I sigh, my shoulders slumping under the weight of his words. “You’re right. I know. I must be so extra.”
“You are,” he says, his voice sharp and cutting. “You really are.”
The words hang in the air like a noxious cloud, choking me. I sit, staring at the screen, my fingers frozen over the keyboard. The words I was so eager to write have vanished, replaced by a hollow emptiness that settles deep in my chest.
I know I’m not awful. I know I’m not ‘extra’ for asking him to respect my need to get work done. But the constant drip of his dismissive, biting comments wears me down, chipping away at my confidence and my sense of self.
And the worst part is, I can feel myself continuing to change—becoming angrier, more reactive, less like the person I used to be.
Later in the evening, he starts pushing my buttons again, over nothing, and then locks himself in the back room.
I try to follow him in there to have a conversation, but then I hear the unmistakable sound of him drilling the door shut.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I scream, louder now. “You justdrilledthedoor shut?”
It’s very Timmy of him to make a hole in the perfectly good door. I’m beyond infuriated.
“You’re such a fucking piece of shit loser! You have no friends!”The words coming out of my mouth are vile, the resentment that’s been building up now spewing freely. But I can’t stop the torrent. “Well, you havetwofriends but neither of them wants to spend much time with you! You wear people down and nobody can take you in anything more than tiny doses!” My words are mean, but they’re also accurate.
I’m shrieking now, my voice loud enough to ring in my ears.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.
I peer out the peephole, and a member of the security team is standing outside.
Fuck.
I sigh and open the door.
“Margaux, we need you to lower your voice,” says the guard, her face grim. “It’s quiet hours, and you’re being very loud.”
I’m mortified. “I’m so sorry,” I say, my cheeks burning. “I’ll stop.”
She nods and then leaves, and I stand in the doorway for a moment, mortified.
Half an hour later, I’m even more embarrassed when I check my email and see the write-up come through, with my landlordcc’d on the email. “Margaux was yelling during quiet hours.” In the scheme of things, not an egregious charge, but still embarrassing.
Fucking fuck.
And the irony that Timmy is now smirking at me, the back door now undrilled and open, gleeful that even though he’s the one who usually does the yelling, he’s getting off scot-free.
“You really need to work on yourself,” he grins cruelly. “You’re drawing attention to us for all the wrong reasons.”
I bite my tongue while blood hammers in my temples, and my body begins to shake.
Timmy’s lack of respect and constant need for validation are driving me to these breaking points, but when I try to point it out, he acts out and makes me regret it. So I focus on what I can control, dwelling on my own outbursts, my own raised voice, and I hate myself for it.
Maybe I am awful.
Maybe Iamthe problem.
CHAPTER 9
THE TIGHTROPE: OBSESSION, STRATEGY & RESTRAINT
DEX
Margaux dominates my every thought. Her laugh, soft and melodic, plays on a loop in my mind. The way she brushes her hair back when she’s focused or nervous—it’s burned into my memory like a sacred image.