I wish you weren't leaving me, I said to myself as I rode with Six to the airport. Instead, I smiled the fake smile even he didn't believe.

“It'll be two nights, that's it,” he promised, seemingly reading my thoughts.

But we've spent every Christmas together for the last seven years, I said again to myself.

I was angry. Angry he wouldn't be here to celebrate the anniversary I didn't want to acknowledge—our anniversary. I didn’t want to acknowledge it mostly because he wasn’t. A fact that made me more than a little angry; angry he was going to spend Christmas with Andra, the daughter of a woman he had once wanted to marry, instead of me.

What was it he had said when I asked if he’d ever marry me?

You need help, Mira.

“We'll celebrate when I get back,” he said, squeezing my hand.

“Get out of my head,” I grumbled, letting go of his hand. I couldn't stop thinking about the things that were wrong: my ring-less finger. The fact that I'd lived with Six in our house for two years now but felt completely out of my element still. I'd changed for him. I needed him more now than before. In my quest to become independent, to become healed, I’d become only more dependent upon him. I resented all of that.

I wanted to drink. Six was leaving me, and I wanted to lose myself in the bottom of a bottle of booze.

Six didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't need to. The night before, I'd asked him if he thought we'd ever marry one another someday. He hadn't laughed or mocked me, but his silence had answered the question for me, and now it taunted me, like a ghost whispering it in the back of my mind: not good enough. Never good enough. I'd cut on accident and he'd caught me—or thought he had, at least. That silent frustration loud in his eyes. I hadn't been able to bear looking at him. Everything was falling apart around me, and it was pulling me under with it.

Six pulled the Camaro up to the departure terminal at the airport and got out. I sat sullenly in the passenger seat until he opened it and pulled me out. “Goodbye, Mira.”

I knew it was childish. I knew I was, essentially, jealous of an orphan. A woman who needed Six more than I needed Six.

But who needed me? No one.

So I kissed him goodbye and climbed into the driver's seat, speeding out of the airport ten seconds later before he even walked inside.

I didn't go home. Our home was still too unfamiliar. I missed my apartment. I missed the memories Six and I had created there, together. The home we shared had shifted the balance of power in our relationship. Six no longer had to come to me. He had to come home, where I was, always waiting.

Instead, I parked and took a walk through the gardens by our house, which I currently thought of as a tomb of shit. That's all it was—our shit mish-mashed together. Six was gone for our anniversary, leaving me alone amongst our shit, away from the place I'd felt safe in.

After walking through the gardens, I took a seat at a diner and couldn't be compelled to eat eggs and bacon alone, so I ate a cheeseburger in rebellion and watched the couple in front of me with some kind of nauseated fascination.

The couple was young, in their early twenties, and sitting side by side on the same seat in their booth. Who even did that?

I didn't think they realized there was a whole world going on outside of them, because they were so focused on one another that they didn't even acknowledge the waitress when she dropped off their check.

I stared, riveted, as the younger man picked up a French fry and fed it to her with his fingers, smiling sweetly at her while she gazed back in wonder.

What the fuck?

Over and over I watched as he picked up French fry after French fry, bringing them to her lips as if she couldn't feed herself.

Finally, I had had enough of it and slid out of my booth and into theirs, sitting opposite from them.

“Hi,” I said, flashing my brightest smile. The woman, startled, turned to stare at me and nudged her partner. I nodded toward him too before leaning across the table. “You two are real cute,” I lied, false encouragement oozing from the teeth I flashed.

The girl blushed and held up her hand, a tiny diamond winking under the light. “Thanks, we're honeymooning.”

If I wasn't in a sour mood before, I most certainly was with the news of their marriage. I couldn't stop the words from pouring out of my mouth, so I just opened my lips and let them spill. “Oh, so that explains why he's feeding you now,” I said patronizingly. “Practicing for the bullshit he's going to feed you in a year or two from now, yeah? When he tells you he's running late at work, but what he really means is he's running late banging his secretary—or running out of state to visit someone else. On your anniversary.” I looked between them and dropped my smile. “Good luck with that, cupcake,” I said pointedly to the woman before sliding out of the booth. I threw some cash onto my table and left, feeling eyes all around burning through my leather jacket.

