A wave of heat runs from my head down my body. And then everything freezes, making me feel cold.

I part my mouth, just to realize that I have nothing to say. So I just put the phone on the table, not bothering to hang up and hurry to the bathroom.

Oh, look there's an actual idiot in the mirror. Someone so dumb that doesn't even know how to act in situations like this and is just staring at herself and thinking what she did wrong and why everything went wrong.

Why am I even mad, we're not dating, we're nothing special. I don't even know why I thought he'd feel connected to me. We just kissed, but it's only a big deal to me cause I like him. He probably just saw an opportunity and took it, I should stop overreacting.

Why am I so angry though? I should've known this is how it was supposed to go.

You know what? I have the right to be angry.

Fuck him. Actually, fuck him. If I knew earlier I'd fuck his best friends with no hesitation at all. It's not too late, but it sucks that he got to do it first.

Damn it.

I look at the mirror again and frown at my reflection. It frowns back. I lean closer to the mirror and she leans closer. I press my teeth together and see her clench her jaw. She's so fucking hot, she should stop being dramatic and shower instead cause it looks like she dived into an oil tank.

I run the shower and lock the door, stripping infront of the mirror and trying my best not to punch the glass. Honestly, his loss. Fuck him, I'm not even gonna think about him anymore.

Yeah, I'm gonna stop thinking about him right now.

I'm gonna stop being aggressive with my body scrub before I peel my skin off.

I'm gonna stop aggressively putting my hair into a ponytail before it all falls out.

It's okay, I'll just workout and everything will go back to normal.

Right?

No.

"Why are you being so aggressive?"

Ever since Clay found me in the second floor of the gym assaulting a punching bag, he decided to stay and watch. It's been 30 minutes and I'm wondering why's he still here. I don't even feel like talking to him, he should just leave.

"Your knuckles are gonna be bruised," he speaks again. The fact that nobody's here at the second floor, there's no music, and his voice echoes in the emptiness is not helping.

I'm not using hand protection but it's okay cause I took boxing classes when I was seven and our trainer kept telling us to punch walls cause it helps to harden your knuckles.

I finally stand to take a breath and answer him, "What are you even doing here? Go lift weights."

I know he didn't expect me to be rude to him for no reason at all, but I'd much prefer to see him react appropriately to situations like this. The way his eyebrows rise and he smiles is the opposite of what he should've done. Literally, smiling and smirking have been the only facial expressions he used the whole day to react to any situation involving me.

"Alright," he shrugs.

I sigh in relief seeing him approach his bag. But when he comes back with hand wraps, I understand that there's no escape. I should accept my fate.

"What are you-"

Not even asking if I want it or not, he grabs my right hand and starts wrapping it up. I smack my mouth and sigh, giving in eventually only because I don't want to go to work with bruised knuckles and he's just trying to help. It's not his fault I'm mad.

"Too tight?" He asks, finishing my right hand. I clench my fist and let it relax. It's perfect. I shake my head.

He moves on to the left one. I look at his fingers move and stare at the veins running up from his hands to his arms, and somehow it makes me feel another wave of aggression. I clench my fist again and take a deep breath, which he notices and looks up from my hands.

Clay raises a brow, "Who got your panties in a twist?"

Okay, that's kinda rude.

It makes me want to punch him. He could've phrased it differently and I'd be fine with it.

I glare at him with slightly knitted brows and he breaks the eye contact, looking back at my hand.

That's what I thought.

Tugging at the hand wrap for the final time, Clay secures it. My only concern now is to not break my nails accidentally cause I recently had them done and paid a bit too much to break them immediately.

"Thank you," I speak half-heartedly and look back at Geor- I mean the punching bag.

"You're very welcome," he takes a few steps back and continues watching me. And it's bugging me that he's just standing there doing nothing.

"You can leave now," I throw a punch, very fond of the feeling. My knuckles feel so much better.

"Nah, I'm waiting for you," he chuckles.

"I'm gonna take long."

"Waiting for you to break your thumb," I know what he means, but also, I don't give a fuck.

I'm punching with my thumb inside of my fist. It's wrong, but as I said, I need to protect my nails. I don't think he'd believe me if I told him that broken fingers hurt less than broken nails.

Turning around, I look at him, "I'm this close to punching you," I pinch the air, "and you did nothing to deserve that, so please leave."

"Sounds like a good time to me."

I take in a breath, as he walks backwards and grabs a pair of boxing gloves. I watch him put them on, come back closer to me, and hold his hands out like targets.

"I don't want it," I shake my head.

"I know you do," even the way he's chewing gum is getting on my nerves, "I know sometimes all you wanna do is punch m- Fuck~"

I did it. That was a bit too strong.

Clay shakes the hand I punched. I could feel how relaxed his wrist was by the way it bent backwards. Either he was sure I wasn't going to do it, or he thought the punch wouldn't be that strong. Well, even I didn't think it would be strong.

And from that point on, his hands become my personal punching bags. Although instead of feeling relief, I get more and more frustrated with each punch. Especially when he bitches about my movements and "inefficient" punching techniques. Every time he speaks, he motivates me to break his wrists.

Especially this one time.

"So what did George say?" He smirks, making me land a particularly hard punch at his right hand.

I hate how he knows everything. He was supposed to be asleep in his room, not listen to me pick up the call for Nick.

"You heard him brag about fucking a hot-"

I didn't let him finish his sentence, I threw three punches that made him take two steps back and chuckle.

I let my hands drop and try to catch my breath, "Shut up. Please just shut up."

I've had enough. I go sit on my bag, proceeding to undo the hand wrap. Even though I'm looking at my hands, I can feel Clay looking at me. And I also can see his shadow approaching.

"Just get over him," he squats infront of me, but I refuse to look at his face. Yeah, it's easier said than done, "he's gonna hurt you more and more-"

"He cannot fucking hurt me, okay?" I've been trying to undo this stupid wrap but it's stuck, so I pull on it aggressively and realize that it was my last straw.

My movements become uncoordinated as I lose it completely trying to get rid of the fabric on my hand. Inhaling sharply, I cover my face with my palms as an unfamiliar feeling takes over me.

I feel my eyes burning and there's a lump in my throat.

Uh oh.

"Ana," Clay sighs. I can tell he's scared I'm gonna explode by the way he gently tries to push my hands away from my face, "hey, don't-"

I'm sure he regrets uncovering my face. Cause right as he does I look at him, not expecting to feel burning tears rolling down my cheeks.