Broken Compass

ch. I’m becoming too attached, too attracted. Too comfortable and too excited, all at once. But I don’t fit here, with them. They’d been in love, dancing around their feelings and their connection before I even arrived on the scene.

And like it or not, I’m leaving. I’ve put it off for as much as I could, for much longer than I should. Someone, sooner or later, will recognize me, and it will all have been for nothing—all this running, and hiding, and living a borrowed life.

Living Kash’s life, not my own.

Kash is a damn lucky bastard, even though he’s on the run. Me, not so much. Though, right now, after last night…. Damn. Why the hell am I grinning?

Is Syd pissed off at me? And Nate? Did I manage to destroy the one good thing I had going? Fuck. And this sickness has kicked my ass. I haven’t been sleeping well, and that’s not helping.

I throw some instant coffee into a mug and heat up some water to add to it. Breakfast is ready. Slurping down the disgusting liquid, hoping it will wake me up all the way, I stagger to the kitchen table and sink down in one of the rickety chairs.

Chyort voz’mi. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. Maybe this is the sign, the kick in the ass I need to leave.

Yeah, me and fucking signs, omens and bad feelings. You’d think I’m my babushka. I barely remember her anyway.

But the thought of leaving is enough to make my pulse boom, my heart bang inside my chest. Panic curls at the edges of my consciousness like black smoke, starting to wrap around me.

My chest goes tight. My hands start to shake. I put the mug down on the table and push my hands into my hair.

Stop. I’m not leaving yet. I haven’t left. I’ve never had a panic attack because I thought of leaving—leaving Sydney, Nate and West behind.

This is new.

Leaving is the best solution, I tell myself. It will keep me safe. Keep them safe. Keep them happy by getting me out of the way.

But panic understands no logic, so I end up in my room, searching blindly for my tobacco pouch. I roll a joint with the last of my weed and realize I need to get some fresh supply.

I’m standing in the middle of my room, joint in hand, wondering if it’s worth buying more now, if I’m leaving—even if I don’t wanna leave, even if the thought of leaving makes me lightheaded—when I see it.

A note. Looks like a note, anyway, on the nightstand, weighed down with the lamp. Tucking the joint behind my ear, I pad over and free it, grimacing at the way my hands are trembling. I sit down on the bed and read it.

It’s just one line.

‘See you tonight,’ it says. ‘I’ll wait up for you. We need to talk.’

Signed, Syd.

A long breath escapes me. The note drops from my hand to the floor, and my heart does a weird double beat. Is this a good or a bad thing? Talk about what? About what a mistake last night was? That she’s made up her mind who she wants to be with?

Was there ever any doubt?

I untuck the joint from behind my ear and light it up, drawing a long drag and opening the window to let out the smoke.

Why did I tell her my real age? Dunno what the hell came over me. Just another bad sign.

I let out the sweet smoke, already feeling its effects, feel how it soothes the ragged edges of me, and my gaze falls on my journal. Shit, I’d better put it away where she won’t see it by mistake next time she’s in here.

Her, or Nate, or West.

I suck in more smoke, hold it, and exhale, looking out at the sunlight playing over the city, and at the blue sky, a sense of peace stealing over me.

Looks like I might be staying a while longer, so that I can talk with her, and that’s as much as a problem as it is a relief.

With no students to tutor in the mornings, I really should be looking for another part-time job, but I don’t have the energy for that yet. I drag my feet through the morning, attempt to clean the apartment and make some lunch, and give up when black spots start eating at my vision.

Getting better is slow business. I know I’ve been pushing myself too hard since I ran away, and the stress of fending for myself, of the nightmares and panic attacks, has taken its toll. I don’t sleep well. I don’t rest enough.

But fuck this sickness, and fuck me for not getting better as fast as I’d like. I have work to do, and the talk with Syd looming at the horizon stresses me even more.