Once I was out in the crisp air, I couldn't deny the feeling I felt then: relief. And I'd accomplished it by hurting someone else, instead of myself. I knew it wasn’t good—it was worse—and yet I found myself almost addicted to that feeling, to the knowledge that I could hurt someone else with only my words.

But as I walked away, I felt more and more empty. Six was gone. I was alone. I couldn't go back to that house and dwell. I was angry that he'd moved me there and then promptly and repeatedly left me. Even if his trips had been less frequent, he was still gone, leaving echoes of him around me in our home. I didn’t build this home with him only to have to maintain it alone.

I shouldn’t be jealous of Andra. I knew that. She was a child, right? She was a girl without a mother. Six was her savior, her oldest and most trusted friend. And it wasn’t really her I was jealous of. It was the fact that Six had chosen her. That he had left me and my baggage back in California. That my presence in his life wasn’t worth enough to tell her. Jesus, it’d been seven years, seven fucking years, and he hadn’t been able to tell Andra? What did that say about me?

Hours later, when the voices in my head could not be silenced, when my thoughts were a kaleidoscope of color and confusion, I pulled out my phone and sent Six a text.

Me: Every beginning has an end.

* * *

On my way back to the house, I stopped at the liquor store. The voices had led me there, whispering that if I wanted peace, I'd only need to go into the store.

I had the bottle open and tipped, filling my mouth with golden liquid, before my conscience could be heard.

“Fuck you,” I yelled, belligerently in the street, the alcohol spilling all over my arms as I raised them up high. With my free hand, I gave the one finger salute to the sky. “Fuck you, voices. You fucking win.” I lifted the bottle to my lips and poured into my mouth, nearly choking on the burning liquid.

I wasn’t sure how I made it back to the house but by the time I'd arrived, the bottle was near empty and my legs were made of weak rubber.

The liquor had a faster effect on me than it’d ever had. I used to be able to put away an entire bottle—no sweat. But now, one bottle and I was practically comatose.

I fell into the entryway, knocking over the table that haunted me ... the one Six had built.

Through dizzy vision, I stared at the table, rage and resentment filling me to the brim. He’d built that table. He’d built a life. And how real was that life we lived together when he couldn’t include me in the most important parts.

I looked at the Christmas tree and wanted to throw it through the fucking window. It mocked me with its red and green glow. He gave me that tree—like he had every year we lived in this house—but now he left me alone.

“Bastard,” I sputtered, but the word sounded like it was round in shape, and my mouth forgot how to articulate it.

Feeling along the walls to the railing for the staircase, I heard Griffin’s distant bark, but couldn’t remember where in the house she was. I wrapped my fingers around the railing and pulled myself to standing.

The alcohol was making everything louder but blurry. Like being in a movie with a screen not in focus. You could sense colors and lights, but even squinting you couldn’t make them out.

My phone chirped from somewhere in the house and I screamed, “Fuck you!” as loud as I could. Or, at least, that was how it sounded in my throat. “Fuck you!” I screamed again to no one. Six left me. He proved he could. He could leave me, again and again, and living with him didn’t stop that. There was no permanence, no safety in the life he’d promised me.

I choked on my tears then. They flooded in fast, and the voices grew louder. I pressed my palms against my ears and squeezed my eyes tight, forming my body into a ball.

And then I resolved to saying fuck it to everything. I’d already fucked up my sobriety. I’d fucked up being normal. I’d tried—so hard, I’d tried. But I wasn’t normal. And Six knew that. When he looked at me, at the injury to my hand, he saw that I couldn’t be fixed. So, why did I even bother?

I probably fell a dozen times on my way to the kitchen, but I made it there, nonetheless. My vision was full of spots, and my arms felt like they weighed one hundred pounds each, but I pulled myself to standing and reached for the butcher block.

