Just when I think life couldn’t get any worse, it proves me wrong.

It's not like this is anything new. This is actually right on brand with my shitty life. I can't ever have a moment to shine, a moment of peace, a lick of happiness. Even if I do put up some fight, it all just goes to waste. Because at the end of day, I find myself right back where I started.

Why is life so difficult?

Why can’t happiness be granted a permanent stay? Why do I always get the short end of this rotten stick? Why has life made it its mission to punish me?

I'm so exhausted and sick and tired of it all. I put in the effort, didn’t I? I tried, didn’t I? So why have I once again been dragged down to the very bottom?

All I can think about is the look on Shane’s face, the disdain in his eyes. The only other person to ever look at me that way is my mother. But I expect these things from her. I expect her to look at me with nothing but condemnation. Not Shane. Not the man I once almost shared a kiss with.

What could I have possibly done wrong? If only I could piece the puzzle together. That way, I could at least make sense of the situation. But I’ve been stranded with nothing to help me get by. No clues or map. Nothing. It’s almost as if I’ve been cursed down by some deity. That would make more sense than whatever it is that has my life captive.

I haven’t been able to show my face since that incident. It’s been three days, and all I’ve known since then is my apartment. My bed, my blanket. I do enough not to fall behind on course work, but I’m just barely keeping up. It feels like my thread will wear out soon, and the only thing left to hang on to will be my pillow.

I should really stop crying over an undefined relationship. This is what I tell myself every second. I should stop sulking. I should stop wasting away. But that’s far easier said than done.

How do you recover from a heartbreak so cruel, especially when it’s become the entire campus’s business? Leave it to technology and social media to transform possibly the worst moment of my life into a widespread discussion.

The only thing giving me comfort now is my pillow. At least pillows don’t talk. They don’t gossip, and they most certainly don’t break your heart.

Still, I should at least look after myself. I should eat something, anything. Even if it’s just water. But I can’t bring myself to move. The only thing that manages to tear me away from the comfort of my bed is the knock on the door. Who is it at this time of grief?

It’s Jenny, looking ever so remorseful. Pity is the last thing I want. But the first thing I want is a hug, and Jenny offers it to me immediately, holding me so gently the tears are there before I even know it. And soon I’m sobbing again, trying with all my might to expel the last of my affliction.

I wipe the last of the tears away. “I just don’t understand what I did wrong.”

“Oh, honey,” Jenny says, rubbing my back. “I didn’t want to say anything but, well,” she hesitates. “It's your look that turned him away.”

This throws me for a loop. “What?”

“Your hair, everything,” She continues. “It made it look like you were trying too hard.”

Was there something wrong with the way I dressed? Was it really my appearance? It can't possibly be. Shane had no issue with how I styled myself. He gave me compliments.

Jenny pats my head, gently. Soothingly. “You should have allowed me talk to him for you. Like I always do.”

Was that the issue all along? Jenny was always the better when it came to talking to boys. You could see it in their eyes when she looked at them; they were captivated. She knows all the right things to say to get them on her side. She’d once scored herself four drinks in the span of an hour when we paid a visit to the bar. She’d even won a glass for me as well, all from flirting with a couple men, pushing the right buttons.

Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I should have asked for Jenny’s advice. I should have asked for her help. Then maybe Shane wouldn’t be so repulsed by the idea of me. Maybe then, I wouldn’t be lying here heartbroken, clinging on to the idea of what could have been.

“. . . is it really my fault?”

Jenny sighs, and somehow I can tell the answer from that alone. “I’m sure part of it is, but men are dogs. He could have just been looking for a way to dump you aside.”

Well, he couldn’t have picked a more tedious way. A call would have sufficed, or even just a text. Now the situation has been blown way out of proportion as Jenny describes to me. “It’s everywhere.” She says. “They’re saying you ruined his career.”

How can I ruin anything when I was never even given the chance to? But with injuries that grave, I guess it’s right to say that life as a basketball player is over for Shane. I saw how mangled his right leg was, like it was run over. His dream of making it far into the leagues has been crushed.

And now they’re blaming me for it.

It’s almost laughable. I came out of this situation just as hurt, if not more, than Shane. And yet the blame lies with me. How wonderful. I won’t be surprised if the masses start believing that I beat Shane up myself. In fact, I’m sure there are people out there who already think so.

“Anyway,” Jenny starts again. “Forget about Shane. He wasn’t worth your time.”

I nod, trying to agree. But I know the truth deep down. Shane Foster was worth every bit of my time. Up until the moment he broke my heart.

___

The next couple days are bleak. I’ve tried sweeping up the last of my self-worth, tried making do with what I have left, which isn’t much. I did cry in front of a crowd of strangers. I also did wind up on the internet because of that fiasco. It will be a while before my dignity is fully mended.

I try coming up with ways to make myself feel better. There’s this lace top I’ve been meaning to purchase. Perhaps that could help. I could also take a walk in the park, or visit the planetarium once again. It was magical the last time I went.

