Texting Anonymous

texts in the hallway

It's drowning in guilt.

I don't want to be here. Not at home. Not at school. Not anywhere.

But I know my mom isn't gonna let me stay home, not after everything that went down between us. If I even tried to fake being sick, she'd see right through it. So I force myself to go through the motions—picking up Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman on the way to school, pretending I'm fine, keeping my mouth shut when Cartman makes some dumbass comment about how tired I look.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, I can't even bring myself to get out of the car right away. My head is heavy, my stomach twisted in knots. I feel like absolute shit.

Kyle notices. Of course he does.

"You okay, dude?" he asks, his voice laced with concern.

I nod, forcing out a "Yeah," even though it's obvious I'm lying. But Kyle doesn't push, and I'm grateful for that.

Once we head inside, I barely last five minutes in the crowded hallways before I slip away, making a beeline for the nearest bathroom. I push open the door, check to make sure no one's inside, and lock myself in a stall.

Finally.

I sit down on the toilet seat, gripping my phone in my hands, but I don't even know what I'm doing. I just need to be alone for a minute. My chest feels tight, my brain a mess of emotions I can't even begin to untangle.

I think about my mom. About the look on her face when she said "You wanna act like an adult? You can face the consequences like one."

I think about church. About the sermon. About how every word felt like a knife in my gut, slicing into parts of me I don't know how to fix.

And then I think about them.

The way they kissed me. The way they held my hand. The way I told them I love you, like it was the easiest thing in the world, even though everything else in my life is falling apart.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.

I don't know what's wrong with me.

I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do.

My phone vibrates in my hand, snapping me out of my thoughts. My heart jumps a little as I glance down at the screen.

A text. From them.

Anonymous: You okay? You haven't texted.

I stare at the message for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. How do they always know? How do they always text me right when I feel like I'm falling apart?

I hesitate, then type back.

Me: Yeah. Just at school.

It's a lie, and I think they know it, because almost immediately, they respond.

Anonymous: You sure? You don't sound okay.

I exhale, rubbing my face with my free hand. Of course, they can tell. They always can. And for some reason, that makes my chest ache even more.

Me: I don't know. Today sucks.

There's a pause. A longer one this time. I wonder if they're thinking about what to say, or if they're debating whether to push me for more.

Then—

Anonymous: Do you wanna talk about it?

I swallow hard. Part of me does want to talk about it. But another part—the part that's drowning in guilt, in shame, in everything I've been feeling since church—doesn't even know where to start.