Chapter 4: ● T H R E E | Pain ●

† Q U I N N †

Pain—it's inevitable. It has been said, "time heals all wound." I do not agree, some wounds really cut so deep. And those wounds remain. In time, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.

Pain (any pain – emotional, physical, mental) has a message. The information it has about our life can be remarkably specific, but it usually falls into one of the two categories: "We would be more alive if we did more of this," and "Life would be more lovely if we did less of that." Once we get the pain's message, and follow its advice, the pain goes away.

Chronic pain is not all about the body, and it's not all about the brain—it's everything. There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds. Some people think that to be strong is to never feel pain. In reality, the strong people are the ones who feel it, understand it, and accept it.

Life is pain, highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.

Pain is a beautiful thing. It reminds you that you're alive, that you're capable of feeling, that every breath you take holds the promise of another moment. When you feel pain, it's a sign that you've lived—and that you have memories worth holding onto. Those memories, after all, are what make us who we are. The joyful ones lift us, and the sad ones ground us, reminding us of our depth and resilience.

But the worst part of holding onto those memories isn't the pain itself. It's the loneliness that settles in when you realize you're carrying them alone. Memories are meant to be shared; they ache to be spoken into existence, to be witnessed by someone else. They long for that spark of recognition in another's eyes, for that warmth of understanding. Without that, even the happiest memories can feel like a heavy, solitary burden.

My eyes are fixated on the pale, delicate skin before me as I bring a small sheet of paper closer, its edge poised to touch it. Beneath this surface, there are stories buried, visible in the scars that paint its canvas—some healed, some fresh. Slowly, I glide the paper over the soft skin, feeling a thrill as it yields, giving way to a thin line that blooms red. Warm blood slowly seeps out, and I exhale, watching with a strange satisfaction. But still, something's missing.

I want to hear it again.

But there's only silence. No response, no echo of what I crave. Frustration starts to creep in, so I make another cut just above the first, near an older, faded scar, waiting for a sound that never comes.

I want to hear it again.

Desperation builds as I tighten my grip on the paper, my mind spiraling further into the silence. "I need to hear it," I mutter, barely aware of my surroundings until a voice pulls me back.

"Quinn, baby?" Amanda's voice breaks through, grounding me for a moment. I take a breath, willing the tension to ease before I respond.

"I'll be here a while, Amanda. You know your way out, right?" My voice is steady, controlled, as I loosen my grip on the paper. I hear her footsteps retreat, the door opening and closing behind her as she leaves.

Silence again.

I stand up, letting go of the paper, and make my way to the sink. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror—a blank face with eyes devoid of any emotion. I turn on the faucet and let the cold water splash over my face, hoping to drown the lingering frustration. The coldness calms me, allowing me to breathe a bit easier. As the calmness settled over me, I left the bathroom, making my way to the bed with heavy steps. I let myself collapse onto it, sinking into the comfort of the mattress. My eyes closed as I tried to force my mind into the oblivion of sleep. Physically, I was drained, worn out from the party and the time spent shagging Amanda. But mentally, I was still wide awake. My mind buzzed, a mess of conflicting thoughts swirling just beneath the surface, refusing to let go.

Yet, I kept my eyes closed, hoping that somehow, I could will myself into rest. The weight of exhaustion pressed down on me, but my thoughts wouldn't quiet, stubbornly holding me hostage in this uneasy wakefulness. So I lay there, suspended between fatigue and restless energy, waiting for sleep to take over, even as my mind refused to surrender.

† C H L O E †

The room felt like it was spinning as I lay back on the bed, pressing my fingers to my temples, trying to ease the dull ache in my head. "That was one hell of a party," I murmured, a smile tugging at my lips as flashes of the night played back in my mind. We'd let go completely, each of us soaking up the freedom of a night untethered.

I kept massaging my head, replaying the scenes—drinks flowing as we laughed, the pounding beat of the music pulling us into its rhythm, the buzz of meeting new people from other departments, trading stories, and filling the night with shared laughter. Amidst all that, my thoughts drifted back to that strange encounter with that woman—Quinn. I couldn't quite shake the odd, lingering feeling from our exchange. Something about her—her words, her intensity, the way she held my gaze—had left an impression.

