Author's note: This chapter—which is fairly short—is also quite dark. It's told from Blair's perspective, which I haven't really written yet (Serena, Dan and Nate simply aren't as dark). Don't read if that's not your thing.

And again, thank you for the reviews! Keep them coming. 

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

--Elizabeth Bishop

----

The first time she did it was the day she woke up alone and found that sad note on her pillow. Afterwards she felt numb, and then horrified, and then all sensations were swallowed up in a consuming, pervasive guilt. The guilt lasted for days, heavy in her stomach, at the back of her throat. She felt it every time she sat down for a meal with Cyrus and Eleanor, who was trying to be a better mother and was watching what she ate. It was there every time she lifted the fork to her lips; a bitter, acidic taste in her mouth.

Then, one night, he called. She lifted the phone to her ear, whispering, "Chuck?"

"Blair… " she shuddered when she heard his voice. She didn't speak, not really knowing what to say. She heard heavy breathing on the other line, and music in the background—and then a girl's voice.

"Who are you talking to, baby?" The girl's voice was shrill, and she heard her giggle. And then the line went dead.

That was the second time she did it. She felt sick—she tried to drink a glass of water, but it burned her throat—she fumbled in the bathroom cabinet and pulled out a bottle, shaking a few pills into her hand. She tried to put the bottle back, but her hand shook so much that the contents of the cabinet fell out, into the sink: cough syrup, tweezers, nail polish, tylenol, J'Adore Dior, toothpaste. She left them there and looked down at the pills in her hand. She swallowed them at once. She only needed one, really, but she wanted to fall asleep quickly. She wanted to forget the guilt, the shame she felt over her weakness.

A few weeks later she finally went to see him; she had not attempted any surprise visits to his home since he returned from Bangkok and thoroughly rejected her. But she was growing desperate. She knocked and knocked, and to her relief he finally opened the door. He smelled like alcohol. Blair tried to find something to say, and settled for: "you should stop drinking so much, or you'll really get addicted."

"Don't worry about it," he replied. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you," she said. She hated how weak her voice sounded.

"You should go home." He turned around and walked away, but he left the door open and she stepped inside. She closed it behind her.

"I need a drink," she muttered, going up to his desk and pouring some amber liquid from a bottle into a glass. She sniffed it, not knowing what it was.

"Scotch," he said, from behind her, so close behind that she tensed all over. His arm reached out, past her—brushing her arm—for the bottle. He raised it to his lips, foregoing a glass. She turned around, slowly, so that she was facing him; she could see how close he was standing to her now. She shivered. He lowered the bottle slowly, staring at her, a bit of alcohol leaking from the corner of his mouth. She leaned forward to wipe it away with her fingers. Her fingers lingered on his skin, and she stepped even closer.

"Chuck," she breathed. She leaned forward, tentatively, to kiss him.

"Don't." His eyes closed, and his voice came out in an angry rasp. "Don't make me do anything I'll regret." He forced his eyes open again.

"Why would you regret it?" Her lower lip trembled as she spoke, and he looked away.

"What do I have to do," he said, looking at the wall behind her—right past her—"to get you to leave me alone?"

"Do you really want to be left alone?" she blinked furiously.

"Yesss…" he hissed. "But you can't seem to accept that."

For a moment neither of them said anything, and then Blair, her heart beating wildly, reached for him and kissed him anyway.

At first she thought he wouldn't kiss her back, but after a moment he responded fiercely, tasting her, biting her lip so hard she thought it must have bled, hands roaming her body possessively, pulling her down to the floor. At first it was good. She felt feverish, giddy; his hands burned where they touched her and sent shocks through her skin. "I love you, I love you, I love you…" she whispered, her eyelids fluttering. He groaned and silenced her with an aggressive kiss. The sensations were so overwhelming she felt light-headed. He was sloppy, unguarded; he was not gentle with her.

It was like falling, like rolling down a hill and gaining momentum—she remembered that actually happening to her once, sledding in winter with Serena down a steep slope—she had fallen off the sled, and she remembered the terror she felt as she kept rolling—there were no restraints, she had no control, nothing to break her fall. She had slammed against a tree trunk, the breath knocked out of her; but nothing was broken. She was lucky that time. When it was over Chuck turned away from her—couldn't look at her—and asked, "Did I hurt you?" There was a break in his voice.

"No," she lied.

That night, when she got home—that was the third time she did it. It hurt, tore through her body; she heaved, she gasped, took in huge gulps of air, her heart beat unevenly, her breathing was harsh and irregular. And then she sank down, trembling, to lie on the bathroom floor. She felt bruised all over. She pressed her damp forehead against the cold tiles. But it was purging, and cleansing in a way; and there was no guilt this time.

And since then, it was the only thing she could do to make herself feel better, to ease the tension in her chest, to take control. Guilt was a thing of the past. By now, her body had weakened considerably. The night before, when Chuck had walked away from her at that bar, she had planned on running to the bathroom and taking care of it—dealing with the pain her way. Instead, she had fainted.

But she could control it now, she could do it after only certain meals—not every meal, she didn't want to make her mother suspicious. And her knew her body couldn't take much more as it was. She would have to be even more careful, now, since she would be living for a month with friends who would keep a close watch on her.

"We're going to take care of you, B," said Serena, who was in the seat beside hers on the plane. "You'll see—by the time we get back you'll feel much better." Serena took Blair's small hand in her own and wrapped her fingers around it.

"I'm such a mess," said Blair, "I'm sorry you've had to put up with me so long."

"Are you kidding?" said Serena. "You always take care of me whenever I'm in trouble. It's about time I returned the favor." She wrapped her arm around Blair's shoulder.

"We're your best friends," she continued, "even Dan. We don't judge. We're the non-judging breakfast club," she joked, echoing the same words Blair had said to her months before, when she had her own breakdown. Blair looked up and smiled.