But none of these things sound enticing. I just want to hide and rot away in peace. Even better if my corpse is never found.

I make a quick stop by the café for a cup of Frappuccino, which isn’t doing too bad a job at making me feel better. Sugar is the best source of serotonin.

Then just outside the shop, I see the thing that sends my head spinning. Shane with his broken foot and lacerations, along with . . . Colt.

From what I can tell, they seem to be in a deep conversation. Colt has this look on his face, like he’s remorseful, sympathetic. Like he’s voicing his condolences. Then he says something that actually makes Shane smile, although slightly.

I never knew they were friends.

This has me in a stump. I guess it shouldn’t be that surprising. Athletes hang out with others of the like. Still, it’s proving very difficult for me to digest the fact that Colt and Shane aren’t strangers.

But now there’s an issue. I can’t leave the café without Shane spotting me. I could wait him out, stall until he leaves. But then he takes a seat by one of the patio tables with Colt beside him. Fuck me.

Class starts in ten minutes. I need to leave. But I can’t risk facing Shane, not after those very clear instructions he blurted out for everyone to hear. Don’t you ever come anywhere close to me.

Why do I always find myself in these sticky situations?

I work up some plan to get past the front door without Shane noticing me. My hair is still long enough to hide my face, so I ruffle it up a little to get some volume going. Then I turn my phone into a form of distraction. This should be good enough.

I make a dash for it, straight out the door, with my eyes glued to my phone and my hair keeping my face a mystery. All is going well; I’ve almost slipped away undetected. That is, until I bump into a stranger. I guess I should have been paying attention to where I was going and not just the blank screen on my phone.

The force of the collision knocks me down to the ground, and at the same time, the Frappuccino spills, staining my clothes in the process. Now I’m one big sticky mess, and once again, I’m the center of attention. Never in a good way.

For a second, it’s completely quiet. No one says a thing. I’m praying Shane hasn’t noticed the accident, but who am I kidding? All eyes are on me.

Finally, my first reprimand comes, from a guy who more or less must have seen that video of Shane yelling at me. “It’s that chick,” Then he turns to Shane. “Dude, I think she’s stalking you.”

The rest of the onlookers all laugh, and my face begins steaming. It’s as if I’m destined to be the designated laughingstock. My vision becomes blurry, distorted, and my throat clogs up. Not here, not here.

I manage to escape before the first tear rolls down my face. I have no clue where I’m going. Anywhere but here. I need to be out of the public’s eye. I push my way through the crowd until I’m inside a building, holed up in an empty classroom.

God, this is so stupid. Why does it still hurt so much? How can I ever move on from this?

Minutes pass before the door opens, and in walks Colt with casual steps. I don’t pay him any mind at first; I’m struggling to gather myself together. He comes and stands in front of me, while leaning against the front desk with arms crossed. Then he simply watches me, his eyes as though they were scanners.

“It’s a good thing that happened to him,” Colt says after minutes of silence. “He didn’t deserve you.”

Deserve me? Who cares about that?

Then it clicks. I’ve finally found it, the last piece to this stupid puzzle. It was right in front of me this entire time, and it’s all come together in the most gut-wrenching way possible.

“You . . . that was you, wasn't it? You did that to him.”

I wait for him to reply, to tell me I’m way over my head. To prove me wrong.

But he confesses to it all.

“I tripped,” Colt tells me. “The sledgehammer landed on him by accident.”

It feels like the world has flipped upside-down. Or maybe I’m the one who’s spinning. Maybe I’m the one who’s lost their senses to their own mental vertigo. At first, I don’t know how to feel. This is too much. Then it quickly materializes. Rage.

“Why would you do that!” I demand, my voice shaky.

He looks me in the eye. “Would you rather I killed him? I wanted to, but I knew you'd disapprove. Plus targeting athletes makes for a messier crime.”

No, no, no, no, no.

“But this is better, right? No one's dead. Everyone's happy at the end of the day—”

“Just stop! You can’t do that, Colt. You can't just go beating people up!”

He actually laughs. “Beating is an understatement. I mean, he's messed up pretty badly. You should have heard the way he screamed.”

Sitting down isn’t enough. It feels like I’m going to pass out some time soon, and hopefully this time, it really will be a pipe dream.

Colt grabs my hand, as if sensing my distress. “I did it for you, Dalia. You should be happy.”

I can’t move, can’t even think. I should say something. I should scream. But I can’t get my body to cooperate.

“It’ll be fine,” he tells me. And to emphasize his point, he pulls me into an embrace. “Just don't see him again, okay? You can’t blame me for what happens next if you do.”

Instead of responding, I begin crying once again. These are tears of helplessness. Hopelessness. What have I ever done wrong?

Colt ends the hug and takes notice of my tears. Then he takes it upon himself and begins wiping them away, all while smiling, grinning. Like things really will be okay.

But I know they’ll never again be. Because now I’m certain that my own grave has just been dug.