Breaks

Breaks

I woke up one morning to a sky that looked the same, but nothing felt right anymore. The colors seemed muted, like someone had sucked the vibrancy out of the world while I slept. My studio smelled faintly of turpentine and old paint, but today it smelled like betrayal. Every canvas, every brushstroke, every unfinished attempt at something beautiful—mocking me.
I didn’t go to class. I didn’t answer my phone. I didn’t care if anyone noticed. Even Cole’s texts went unanswered, unread, left to pile up into the little guilt-weighted mountains he probably didn’t even realize were there.
I stacked my canvases, one by one, on the floor. My hands shook, not from anger but from exhaustion—the kind that burrows into your bones and leaves nothing but raw, hollowed-out space where your joy used to live. I pulled a lighter from the kitchen drawer, a tiny flame licking the edges of the nearest canvas. The smell of burning oil paint hit me, choking, but I didn’t stop.
They burned slowly at first, curling and blackening, a faint smoke rising like the remnants of my patience, my trust, my ability to believe anything good could exist in this chaos. I thought about the PI’s letter, about Emily’s revelations, about Cole and our tangled, messy closeness that was still, somehow, the only warmth I’d allowed myself in weeks.
The fire reflected in my tear-glazed eyes, and I realized I wasn’t just burning paint—I was burning everything I thought I knew, everything I clung to, everything I believed. My visions of art, my carefully crafted images, my plans for the future—they all disappeared in the smoke. And I let them.
“Maybe this is the only way to start over,” I whispered, though the words sounded fragile and hollow even to me.
I stayed there until my fingers ached from holding canvas after canvas into the flame, until the last trace of paint crumbled to ash at my feet. My chest was tight, my lungs raw, but my mind was still a storm of anger, grief, and confusion.
And yet… in the back of my mind, a small, stubborn ember refused to die. A whisper I couldn’t ignore: Someone has to fix this. Someone has to understand. Someone has to see the truth.
I didn’t know who yet. Maybe it was me.

I woke up in the late afternoon. Not because I rested—
but because my head hurt too much from crying.
My pillow was damp.
My blanket was crumpled on the floor.
And me…
I felt like a hollow version of myself, dragged out of sleep by pain instead of life.
Still, I got up.
I don’t even know how. Or why.
The apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that feels intentional—
like it’s trying to swallow you whole.
I walked into my little studio.
It smelled like paint, turpentine, and all the things I used to love…
all the things I couldn’t even look at anymore without feeling sick.
I picked up my most recent canvas.
The one I was supposed to submit next week.
The one I couldn’t even finish.
“Of course,” I whispered bitterly. “Of course it’s still unfinished.”
I flicked my lighter.
Just a small flame.
Barely anything.
But when I touched it to the corner of the canvas…
the paint curled.
The edge burned yellow.
And I didn’t move.
I didn’t try to save it.
I just watched.
Watched it surrender.
Watched it disappear.
One canvas burned.
Then another.
And another.
And I didn’t cry.
Not a single tear.
If anything, the fire made more sense than I did.
I sat down on the cold floor, my back to the rising smoke.
My chest tight.
My hands shaking.
And then the thoughts came back—
the ugly ones, the dangerous ones, the ones I never wanted to entertain but couldn’t fight off this time.
What if disappearing is easier?
What if I’m the reason everything keeps falling apart?
What if I’m the collateral damage everyone expects me to be?
I wasn’t going to do anything reckless.
I wasn’t planning to hurt myself.
But the impulse—
the dark pull—
the split-second ache—
was there.
And that’s what scared me.
I curled into myself, hugging my knees, breathing through the storm inside my head.
Self-pity.
Self-loathing.
Self-blame.
A spiral of everything I hated about myself, hitting all at once, like a tide I couldn’t stop.
I cried until I couldn’t breathe.
I cried until my lungs hurt.
I cried until something inside me went quiet—
numb, almost peaceful in the worst way.
And the apartment stayed silent.
No one knocked.
No one called.
No one knew.
No one, except maybe one person.
Cole.
But he didn’t know where I was.
And I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to find me.