I remembered feeling my inhibitions blurring as I wandered through the unfamiliar halls, searching for the bathroom. Every room I opened revealed scenes of drunken couples making out. The muffled sounds of laughter and music seemed to pulse around me as I continued down the hallway. At last, I reached the end of the hall and found an empty bedroom. "Finally," I muttered, relief washing over me as I stepped inside and glanced around. I spotted a door, hoping it led to the bathroom, but as I opened it, I found Quinn standing there, her hands braced on the marble sink, watching the water gush from the faucet.

She turned her head slowly, her gaze meeting mine, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. "Sorry," I stammered, trying to explain, "I thought the room was empty. I was just looking for a bathroom." She remained silent, her eyes never leaving mine, until she finally spoke.

"Chloe, right?" Her voice was soft but steady, and I nodded, recalling the earlier confusion. "Yes, not a waiter." I chuckled, the memory surfacing with a newfound humor.

"You can use this one. I'm done anyway." Her footsteps were measured as she crossed the room toward me, her gaze unwavering. She was tall, at least 6'0, and as she stopped beside me at the bathroom entrance, our shoulders brushed. She tilted her head slightly, looking down at me, her eyes tracing my features, her expression unreadable as if she were trying to place me. Then, she gave a slow, easy grin, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "Yeah, you're too pretty to be a waiter."

I felt a blush creep up my cheeks as she moved past me, settling onto the bed. She crossed one leg over the other, leaning back with her hands resting on the mattress behind her, her gaze never breaking from mine. I leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms. "So, why'd you assume I was a waiter earlier?" I raised an eyebrow, questioning.

She leaned back on the bed, one hand resting near her mouth, her index finger lightly tracing her lower lip in thought. "I knew you weren't," she replied, her voice low and teasing.

I felt my brows knit together, my expression growing more serious. "You knew?"

She nodded, a subtle smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah. Well, how else in hell was I supposed to get you away from those guys and get your name?" Her gaze was steady, holding mine with a confidence that sent a ripple of intrigue through me.

The realization made me pause, a thrill of surprise mingling with the warm pulse of interest that had been building since she first singled me out. I couldn't help but wonder just how intentional her little game had been—every smirk, every lingering look, each well-placed word.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, she was gone. I wandered back to my friends, who were still deep in conversation with the boys from the Business Management Department, laughter and banter filling the air.  As the night wore on and the party thrummed with life, we indulged in a few more cocktails, laughter ringing in the air like music.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted her again. She was with another woman, their bodies pressed tightly together as they swayed to the beat. Her hands glided down the woman's waist, their fingers tangled in a messy, heated dance, and before I knew it, their lips collided in a fervent kiss. Quinn's hands slid lower, resting possessively on the woman's hips before drifting further, daringly grabbing her ass. The woman's arms wrapped around Quinn's head, pulling her closer, their lips locked in a heated kiss that sent a jolt of unexpected emotion through me. I tried to look away, to turn my gaze back to my friends, but I'm just unable to tear my eyes from the scene unfolding before me. Each kiss, each caress, felt like a spark igniting something deep within me, awakening an unsettling mix of desire and oddly, confusion.

I let out a deep, exasperated sigh as memories of the night flooded back, each moment spiraling through my mind like a whirlwind. Thoughts raced through my head, colliding and intertwining, but I knew the alcohol had a hand in this chaotic mess. It was intoxicating and disorienting, blurring the lines between reality and my emotions.

With an exhausted body and a mind still buzzing, I slowly closed my eyes, willing myself to drift off into sleep. The exhaustion of the night tugged at my eyelids, heavy and comforting. Despite the whirlwind of thoughts and the lingering effects of the party, I couldn't shake the feeling of contentment. I had stepped out of my comfort zone for what seemed like ages already, embraced the chaos, and experienced something new. And for that, I definitely didn't regret a single moment of it – I guess?