It was empty. Every single knife was missing.

“What!” I screamed, yanking open a drawer. The roar in my head was loud as I searched drawers for something sharp. I yanked the first one completely out of the island and dumped it on the floor, feeling a pop in my shoulder from the effort.

“Bastard!” I exclaimed, not finding a single knife among the spatulas and spoons.

He hid them from you.

Because you're dangerous.

Because you're sick.

Because he doesn't trust you.

Momentarily, I clutched my head, squeezing. Then, I yanked out a second drawer and picked it up, pouring its contents on the floor, as well. There were more spatulas, measuring cups, ladles. But not one knife.

Pissed, I slammed against the walls on my way back into the entryway. Not one of them cracked and crumbled like the ones in my apartment. It was so fucking unsatisfying. I tripped and fell once again onto the damn table. I gripped its sides, feeling the curve of its body, hating its perfection and symbolism and the fact that it was here, in my way.

Before I could think of what I was doing, I picked it up and held it suspended in the air, my arms trembling from whiskey and from the exertion. I fell forward, into the wall once, hazily registering the crash of paintings and frames falling to the floor.

I brought the table down hard, slamming it onto the floor. Over and over until it splintered and broke, a dozen pieces littering the floor. My muscles ached, and my hands hurt, but I stared at the scene, thought of Six coming home and finding it. I felt a sick satisfaction knowing that he'd see it. He thought the cut on my hand was something to be worried about? A laugh bubbled from my lips and I pressed fingers to silence it.

And just as thoughts of Six entered my brain, I felt pain. In my chest, in my head. Six had no plans to marry me. I wasn't good enough. Six left me when we should have been together. Six moved me from my safe place, from my home, to this cold, empty house.

He doesn't love you.

He loves Andra.

And Lydia.

He chose to spend his favorite holiday with Andra.

He chose to spend your anniversary with Andra.

Not you.

She doesn’t know about you.

Because you're a burden.

A fuck up.

Who will fuck up again.

I fell onto the floor and searched for something, anything. The hurt was flooding me, and I was choking on it. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, and the pain was too much. I needed to release it. It was boiling against the surface of my skin, and my face was heavy with it.

My fingers closed on a long, bent nail, and I heaved, choking on my sobs. With my back on the floor, I brought the nail to my inner thigh and yanked.

The release was just what I needed. My fingers went slack, my head eased its torment, and I blacked out.

* * *

I smelled him. He was here. Leather and spice and cologne, all mixed together. He was everything.

I opened my eyes, saw him, saw pain. And I felt regret. “Six.”

Cold hands touched my face, lifting me to sitting. “What the fuck, Mira?” his voice was louder than usual and tinged with genuine worry.

I wanted him to hurt, and judging by his face, I'd succeeded. The anger I'd felt earlier had dissipated, and all I felt now was hate.

Hate for myself.

“I'm sorry,” I said, feeling the burst of tears flooding my eyes. I never cried in front of Six. I never wanted to. But there I was, tears pouring from my eyes. “I ... I want...” my voice kept faltering. My head was pounding, but I was sobering up quickly, cold seeping into my skin.

“What the fuck do you want, Mira?” He held my face in his hands, fingers clamped on the ridge of my cheekbones. I could barely speak around his thumbs pressing against my lower lip.

I yanked my head and fell back on the floor. When he squatted down, I scrambled, away from him, my hands falling on the floor behind me. The cool tile was so shocking to my fevered skin that I snatched my hands up, falling backwards onto my back, my head cracking on the floor, bouncing like I was made of rubber.

My hands came to my face, not surprised to find them wet from tears that were leaking from the sides of my eyes. “I want a knife.” My fingers closed over my eyelids, pushing the loose skin hard enough to feel the press of my eyeballs back into my skull.

“You have to be fucking stupid to think I'd give you a knife.” His voice was thick with anger, his words sharp. I could tell he hadn't moved closer to me, which was for the best. “And trust me—I want to believe you're stupid. What'd you take this time?”

