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"Logan," I laugh into the phone's speaker, "I know that. Why would you say such a silly thing?"

"I just wanted to make sure you know that I love you," he reassures me, "and only you."

"I know, Logan. I love you too. Actually, um..." I swallow nervously. "I gotta go. I'm just-"

"Alright, babe!" he cuts me off, "I'll talk to you tomorrow!" After that, he hangs up.

My heart starts to pick up the pace and I can feel an anxiety attack coming on. My nerves have been building up and now my body wants to take it all out of me.

The problem is that I can't cry. My hands start to sweat and I kind of start to get a little dizzy, but my eyes don't tear up. In fact, they feel more dry. I take short, choppy steps to my pencil bag, take out my pencil sharpener, shake it to make sure it's got what I need inside of it, and take out my feelings the only way I know how.

✾

My thighs sting like a sunburn when I change into pajama pants and get underneath the covers of my soft, warm bed.

I stare at the ceiling, listening to the sound of my rapid heartbeat echoing and pounding in my skull. I would have cried by now if I could, and that's the bad thing about not being able to cry, is that you can't let your feelings out no matter how hard you try.

It's kind of like being inside of a box full of mirrors. The only thing you see - no matter where you go, no matter where you turn to - is a distorted reflection of yourself. An illusion to make you appear even more different than the last time you glanced at those god-forsaken mirrors.

The people on the outside don't see anything wrong because the other side shows another distorted version of you, but distorted in the exact opposite way. Instead of seeing somebody panicked, trapped inside of a small contraption for eternity, they see a happy version of you, smiling and and telling them that you're okay.

Now, imagine if tears were the only thing that could break the box. They're the things that come from your emotions to over your cheeks. Tears are the things that show the world just how broken you really are.

Imagine if you felt just as panicked, but you had cried so much that you just couldn't cry anymore.

You'd be trapped inside of the box with no way to get yourself out. Trapped seeing yourself in some wrong way, trapped hearing the voices of others praising your optimism. All you need is somebody to come across that box and notice that the real you - shattered, bloody, and terrified - is stuck. You just need them to help you out.

The trouble is getting that person to notice you're there in the first place.

✾

His hands are large and calloused, his nails are long and full of grime. His hair isn't visible because he has on a ski mask. The man's shoulders are broad and he's very tall, reaching past my mother's height of 5'10. He's wearing all black, and he's got some kind of mask that reveals his squinted eyes that hold shining, scarlet irises. At least the way I see them.

My mother simply asks him, "What is it that you want?" She's gripping onto my shoulders hard.

The man doesn't say anything. He grabs her by her long hair and I scream, tears staining my pale cheeks. He leaves the house with her, and I rush over to the phone in panic. I call for my dad, but he doesn't come out. I pick up the phone and dial 9-1-1. I turn my head just in time to see-

I sit up, shaking my head and wondering what is wrong with me today. I've seen this replay in my head hundreds of times now, but even still it leaves a dagger twisting in my stomach.

Sighing, I decide to call Sophie. I go outside into my backyard and find her in my contacts before pressing, "CALL".

Quite a few rings go by and she doesn't answer, leaving me on voicemail. I call again, but the same thing happens. This time I decide to call Logan.

We've been on-and-off since freshman year, but I do love him. We've been together for seven months, which is the longest time for us, and I really can't imagine a world without him. He even answers after a few rings, with a, "Hello?"

He sounds out of breath.

"Are you okay?" I ask. "I thought you'd sound all groggy because you just woke up. Did something happen?"

"No, babe," he chuckles. "I was just-"

"Who is that?" somebody whines in the background. Somebody with a feminine voice. "'Babe?' That's what I am."

"I... Of course, babe... I just-" he stammers, before getting cut off.

"Which babe?" the girl angrily questions him. "Because the last time I checked, you loved 'me and only me.' Not this clueless b*tch on the other line!"

"It's okay, Logan," I sigh. "Tell her that she's all yours, because you don't have to worry about me anymore."

I can't cry, but boy does that make me want to. The person I've loved, loved, since I was fourteen was cheating on me. And I found out over the phone.

I get in bed, my brain in overdrive, thinking about how long this night is going to be.

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