The sidewalk seemed to liquefy beneath my feet, cartoon-style, like when a character gets a fright. Steven's casual "See ya" echoed in my ears like a famous villain's voice after a shot of whiskey.
Beatriz. He said Beatriz. How dare he pronounce my name as if we were… neighbors who borrow sugar? His image – his face was even normal, maybe a tad surprised by my mental breakdown, and beneath his t-shirt… Whoa. Before it was just any old fabric, now my paranoia-fueled mind was projecting a road map of muscles. Ninety-five kilos of pure "hi, neighbor, need help with your groceries?".
A quiet neighbor. Strong. Who knows my name. Who might be @StarryNight88 who sent "Saw you today." Help! How hot! No, stop it, Beatriz.
My brain declared martial law and started frying faster than a pastel at the street market. The midday sun decided to test its roasting capabilities on my scalp, turning the inside of my gray hoodie – my invisibility cloak, my anti-social armor – into a private sauna smelling of anxiety and stale sweat, a hooded stink bomb, the mysterious heroine of social combat.
Icy droplets of dread slid down my spine, while my face felt like it was about to explode into confetti of embarrassment.
Run. The only logical answer. Run back to the musty safety of my room, lock the door, and never come out again. But then, like a shrill fire alarm, the word BREAD echoed in my mind, followed by a mental image of my mother's disappointed (and slightly annoyed) look if I came back empty-handed. Dammit. Double dammit. The primal fear of the maternal figure, as unbelievable as it sounds, managed to be a fraction of a milligram heavier than the terror of the stalker neighbor. For now.
With the grace of a zombie fresh out of the tomb, I forced my legs to move. One step. Then another. Each one felt like it weighed a hundred kilos, my old sneakers sticking to the hot asphalt. The bakery. My destination. My battlefield. My potential crime scene (where I would be the victim of a panic-induced heart attack).
The short walk of less than a block felt like a trek across the Sahara. Every person who passed was a potential double agent sent by Steven. The doorman of the building across the street sweeping the sidewalk? A trained observer. The lady with grocery bags? A master of disguise. The sound of a motorcycle accelerating? Him coming to get me. My paranoia was at stratospheric levels, fueled by the sun, the sweat, and the conflicting image of a normal face on an unexpectedly strong body. And this hoodie… why did I wear it? Oh, right. To hide. Brilliant idea, Beatriz. Cooking alive in your own anxiety armor.
Finally, the bakery's automatic door hissed open, like the jaws of a monster hungry for my dignity. The thermal and sensory shock was almost physical. The freezing air conditioning made my sweaty skin under the hoodie prickle, while the noise of conversations, the clinking of cups, the calling of order numbers, and the overwhelming smell of warm bread, coffee, and fried food bombarded me. It was… too much. People everywhere. Movement. Normality. A normality from which I felt completely alien.
I shrank near the entrance, trying to merge with a somewhat dusty plastic plant pot. My eyes scanned the place in a frantic and automatic search. Was he there? Steven? No. No sign of the Mystery Neighbor. I took a deep breath, which only served to pull more of that air, heavy with smells and other people's anxiety, into my already tight lungs. Line. A considerable line snaked its way to the bread counter. Great. More time marinating in my own panic.
Head down, hood pulled firmly down to almost cover my eyes, I slowly advanced in the line, trying to occupy the least amount of vital space possible, wishing I had the power to become invisible. I was almost there, just a few meters from the counter, mentally rehearsing the saving phrase – Six French rolls, please. Six French rolls. Six French rolls – when the voice came.
It wasn't loud, but it had a clear, confident, almost musical timbre. And terribly familiar. A familiarity that made my stomach drop to my ankles.
"Beatriz? Beatriz? Is that really you? Oh my God!"
Ice. My whole body froze, every muscle tense as a violin string. It can't be. Not her. Not today. I turned my head with the agonizing slowness of a slug on tranquilizers, the hood brushing against my sweaty face.
And there she was. Like an improbable and cruel mirage in the middle of my personal desert of despair. Marina.
Redhead. Her hair, a vibrant copper tone, was tied in a high, impeccable ponytail, not a single strand out of place. She wore workout clothes – but not just any, one of those outfits that looks like it costs a kidney, in a pale pink set that highlighted her subtle tan and slender, yet curvy figure. Her skin looked luminous, her makeup was minimal but perfect, and her smile… ah, her smile was white, straight, and full of a sympathy that, in my current state, felt almost like an attack.
She stared at me with an expression of genuine surprise that quickly turned into recognition – followed by that subtle, almost imperceptible, glint of evaluation. The kind of look that says, "Wow, time (or the lack of showers) hasn't been kind to you, honey."
Holy shit. Steven's Perfect Ex (of course, I didn't know she was his ex that day). And, as if the universe loved a bad joke at my expense, the girl who sat in the front row of Calculus III, always raising her hand, always with the right answer, while I hid in the back hoping not to be called on.
"Hi, Marina," I managed to croak. The sound was pathetic, a hoarse meow. My eyes focused desperately somewhere near her shoulder, unable to meet hers. I felt my whole face burn under the already warm fabric of the hood. Sweat now seemed to sprout from every pore of my body.
"Wow, long time no see!" she continued, her voice still in that cheerful tone that made me want to scream. "You disappeared! I thought you didn't even live around here anymore!"
