Hemorrhage.

Now, for the record, I don’t spent copious amounts of time on the internet. And for the record, I knew nothing of that stupid fucking article until I had some random number text me, “Did you really flip out?” That, of course, caused me to call Molly, who was, in her defense, ballistic and fuming. I didn’t tell her that this was partially her fault.

I’ve had a lot of experience with handling bad things - crazy therapists, glaring thirteen-year-olds, and a couple jealous girls from high school. Internet articles and gossip columns had never been something that I planned to be a part of. I wasn’t that girl. I was - quaint. I was homely, sometimes.

I stared at the phone, the time on the screen being the only thing reflecting back at me. Three days. I spent three days staring at a screen of plastic, hoping that maybe one day we could get this all behind us and going back to normal. But things just weren’t like that, were they?

My stomach growled, and I ignored the sharp pains threatening to split my sides. This was too much. Pain from lack of calories. Pain from my muscles contracting. Pain from knowing that John was never going to talk to me again.

Bad publicity for a celebrity and bad publicity for a band weren’t the same. John wouldn’t be handling this well. John would be fuming. John would be freezing me out.

I swallowed, the dry spot in my throat not doing any better. I sat, my back pressed against the driver’s seat of my mother’s car, waiting for my phone to ring. I was supposed to be in room 512 in four minutes, ready for my weekly support group. We were going to be introduced to our “big assignment”. Red Lipstick had been talking about it for weeks, about this huge, life changing event that was supposed to rounded our perspectives and help seal our healing into something permanent. This was supposed to make us better, apparently.

I was not looking forward to spending an hour and a half listening to her yammer on about how amazing this event was going to be, all the while concentrating on the smear of lipstick decorating her front tooth.

My phone wasn’t lighting up, and I wasn’t feeling any vibration spread through my fingers. It wasn’t going to happen.

With a sign, I pocketed the phone and retracted the keys from the ignition. I got out of the car slowly, somehow thinking that maybe the slower I moved, the more time I would have, just incase John did decide to call me. But he wouldn’t. And he didn’t.

I made it all the way up to the fifth floor without my phone making any sound, and when I got to the door, and had to turn it off because of the “disconnected policy”, it was still reading that I had no missed calls.

I closed my eyes briefly, making a wish that maybe he might just love me enough to call, and slipped the phone back into the pocket.

I was the last one that slinked through the door, and once I took my seat Lipstick clapped excitedly and started talking about our next assignment. It was going to be a letter, one that we would have to write to the person and/or thing that “triggered” our “sickness.”

My stomach turned even more thinking about that letter. Could I write that letter? I would have to, because even though I hated the meetings, John had made me promise to participate in the events and try.

The objective, apparently, was to face our fears and come to terms with what ever had started this.

I blinked rapidly, hoping that maybe she was kidding. I glanced at the clock, surprised to see that an hour and fifteen minutes had already gone by. Lipstick was starting to wrap things up.

When she finally put her speech to rest, concluding with that we needed to have our letters ready by next week, I was ready to burst. I needed to talk to someone. Anyone.

As people started to file out, I turned my phone on, feeling pathetic that my hopes were so high. Maybe he had called in my wasted hour and a half. I mean, there was always that realistic part of me that knew that he hadn’t. That knew that he wasn’t going to. But I was trying my hardest to be optimistic.

He hadn’t called. I knew that he wouldn’t call. He would never call. And that was it. That was the end of the friendship, because of some stupid girl in some stupid store. All because I was buying their CD.

I scrolled under my contacts, keeping it highlighted over Molly’s name. I really wanted to talk to her, but I felt like maybe we weren’t in that position anymore. Maybe she was avoiding me?

I decided to take a chance. Be a little fearless for once. I pressed the call button, and let it ring. She picked up after five seconds of waiting anxiously.

She didn’t seem mad or like she wanted to avoid me when she said hello. She asked me how my day was. The conversation blossomed from there.