Here is the Luna King–style continuation — raw, breaking, miserable, collapsing under the weight of everything. Still English, still emotional but not graphic, just the painful release.
CHAPTER 49 — continued (Luna King style)
I don’t remember the exact moment something inside me snapped.
All I knew was that one second, I was on the floor trying to breathe—
and the next, my body moved before my mind caught up.
I stood.
Too fast.
Dizzy.
Unsteady.
My vision blurred, my throat tight, my chest burning.
There was this framed photo on my shelf—
me and Dad at my first school exhibit.
I was smiling.
He was smiling.
Everything felt so simple then.
I hated it.
I hated how that picture lied.
I grabbed the frame.
My fingers trembled around the edges.
I stared at that younger version of me—
so stupid, so unaware, so happy.
And something inside me broke.
“WHY?!”
My voice cracked, sharp and raw.
It echoed off the apartment walls.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you leave everything like this?!”
My breath shook.
My heartbeat thundered.
The rage felt bigger than me.
I hurled the frame at the floor.
Glass shattered—
a sharp, explosive sound that cut through every layer of silence choking me.
I didn’t stop.
I grabbed another frame—
another one he gave me.
Something small.
Something sentimental.
I threw it too.
The crash was louder this time.
More satisfying.
More painful.
My entire body trembled, heat crawling up my spine.
“Why would you do that to Mom?”
I yelled again, voice hoarse.
“And why would YOU—” my voice cracked, “why would YOU let us live like we were some perfect picture?!”
The words dissolved into sobs, but the anger—
God, the anger kept pushing out of me, messy and uncontrolled.
I kicked an empty paint can.
It rolled across the wooden floor, rattling, splattering dried pigment everywhere.
My breathing turned shallow.
Sharp.
Uneven.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my chest, as if I could physically hold myself together.
But I couldn’t.
My apartment—
the last thing Dad ever gave me—
felt too small, too heavy, too haunted.
I slid down the wall, falling to my knees, palms flat on the floor.
Tears blurred everything.
“I hate this,” I whispered, choking.
“I hate all of this… I hate what you did… and I hate that I still miss you.”
The admission ripped something inside me.
Like tearing fabric.
Like tearing skin.
I folded forward, forehead touching the cold floor, sobbing into the empty room.
I cried like it was the first time I had ever allowed myself to break.
No acting tough.
No pretending.
No swallowing the pain just to be the “strong one.”
Just raw, miserable collapse.
The kind no one prepares you for.
The kind no one warns you about.
The kind that leaves you shaking, gasping, and begging for someone to tell you it’s going to be okay, even if it’s a lie.
But no one was here.
No footsteps approaching.
No arms pulling me back.
No voice calling my name.
Just me.
My broken things.
My broken truth.
My broken heart.
And the sound of my own breathing as I tried—
and failed—
to pull myself back together.

The phone call ended, but the sound of Cole’s voice lingered in the air like smoke—
warm, worried, desperate.
I sat there on the cold floor, knees against my chest, my phone still in my hand, screen dimming to black.
Then it hit me.
All of it.
Like a second wave.
A bigger one.
A crueler one.
The kind that doesn’t ask permission before it drags you under.
My breath hitched, and I folded forward again—
hands covering my face as I sobbed into my palms.
Not loud this time.
Just soft.
Shaking.
A kind of sadness that felt too tired to scream anymore.
I stayed there for minutes… or maybe hours.
Time didn’t exist.
Just pain.
And then—
my phone vibrated again.
Cole.
Calling.
I stared at his name on the screen.
His contact photo.
His smile.
I couldn’t answer.
I couldn’t let him hear me like this again.
I pressed decline.
He called again.
I declined.
After the fourth attempt, he switched to messages.
Cole: Faye, please open the door. I’m downstairs.
Cole: I’m not leaving until I see you.
Cole: Talk to me. Please.
My chest tightened.
I typed slowly, fingers trembling.
Me: Cole… don’t. I don’t want you here.
Cole: Too bad. I’m staying.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
My tears didn’t stop.
I typed again.
Me: I want to leave.
Cole: Leave where? Faye, what are you saying?
Me: I want to leave the country.
Me: I want to disappear.
The typing bubble appeared instantly.
Cole: No.
Cole: Absolutely not. Faye, you’re hurting, I know that. But you can’t make decisions like that right now.
I swallowed hard, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand.
Me: You don’t understand. I can’t stay here anymore. Everything hurts, Cole.
Cole: Then let me help you carry it.
Cole: Just come downstairs. Or open the door. Or talk to me. Anything.
I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me.
My fingers hovered, then typed:
Me: You can’t stop me.
A long pause.
No typing bubble.
Just silence.
Then—
Cole: I’m not trying to stop you.
Cole: I’m trying to save you.
Something in my chest cracked again, painful and slow.
I set the phone down beside me and pulled my knees closer, letting my forehead rest against them.
I cried quietly.
Almost soundlessly.
The kind of crying that feels like bleeding.
I didn’t move.
Not to answer him.
Not to go to the door.
Not even when he called again.
Not even when his voice spilled through the door downstairs—muffled but fierce—
“Faye, please… I’m begging you… don’t shut me out.”
I stayed curled on the floor, shaking, tears falling onto the hardwood.
Because for the first time in my life…
I truly didn’t know if I wanted to stay.