The world around me is quiet. Numbness reaches every bone in my body, bringing my center down with an indescribable weight.

My legs nervously bounce on the fluffy carpet under my fluffy socks. Aching fingers, just like my brother Jeff, twiddle with each other in my lap.

Their quiet, soft movements are the only thing bringing me back down to Earth. The slate grey walls of my bedroom and the pure silence of my empty house add a deathly stillness in the air around me.

Whenever Jeff was anxious, he would play with his hands to distract himself. His entire body would shake and he'd avoid eye contact, but his clenched jaw and tense muscles proved the quick temper he had inherited from my mother.

Don't think about him. The only solid thought I've had juts out in my head like bold text.

I try to separate my hands from fidgeting to stop reminding myself about my dead brother. They reconnect as my anxiety mounts higher in my throat.

Flying suddenly to my feet, I pace around my tranquil room. My heart almost seems to shake as it beats wildly and violently in my chest. Hands fly up to my hair, grabbing at it. I remind myself not to pull too hard and rip it in my mounting anxiety.

A loud bang erupts as I walk straight into the corner of my bed and I curse as I clutch my side in pain. I stumble across the room, holding my stomach, and see my mirror in the corner of the room.

Arriving at the mirror, I stop suddenly when my eyes harshly make contact with my reflection.

Sweatpants and Clay's college sweatshirt both leave my body wrapped up in warmth. My hair is tied up and disheveled from laying in bed all day, with red strands poking lazily out of my bun. White Nike socks separate my feet from the cool wood floor, but I feel myself tremble even in the absence of the cold.

His hoodie, much too oversized on me, hangs loosely over my shoulder and exposes my collarbone.

A line of bruises present themselves across my pale neck from Bryce's grip, combined with the various hickeys Clay left me yesterday trailing up my neck and down my chest. I raise a trembling hand from my stomach up to the largest one just above my bra.

Grabbing a concealer off my dresser, I pull the sweatshirt down further to apply the makeup over the hickeys. It takes five minutes to cover them all, but my breathing steadies itself as I focus my attention onto it. The procedural swirling of my makeup brush is therapeutic. I continue to blend until my legs stop shaking and I can breathe again.

I shake out my hands forcefully to distract myself and crack my neck, sighing at the brief relief it gives me. My mind is racing but with disconnected thoughts that don't make any sense.

All I feel is the ever-present reminder that I have to meet Clay's parents tonight, but the numbness in my bones begs me to never leave my house again.

How am I supposed to act like a human being? How do I face them when all I can think about is how it felt to have Bryce's bone snap under my fist? Does Clay know yet?

At least a hundred questions fly across my brain, each making me more nervous than the last.

I take a deep breath and stomp over to my bed, scooping my phone off the blanket. Hurriedly opening my messages, I draft a quick text with shaking hands. The contact for Hannah Baker pops into my brain and I involuntarily flinch.

She had kicked me out of her house and screamed at me, but I still refused to change her contact name. I would always see her as a sister, and I clung to the belief she did too. A sister who had betrayed her.

Her phone was always so organized that it didn't matter who you were, the name was always exactly as you told her it was. The fact that she used her nickname for me, "Izzy," meant something.

My lip stings from unintentionally biting at it as I think of what to say.

Tears are falling harshly from my face and making it almost impossible to see the keyboard.

Like an idiot, I rest my phone on the bed just below my eye level. Obviously, I never get a response.

I stare at the screen before exiting the chat. There are thirty-two missed messages that I still refuse to open. Most are random "you up?" texts and thirst traps, and I've been feeling too tired to clean it out. A few grab my attention as I scroll through them.

I hover my thumb over the message, ready to send a stingy reply when my eye catches another one.

Rolling my eyes, I continue to scroll and gasp as my eyes rest on exactly who I was dreading a text from.

An odd emotion rises in my chest that I can't quite place. It sits on my lungs like a heap of heavy snow that won't budge. I don't know what it is, I just know I really don't want to feel it anymore.

My eyes are wide and my mouth is slightly parted with a mixture of shock and shameful intrigue.

I never saw those texts.

I'd like to believe that I wouldn't have responded, but I know myself better. I have to remind myself of Clay to keep my thumb from tapping on Max's contact.

The image of his sharp jawline crosses my mind, and I replace it with the memory of laying in Clay's arms to distract myself. It works.

Clay didn't use his phone for texting often, so I had taken the liberty of entering my own contact for his phone.

❤️

I smile as Clay responds only seconds after I sent my text, thinking about him snatching his phone at the sight of my contact.

❤️

Assuming he was kidding, I smile widely at my phone. I grow concerned as a couple minutes pass and realize he was genuinely checking to see if dust was an ingredient of spaghetti.

❤️

He always texts like a Dad, with proper punctuation and taking a long time to draft the shortest of sentences.

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

❤️

Clay has always refused to use the same text lingo as every other teenager, but I smile at the sincerity of it. I notice my brain is absent of the insurmountable anxiety I was having earlier. I skip happily over to my dresser, feeling much lighter than only minutes before.

Throwing open my drawers, I carefully my clothes, keeping in mind that I had to look sweet for Clay's parents.

Selecting a pair of dark jeans, I carefully layer gold necklaces onto an orange and white striped sweater, tucking it into my waistline.

I loosen my hair from it's shameful bun, grabbing my hair curler and setting myself to work with my long, knotted hair.

The therapeutic curling and brushing routine allows me time to think, releasing the hair curler to watch my red hair unfold into beautiful little ringlets.

I think about Clay, who I imagine is trying on at least ten different versions of the same hoodie. He will always refuse to admit it, but he's just as indecisive with his outfits as I am, if not even more.

Just as the warm feeling of Clay's adorableness fills my heart, the image of Max's face flashes across my brain. The odd feeling from before creeps into my chest and I lose myself in my thoughts, remembering the way he towered over me. His jawline is the main focus in my mind. I picture his fluffy blonde hair and the way he felt when he swung me over his shoulder.

"Fuck!" I scream loudly as the hair curler burns into the side of my neck and instantly distracts me from my thoughts.

I examine the burn, moving my neck and wincing when I press my finger to it. Layers of concealer manage to cover it after I've applied makeup to the rest of my face.

Impressed with myself, I tie my sneakers on the chair and run the stairs excitedly. I grab my keys off the wood counter, scratching my dog Blue's ears before heading to the door and taking off in my car.

Clay's house is a typical suburban home, but the sight of it sends anxiety down my body.

The last time I was in this house, he gave me one of the greatest nights of my life. Bruises dotted all over my hips lasted a week. I smile coyly to myself at the memory of that night and squirm thinking about it.

Taking a deep breath and clearing my mind, I open my car door. I pick up my speed to a tiny jog and summon all my strength, finally raising my fist to knock at the door.