I scroll back to a note from last month:
Things are rough, but I know he’ll get better. We’ve just hit a bump in the road.
I almost laugh at my own naivety. No, not a bump—a sinkhole.
Timmy knows nothing of these notes, and he never will.
He’d use them against me, spinning them into ‘proof’ of my instability, my complete craziness.
But they’re my lifeline, tiny threads of sanity I cling to as I struggle to hold myself together. And so it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
As I stare at my phone, preparing to draft another note, I hear Timmy’s voice cut through the room, sharp and angry. I don’t even register the words anymore, but I realize this is my life now. A series of quiet rebellions, a constant battle to preserve the pieces of myself he hasn’t yet eroded.
My body flinches instinctively, my mind already racing to calculate the safest way to respond. I’m wondering how much longer I can endure this—how much longer I can keep convincing myself that Timmy’s potential is worth the price of my peace.
And I know, deep down, that no amount of potential is worth this constant fear.
CHAPTER 12
BOY JOYS
MARGAUX
A WEEK OR SO LATER
The days blend together, an exhausting loop of tension and fleeting calm, like the eye of a storm that never fully dissipates.
My body aches, not just from the lingering bruises, but from the emotional toll of existing in Timmy’s orbit. Every moment with him feels like walking a tightrope over an abyss, never knowing when the rope will snap.
We’re sitting together—me working, him watching a random show, as usual—when a cruel glimmer sparkles in his eyes. Timmy’s smirk cuts through the silence like a night. “I’m trying to be— no, wait, I can’t tell you. It will make you mad.”
He’s testing me again, pushing buttons he knows are worn thin. He’s well aware that Ihateit when he does this—partially says something, and then stops and won’t tell me what he was going to say. It’s a pet peeve because it gives me FOMO, and Ifeel like I’m missing out on the most important words the person was ever to utter.
Of course, it’s usually something silly or irrelevant, but that’s beside the point. He knows I can’t stand it, so he delights in doing it.
I frown, my voice weary. “You know that annoys me.”
He shrugs, his smirk deepening into something darker, as if he just got one over on me somehow. “Well, I can’t remember what I was going to say, so it doesn’t matter.”
It’s a game to him, a petty act of control disguised as banter.
He thrives on my frustration, on the tiny power he wields in moments like this.
Later in the evening, he announces, “I’m going to go get a Black and Mild.” His tone is casual but with an edge of defiance.
Great, there it is.He wants to smoke again.
Late at night, hanging out with goodness knows who on a dangerous street in a dangerous neighborhood.
He grows cockier about the whole idea. “I’m going to go smoke. I’m going by myself.”
“You know how I feel about that,” I say quietly, not even looking up.
“Well, come with me then,” he challenges, shrugging.
I quirk a brow. “You want me to come with you?”
He shrugs again. “Look, I’m going with or without you.”