I thought you didn't live here either, I thought bitterly. What the hell are you doing in my panic bakery?
"I came to get a few things for my parents, they live nearby," she offered, as if reading my confused mind, or maybe just filling the awkward silence I was creating. "Wow, what a coincidence! And you, what have you been up to?"
The question. That question. The abyss opened beneath my feet.
Marina continued, oblivious to my internal collapse, or perhaps perfectly aware and subtly amused. "I finished Law School, can you believe it? Remember that crazy senior project? Well! Now I'm at that big firm downtown. Lots of hard work, but I'm loving it! Super challenging, you know?"
Each word was a small nail being hammered into the lid of my coffin of self-esteem. Lawyer. Successful. Probably earning tons of money while I… I counted coins to buy bread and sniffed my own underwear to see if I could wear it another day.
"But what about you?" she insisted, her smile still there, maybe a little more fixed now. "Did you finish Graphic Design too? What have you been doing with your life?"
Humiliation engulfed me like a wave of sewage. I stammered. The words refused to come out. Finally, in an almost inaudible whisper, I confessed my failure: "I… uh… I dropped out of college."
Marina's smile wavered for a microsecond. "Oh… really?" The sympathy seemed to drain away a little, replaced by an almost clinical politeness. "Oh, Bia… But what now? Are you working with something else, then?"
The question hung in the air, cruel and unnecessary. I managed to shake my head negatively, feeling my eyes burn. I wanted to evaporate. To dissolve into the greasy floor of the bakery.
"Well…" she said, changing the subject with a speed that was almost a relief, but also a confirmation of my inadequacy. She looked at my hoodie, her smile returning a little forced. "Wow, it's so hot today, isn't it? Brave of you to wear a hoodie!" The comment, coming from her, the personification of success and climatic appropriateness, was like rubbing salt in a wound. "Look, my… oh, Dante arrived!" She waved to someone behind me. Dante? A name that screamed "popular," "successful," and "probably owns a boat." I looked back, and there he was: tall, tanned, with a toothpaste commercial smile. A perfect couple. A walking advertisement for everything I wasn't. My panic reached a new peak.
"I gotta go! It was good seeing you, Bia! Take care, okay? We live close now, right? We should bump into each other more often!"
She saw me like this. The popular girl from high school. The Lawyer, successful. She knows I'm a failure.
My turn. The attendant, a bored-looking teenager, stared at me blankly. The world seemed distant, submerged. Six French rolls. The phrase had vanished from my mind, replaced by a white noise of panic and shame. I opened my mouth. No sound came out. I raised a trembling hand and pointed to the bread in the basket.
"Six?" the boy asked, impatiently.
I nodded vigorously, like a broken doll. He grabbed the rolls with efficient speed, bagged them, and told me the price. I rummaged through the pocket of my old jeans, my hands shaking so much that the coins clinked and almost fell on the floor when I handed them over. I felt the stares burning into my back – probably my imagination, but at that moment, it felt like every customer and employee in the bakery was witnessing my silent collapse.
I grabbed the bag of bread as if it were a radioactive artifact and turned around, almost running towards the exit. I didn't look back to see if Marina and this Dante were still there. The only thing on my mind was to escape.
The street seemed even brighter, hotter, more hostile. I ran, the bag of bread swinging wildly in my hand, my heart hammering painfully against my ribs. Every face was a threat, every sound a harbinger of more humiliation. The image of Marina, impeccable and successful, was burned into my retina, side by side with the image of my own disheveled reflection I had seen earlier. And underneath it all, the ghostly presence of Steven, the strong, mysterious neighbor who knew my name and had dated her.
I reached the building panting, almost tripping at the entrance. I pressed the elevator button with trembling fingers. Empty. Thank goodness for whatever deity still had pity on my pathetic soul. I got in and pressed the button for my floor repeatedly, as if that would speed up the ascent.
The door to my apartment. The key in the lock. The blessed click of the door opening. I went in and slammed the door shut behind me, turning the lock with a feeling of relief so intense it was almost painful. The bag of bread fell from my hand, scattering some rolls across the dirty floor of the entryway. I didn't care.
I slid down the cold wood of the door until I sat on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. The hoodie stuck to me, heavy with sweat and shame. The stuffy air of the apartment seemed to envelop me like a fetid and familiar hug.
I closed my eyes. Marina's image. Her success. My lack of it. The abandoned college. The stagnant life. And Steven. That DM. That profile. That "Saw you today."
It seemed even more insane, more cruel. Morbid curiosity about the weird neighbor who also happened to be the weird girl from school he might remember? That "?" I had sent as a reply seemed like the stupidest thing I had ever done.
My cell phone was in my pocket, a dead weight. I didn't pick it up. I didn't want to see. @StarryNight88's silence now felt like a silent judgment, a confirmation of my cosmic inadequacy.
I stayed there, sitting on the hallway floor, the smell of fresh bread mixing with the smell of dust and despair, feeling the hollow emptiness of humiliation fill me. What to do now? Hide forever? Try to understand what the hell Steven wanted? Or just… give up?
Exhaustion hit me like a sledgehammer. I just wanted to sleep. Sleep for a hundred years and maybe wake up as someone else. Or not wake up at all.
The silence of the apartment was broken only by my irregular breathing and the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.