CASSIUS

As humans, our bodies are made to withstand breakage. We are a resilient species, overcoming the odds, prevailing over the hardships we endure on a regular basis.

A broken leg takes six to eight weeks to heal.

A fractured rib: three to six weeks.

A pulled muscle: three to six weeks.

A torn ligament: two to four weeks.

I have a past that I'm not the proudest of. A failed college hockey career. That short term campus drug dealing job I did for no other reason than boredom. A former fighter in the ring at the club where I work security. Because of my past, I've withstood all of these injuries and more. My body always heals, ready to be shattered to pieces again.

The healing time for a broken heart?

Infinite, if I had to guess, because that pain doesn't seem to have a fucking end in sight.

Whiskey is a decent painkiller, one that I am currently remedying myself with. The more I ingest, the less pain I feel. But it's a balancing act.

You have to avoid hitting that threshold where relief turns to despair. Once you cross that line, the heartache intensifies instead of dulls, and you no longer have control over the thoughts sifting through your barely functioning brain cells.

Max stares at me from across the bar before trading my shot out for a glass of water. My shift starts in two hours, and I know he wants me to sober up enough to do my job. There's no room for mistakes while working security in this place. At no point can I let my guard down.

But I also know she is going to be here, so I steal the shot back and dump it down my throat. I look Max in the eyes as I chug the glass of water directly afterwards, fill it up again, and repeat. With a half-smirk, he pats me on the shoulder when he walks by.

QUINN

Ethan is in the process of breaking up with me. Like, right this second. While he struggles to find the easiest way to let me down, I'm trying to recall if I have enough eggs in the fridge to make breakfast tomorrow.

When he transitions into the whole it's not you, it's me spiel, I'm realizing how much my feet hurt from the heels I'm wearing right now. They are throbbing. Why did I wear heels the one day all my classes are so far apart?

When he finally drops the big bomb – that he cheated on me – the only thing I manage to respond with is, "did you know rubber bands last longer if you refrigerate them?"

How cool are rubber bands, anyway? So many uses! And they can just chill in the fridge like food with your butter and eggs. Shit. Eggs. Do I have enough?

Ethan keeps talking like I didn't say anything at all. When he pauses, I inform him that I am, in fact, out of eggs. Because that should be important to him, right? He cheated on me. The least he can do is be concerned about my next meal.

"Are you even listening to me, Quinn?" He groans, furrowing his brows, probably terrified he'll have to repeat the entire mundane breakup speech. God, that speech was so boring. He could at least spice it up a bit.

"Yeah, sorry, keep going." I encourage with a smile.

I already knew he cheated on me. I saw him with Skylar Lewis at the club, tongues shoved so far down each other's throats that it triggered my gag reflex. I wouldn't be surprised if she could taste the burrito he ate a few hours earlier.

Ethan apologizes for the infidelity. Then he apologizes for breaking my heart.

My heart.

He doesn't know that my heart can't be broken because I'm not fully convinced I even have one to begin with. I think I lost it somewhere between the age of nine and twenty, but the timeframe is a bit blurry to me. Must be buried in the back yard of my childhood home with the two hamsters and eight goldfish.

I pat Ethan on the shoulder and assure him it's okay. Poor guy looks exhausted after that conversation. Removing my heels, I leave him standing completely bewildered in the lecture hall while I gallivant barefoot to my last class of the day. I want to get the good seat!