Adrien calls and texts once school ends. Chloe hadn't bothered to go to the last days of school, terrified to see what he thought of her now. She ignores the growing number of missed calls and ignored messages, going as far as to turning off her phone.
Days like these, she can't muster up the energy to exist.
The most she can do is eat a small meal at noon, then hole up in her room again, wondering when the world would end. Every word of the too truthful poems rings through her mind when she gazes off into empty space; there's a growing fear of seeing the others and their reactions. Years of building up the image of a ice hearted tyrant brought down with a few words. It's a bitter thought, but Chloe can't bring herself to leave it alone.
Her father pops by, an incredibly rare event, and asks how she's been. Chloe's gone through this too many times to mistake it as genuine care and affection. These are just lines to be followed to convince the world that nothing is falling apart.
"Chloe," he says, pushing open the door after knocking twice. "How have you been? Bored since school ended?"
She hums a neutral sound in answer, curled up on her window seat and painting her nails a golden color to have an excuse to avoid his eyes.
From the reflection of the window, Chloe can see her father fiddle awkwardly with the buttons of his suit jacket; the sting of having her own father act a stranger around her has faded years ago. This is simply routine to her now.
He clears his throat and continues on after a moment of tense silence. "The gala for the disabled children's education funding is in three days. I trust you to be ready by five that evening."
There it is: the reason he gave her existence a little more attention than usual. She can hear the unspoken words clearly: Don't mess this up for me and ruin our image.
"Fine," she says, dropping her voice into a bored drawl, "Is that it?"
"Yes, that's it," he says, already beginning to turn away from her, "I will see you then Chloe. Let me know if you need anything."
An old tulle dress in a dark gold would do. She hasn't worn it yet, and the beads embroidered on would hopefully distract from the bags under her eyes. Besides, it would match her nails and keep her from going outside to buy a new dress.
Chloe sets down the brush and gently blows on her nails to help them dry.
How tiring this was. She eyes the ground twenty feet below and wonders how much it would hurt to jump from this height. Wouldn't matter in any case; it would just cause a mess and turn into another story of a privileged child desperate for attention.
Without thinking, Chloe digs her long nails into her thigh, relishing in the sting as it brings her back from those dangerous thoughts.
As tired as she is of going on like this, killing herself now wouldn't do any good.
Sabrina would be hurt by it. The thought forces a heavy lump in Chloe's throat as her thoughts spiral to the one person who refuses to leave her side. So loyal and patient; it would take a lot more to drive Sabrina away. Even turning her into an akuma wasn't enough. The thought of hurting Sabrina even more leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.
She doesn't bother wondering why hurting Sabrina would only end in hurting herself. That's a rabbit hole she's terrified of jumping down. Denial works better than being truthful.
Chloe pushes her nails harder against her flesh, trying to bring her thoughts away from Sabrina.
The nail polish is not yet dry and has turned into a gooey mess that leaves prints on her skin.
Damn.
She'll have to start over again.
The day of the gala starts with a clap of thunder loud enough to startle Chloe into wakefulness. Heart pounding loudly in her chest, she grips the sheets with her hands and looks around, orienting herself.
Fading images of a dream linger for a moment, but it's enough to make her feel sick and guilty and horrified all at once. She can't remember what happened with any clarity, but feeling of cold hands choking her remain for a moment too long. Chloe wonders what she dreamed. She wonders if she really wants to know.
A quick glance at her bedside clock shows that it's barely seven in the morning. That's fine. She's run on four hours of sleep before with only minor problems.
Another clap of thunder steals her attention, and Chloe throws off the bedsheets to stumble to the window, waking up more with each step. She pulls the curtain aside just enough to peer outside and watch the skies open. The world outside is still in the early morning, grey and lifeless. Rain falls down hard and quick, beating against the glass of her window mercilessly. Some part of her relaxes at the sound of rhythmic taps, and she curls up onto the window seat, leaning her head against the cool glass.
She's a golden girl born into wealth and privilege. She should love the clear blue skies of June and the sweltering heat of midday summer; the grey and the quiet of storms is what calls for her instead. Chloe finds some peace of mind in the rain. The world quiets down and stops to wait for the rain to pass. Every dirty thing in the streets in washed away and all she can do is wish she could go out and let the rain wash away every undesirable part of her.
Her eyes catch sight of the dress in the reflection of the glass. Tension snaps back into place along the lines of her shoulders.
With a heavy sigh, she stands and heads to the bathroom to prepare for the day. Makeup would come on later. For now, she settles for washing her face and tying up her hair. The emptiness in her has little to do with hunger, but if she wants to keep from passing out at the gala, she has to eat.
The thought of food makes her feel nauseous, actually, but that's nothing out of the ordinary.