I didn't answer his question. “I want to cut it out.” There was resolve behind those words, but not the kind of resolve that meant there was an actual action to take. I couldn't cut out the parts I wanted. I knew that. But Six didn't get it. I opened one eye and looked at him, sitting beside me but with his back to me. “I had to cut, Six.”

I watched his head droop and couldn't stop the sting that pierced my heart.

I licked my lips. “It's not what you think.”

His head turned so he was looking at me over his shoulder. The exhaustion in his face made panic squeeze my throat. I needed him to understand. I held my arms up, turning them until my wrists faced up. “I cut here,” I said, gesturing a fingertip over the raised scars, “not to hurt myself.” I looked at the scar for a minute before looking into his eyes again, needing him to understand. “I cut to keep myself from hurting.”

Something ticked his jaw. He wasn't walking away from me, not yet.

“I cut to relieve pain.” I swallowed, lowering my arms. I let my hands travel up my chest to my neck, my fingers trailing up the sides of my head. When my forefingers found my temples, I pressed into the flesh, one hand on either side, my eyes still focused on Six. “In here,” I tapped my fingers twice. “I hurt. I want to cut it out, Six ... I want to cut out the parts that are diseased. The parts that make me hurt, the parts that make me hurt others.” A breath shuddered from my lungs out my mouth, causing my bottom lip to tremble and my limbs to start the slow shudder that told me I was close to blacking out. “I can't reach it.” My voice wobbled around the words. “I can't, and I want to, and I try to.” My hands were now too heavy to stay still on my face, and they fell to the sides, palms up on the cold tile. It wasn't as cold now.

Six's eyes flicked to my wrists.

“I cut to bleed the pain. I can't heal myself. I can't be normal. And when the blood is pouring from my body, it's only me I'm hurting.”

My vision blurred, and everything sounded as if I was under water. I heard Six say, “You're wrong,” right before the world went black.

* * *

When I came to, it was dark, and I was alone in my bed, but the sheets weren't cool beside me, indicating that Six had been there at some point.

I sat up on my mattress and was instantly woozy. I must have made a noise, because I sensed Six in the doorway in an instant.

“Lie down,” he said softly, walking to the bed.

I didn't even bother protesting. I just did as he suggested and slowly leaned back until my head hit the pillow.

Six crawled into bed beside me and patted my thigh. I felt pain then and lifted up the blanket to see the bandage covering my leg. “You probably needed stitches,” he said mournfully. “But it's too late now. I bandaged them as much as I could.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“You were bleeding all over the place, Mira. I thought…” His voice cut out, and he took a deep breath. “I thought you’d been stabbed.”

His hands shook.

Regret filled me. Shame covered me, thick as a blanket. “I’m sorry. You were supposed to be gone.”

“I shouldn’t have left.”

I squeezed my eyes tight. I was so selfish. I couldn’t understand how he could love me through what I put him through. How he could love me when I did these things to myself.

“I got your text and I knew.”

I couldn’t remember the text but knew it must have triggered something. “You should be in Colorado.”

“I’ll go to Colorado another time.”

I tried to sit up but couldn’t. I reached a hand for him in the dark and he leaned down so I could press my face into his neck. To the depth of who I was, I couldn’t tell Six how sorry I was. That I’d burdened him the way I had. That he couldn’t leave me without worrying. That he needed to hide fucking steak knives from me, for fear that I’d do something like what had happened downstairs.

He pulled back and waited a breath, maybe two, before pressing a light kiss to my mouth.

I knew then, something that he couldn’t know. That one day, Six and I would kiss for the very last time. He wouldn’t know it then, but I would. This was inevitable. This was our future. Me making messes and Six cleaning them up.

I found it ironic that Six was trying to fix me, to fix the part of me that had forcibly removed the pain from my body. The cuts would heal, as they always did. But the memory of the way he'd looked at me when he'd found me covered in blood, and the pain I'd seen in his eyes had been deeper than my own—that was something I would never forget.