M83's Wait hummed softly from the iPod speaker in my adjoining bedroom as I wallowed in self-pity – and my own filth.

I felt like crap.

I looked like hell.

Sniffling, I smacked a cloud of bubbles off my shoulder and sank deeper into the tub, wanting nothing more than the world to wash over my head.

Honing in on the music wafting from my bedroom, I immersed myself in the melancholy. In the pained lyrics and emotional devastation pouring from the voice of the artist that connected with some intricate part of me.

My eyes were red and puffy from the stupid tears I'd cried this evening. Tears I'd shed for him.

He's not the same boy you grew up with.

Let him go.

Sometimes there's too much water under the bridge…

My father was right; moving back to Ocean Bay was a mistake.

A horrible, regrettable mistake that I was two years in to and couldn't take back…

"Wanna play with me, Molly-Dolly…"

"You're my best friend…"

"I'll always protect you…"

"Don't be scared. I've got your back…"

Blinking my childhood memories away, I forced myself to breathe deep and slow. I forced myself to get a handle of my lovesick heart.

"I'm scared, D. I'm gonna die!"

"No, you ain't! I'm gonna get you out."

Pain.

It was everywhere.

Panic clawed at my throat, but I remained rigid in the tub, drowning in the memories I couldn't push back…

"…We match. We fit together, Molly. Like a jigsaw…"

9 Daryl

Fans clapped my shoulders, while a local reporter shoved a microphone in my face. My teammates celebrated wildly under the Friday night lights, while scouts and recruiters circled the stadium like vultures preying on fresh meat.

None of it mattered to me, because my team might have won the game tonight, but I lost the girl.

Desperate to get out of the limelight, to be done with the whole fucking charade, I went through the motions on autopilot mode, performed like the professional athlete I'd been conditioned to be, and then got the fuck out of there before I lost my ever-loving mind on the field.

"You're damn lucky I let you play tonight, son," Coach continued to drill into my ear all the way through the tunnel. "Missing practice? That ain't like you, son."

Like the good little protégé I was, I apologized for my absence at practice and assured him it wouldn't happen again, while letting every word that poured out of his mouth sail clean over my head.

Back in the locker room, I kept myself apart from the rest of the team. Standing under the scalding hot water in the showers, I went through the motions.

Soap, scrub, rinse, repeat.

"Penny for your thoughts," Rourke said, from under the shower head next to mine.

Groaning, I rested my forehead on the wet tiles. "Tell me how to fix this."

"Fix what?"

"Me and Molly."

"Simple. Stop ghosting her."

"I fucked it, man." Sighing heavily, I pressed my hands to my head and repressed the urge to roar. "She probably hates me now."