The hotel employees don't greet her with more than a nod of their heads. Chloe ignores them and tries to slip into the shadows as she heads to the kitchen to ask for breakfast.
Chef Cesaire doesn't speak beyond greeting her when Chloe enters. The smile is fixed and rigid on her face. Chloe turns away and waits. Much of the kitchen staff is still preparing food for the hotel guests, a few dishes being carted out to the dining hall.
"Is there anything in particular you would like today, Miss Bourgeois?" Chef Cesaire asks as she whips up a bowl of batter.
Chloe shrugs. "Just something small. I don't care."
"Very well. It'll be out in a moment. Why don't you go sit down?"
Translation: Get out of the kitchen. You're in the way.
Chloe listens to the scripted words and the unsaid meaning, and makes her leave. Already something dark festers in her chest, weighing her down. Her eyes feel hot and she ducks her head to blink back the tears before they have a chance to gather. She knows it's going to be a bad day. She just wishes she could continue her self-isolation and watch the rain fall.
The gala is making her eat. The gala is forcing her to spend time with a father she doesn't know how to speak to truthfully. The gala is pushing her out of her room where it's easy to hide and carve out every part of herself that she hates.
Fuck this gala, she thinks savagely as she takes a seat next to a large window. Is it too much to ask to be left alone all summer?
The answer will always be yes and Chloe hates it. She finds herself wishing she had been born someone else, someone normal and not broken and good.
A bowl of fruits, some toast, and a bowl of coffee are set down in front of her gently. Nothing looks appetizing. She mumbles her thanks anyways and picks up a blackberry, turning it under the light and wondering if she could stomach all this food. It's more than she's eaten any other day since she came back from that disastrous day at school.
She pops it into her mouth before she can talk herself into leaving without eating anything. The last thing she wants is more attention and passing out at a gala tends to get people to pay more attention to her.
Chloe eats in mechanical motions, forcing down mouthful after mouthful of food. The coffee helps, just a little, but she still leaves half the toast on the plate.
She pushes the plate away and heads back to her room. No one would question her not eating. If they did, they would assume it's another one of those times a rich girl starved herself in the name of perfection. It's easier to mock those girls than it is to mock girls who don't eat because they can't find the energy to get up and exist.
Chloe makes sure to lock her door behind her when she gets to her room. The tightness in her chest lessens a bit and leaves her feeling weak-kneed and unsteady.
Her phone is still on her desk, off and untouched. She hesitates for only a moment before turning it on. It's been almost a week since she last had it on.
Wrapping a thin blanket around her shoulders, Chloe goes back to the window seat to curl up and indulge in the comfort rain brings before checking her phone.
Over 70 new messages, god knows how many emails, and 38 missed calls.
Dread curls in her stomach, cold and heavy, as she opens up her call log to flick through and see who would call so much.
Two missed calls from her father.
Eleven from Adrien (her heart twists and sinks at the sight of his name).
Everything else is from Sabrina.
Swallowing heavily, Chloe moves onto messages.
Two from Alya. Three from Marinette. They say a few snappy remarks about being late and having no work ethic, although Marinette's is a little less what's your problem and a little more thanks for finally bringing in your poems! we could have used them a little sooner though.
Around thirty come from Adrien, all worried messages asking if she's alright, asking what exactly those poems meant, reassuring her that they were friends and repeatedly telling her that if she ever needed help, he'd do everything he can to help her.
Plastic words. Empty. Fake. Chloe can't believe any of them to be true. She doesn't reply.
Sabrina (of course it's Sabrina, it's always Sabrina) makes up the rest of her messages. Each message ranges from are you okay? to there's a new clothing line out from PrettyGal!
Somehow, even without seeing her, Sabrina knows exactly what to say. She offers words of support and concern that make Chloe's throat tighten up and her eyes water, but after the first few messages, it turns into little stories and everything she wants to talk to Chloe about.
Though Chloe never takes what anyone says at face value, never believes them to tell the truth, she wants more than anything to believe in Sabrina.
Just this once, Chloe wants to take a risk and let Sabrina in, tell her everything, and give everything she's kept close to her chest all these years.
But every doubt and fear rises up in Chloe's mind and tells her no, that's a terrible idea, you'll ruin your only friendship and while you want to push her away you know it would hurt to much.
She smothers those thoughts and pushes everything away and types out a message for Sabrina.
Gala tonight, she writes, hitting send before she can second guess herself.
It takes only a minute for Sabrina to reply, despite the early morning and how she loves to sleep in during the summer.
I'm going with my dad! Will you be there?
Taking a deep breath, Chloe replies Yes and sets her phone face down. She has a gala to mentally prepare for, after all. There's no time to linger on bitter, fractured thoughts of Adrien and her father and how she's falling apart faster now that she doesn't have to pretend so much.
The rain keeps falling.
She'll keep on falling with it.