’s, like she was afraid she’d disappear if she looked away.
“I wanted to give you everything you needed," Amanda continued, her voice cracking. "God, I tried. But I was scared. So scared, Angela. Of failing you or disappointing you. Of not being enough."
Angela shook her head fiercely, but Amanda gripped her shoulders, holding her still, holding her there.
“I walked away because I thought maybe– maybe you’d be better off without me. Maybe you needed something I couldn’t be.” Her voice wavered, breath catching in her throat. “And I hated myself for it. For leaving. For hurting you. But–” she swallows, blinking back another wave of tears, “... it wasn’t just you who took, Angela.”
Angela stiffened. Amanda’s hands curled tighter around her, grounding them both.
“I let you,” she whispered, almost like an admission, like a confession she hadn't even admitted to herself before now. “I let you take and take because I didn’t know how to tell you I was breaking, too. I thought if I just held on a little longer, if I just loved you a little harder, it would fix itself. We would fix ourselves."
Angela felt her chest tighten, something sharp digging into her ribs.
“I have faults too,” Amanda whispered. “And I should’ve told you. I should’ve fought harder for us in a way that wasn’t just enduring things in silence."
Angela's hands fisted in the fabric of Amanda’s shirt, her breath stuttering, uneven.
There was so much she wanted to say. So much.
But all she could do was press herself closer, let their tears mix, let herself sink into the warmth of Amanda’s presence, into the only place that had ever really felt like home.
And she whispered, through the trembling of her lips– "I love you, too."
Amanda let out a shaky breath, her forehead still pressed to Angela’s, her fingers curled so tightly into her shirt it was like she was afraid she’d slip away if she let go.
But something was shifting. It was still heavy, still aching, but there– just barely, just softly– was something lighter threading itself between them.
“We can try again,” Amanda murmured, almost like she was testing the words, as if she didn’t quite believe them yet. “We can be better. Do better.”
Angela exhaled slowly, letting the words settle into her bones.
“I need to work on my temper,” she admitted, almost sheepishly. “And you– you need to stop holding everything in until it breaks you.”
Angela gave a small, breathless laugh, just the ghost of one, but Amanda only cried harder.
“What if it all falls apart again?” Amanda whispered, her voice thick with the weight of every fear she had been carrying, of every moment she had spent wondering if loving Angela was always going to mean hurting.
Angela closed her eyes. She had learned something in these past few months, in all the time she had spent without Amanda, in all the days she had spent trying to outrun the grief of losing her.
Love wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.
Not when she had relied on it like a crutch, not when she had used it as an excuse to avoid fixing herself, not when she had expected Amanda’s love alone to hold her together.
But love could be something. A force. A reason. A hand pressing against the small of her back, urging her forward. It wasn’t enough on its own. But it could be the thing that made her want to be better. The thing that made her try.
She opened her eyes and met Amanda’s gaze, her grip tightening just slightly, just enough.
Amanda is love.
“Then we pick up the pieces,” Angela said softly. “Again and again and again. Until we get it right.”
Amanda let out a trembling breath, and this time, when she cried, it wasn’t just grief or fear. It was something else, something gentler.
Something that felt, for the first time in a long time, like hope.
Angela had always had to rise onto the balls of her feet to kiss Amanda.
It was muscle memory now– the way her hands would find Amanda’s face, the way Amanda’s arms would instinctively wrap around her waist, pulling her in, steadying her.
And when their lips met, it was like exhaling after holding her breath for months.
Amanda didn’t hesitate.
Despite the alcohol lingering on Angela’s tongue, despite the faint bitterness of cigarettes clinging to her lips, Amanda kissed her back just as deeply.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was all teeth and longing, the kind of desperation that only came from absence, from missing, from aching for something you thought you’d never get back.
Angela felt Amanda’s fingers thread through her hair, holding her in place, like she didn’t want her to disappear. Like she needed her there.
And for the first time in months, Angela let herself believe– maybe, just maybe– she wouldn’t have to disappear ever again.
When they finally pulled apart, Angela was laughing– actually laughing, a sound she hadn’t heard from herself in what felt like a lifetime. It wasn’t just a chuckle or a breathy exhale through her nose, but a full-bodied laugh, the kind that made her chest feel lighter, the kind that made her eyes crinkle at the edges.
She leaned her forehead against Amanda’s, still grinning, breathless. “God, Shayne and Spencer are gonna roast us.”
Amanda sighed, the kind of sigh that carried years of knowing, years of seeing things unfold before they even happened. She shook her head, a small, exasperated smile tugging at her lips.
“You know they always knew it’d be us in the end, right?” she murmured.
Angela stilled for a second, blinking.
And maybe that was true. Maybe everyone had always known. Maybe it was always supposed to be them, no matter how messy, no matter how long it took to get here. Maybe the universe– or whatever cruel, unpredictable force that liked playing with their lives– had been waiting for them to finally get it right.
Angela exhaled through her nose, another small laugh escaping her.
“Guess we’re just the last ones to figure it out, huh?”
Amanda hummed, a quiet agreement, her fingers still resting lightly against Angela’s jaw. There was something different in the way she was looking at her now– not the guarded, hesitant gaze from before, not the quiet grief that had clouded her eyes for months. It was something softer. Something surer.
Angela reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together, squeezing once. Here. I'm here.
Amanda squeezed back.
Neither of them said it, but they both knew– it wouldn't be easy. There would still be nights of overthinking, of old wounds aching beneath fresh skin, of learning how to love each other in a way that wouldn't collapse under the weight of their past.
But for now, in the dim glow of Amanda’s apartment, with the remnants of tears still drying on their cheeks, Angela let herself believe in the possibility of them.
Not in the way they used to be. But in the way they could be.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough. For now, at least.