This is the first fan fiction I've ever posted and, to be honest, I'm a bit nervous. I've read so many great fics by very talented writers recently (especially in the PLL community here), and I hope my writing can keep up with everyone else's! Please leave a comment if you wish - constructive criticism is definitely welcome. :) Warning: This story involves self harm and could be triggering - read at your own risk.

Disclaimer: I do not own Pretty Little Liars. Please don't sue me.

Chapter 1 - "Relapse"

"I can't risk being seen with you."

Of course Emily had been hurt.

"I can't risk being seen with you."

Of course Emily now wanted to remain friends instead of something more.

"I can't risk being seen with you."

Of course Emily didn't want to be pushed back into the closet by a coward like you. It's not like you deserve her anyway.

Paige couldn't stop thinking about what she had said to Emily at their picnic. Everything had been going so well and then she had ruined it with her cowardice and her big mouth and her "I can't risk being seen with you." And Emily had sat up and widened the space between them and explained something that Paige had really knew all along - that Emily couldn't wait for her. She couldn't go back to that place of self-hatred and fear where she used to reside. And why should she? Someone as gorgeous and honest and warm and perfect as Emily Fields had no business being with someone as plain and awkward and terrified as Paige McCullers. When something felt too good to be true - like Emily kissing her back, her of all people - it usually was.

It had been a day since Paige had seen or even talked to the raven-haired beauty, but she was all the swimmer could think about, and it was exhausting her. Stop thinking about something that can never be. She doesn't want you. It's over with. But no matter how many times Paige chastised herself into behaving, into not thinking about the electricity between their lips as they kissed, the warmth she felt as they held hands, the butterflies she got when Emily smiled just for her, she couldn't stop. It was like Emily had slipped beneath the cold, hard shell that she had constructed for herself and softly implanted herself in Paige's heart. And that could not happen. It just couldn't. So Paige was doing everything in her power to quit - quit thinking, quit reacting, quit feeling.

She had just gotten home from the library, where she had spent nearly three hours working on her History project. It was true that she had to get it done - it was due early next week - but throwing herself into the specificities of the Byzantine Empire was also meant to be a distraction from thinking about Emily. Too bad it didn't work. While her fingers were dancing along the spines of books on the shelves, while she took neat notes from dusty old pages, while she traced out detailed brainstorming charts, she couldn't get the other athlete out of her mind. No matter how hard she worked, told herself to concentrate, for God's sake, the conversation at their picnic was always there, nagging her from the back of her brain. And with it came her insecurities and her inadequacies, telling her in soft persistent voices that she wasn't good enough, that she would never be good enough, especially for Emily.

Paige looked at the clock on her nightstand - it was nearing ten o'clock. She needed to be up by five to be at swim practice on time, and she still needed to shower and pack her bag for school tomorrow. She sighed, sitting down heavily on her bed, and began digging through her backpack, making sure her school things were in order.

Math book, notebooks, English folder, calculator, pencil case, copy of Brave New World. Check.

She kept hoping for her phone to buzz, signaling a text, and looking at the screen to find Emily's name. But her phone stayed still and silent on her bedside table, where she had left it within reach. So Paige got up and made her way to the bathroom, stripping off clothes as she went, leaving a trail across her carpet. She shut the door, started the shower, and stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection and waiting for the water to get hot.

I hate you. She thought suddenly to her reflection. If you didn't fuck this up, maybe you would be with Emily right now, instead of standing in your bathroom, wallowing in your own misery.

The worst part wasn't even the negative thoughts that she was having toward herself. No, those came often and easily now, after years of her father pushing her harder and harder, always with the roundabout hinting that being herself just wasn't enough to be Nick McCullers' daughter. The worst part by far was the pain she had caused Emily - beautiful, sweet, wonderful Emily, who had given her more chances than she deserved. Even after Paige had mocked her, tried to scare her by dunking her in the pool, jumped her in the car, and then told her to forget that the kiss had ever happened, Emily had been nothing but patient and kind.

Paige felt a headache start to throb at her temples, and she opened the medicine cabinet, searching for some aspirin to stop it before it began. When she finally found it, hidden behind the Benadryl, her hand knocked just about the entire contents of the shelf into the sink. Shit. She hastily began putting everything back in its place, the aspirin momentarily forgotten, when her hand brushed against something flat and cold. The redhead looked down, already knowing instinctively what she would find, but needing to see it anyway. In the bottom of her sink sat a razorblade. The one that she used to discretely carry on her person at all times.

It had started in the first few months of sixth grade, when she had started getting those feelings. The ones that told her she liked girls, and only girls, as more than friends. It had hit her one day, like a slap to the face, in the locker room right before gym class. She had been changing, just like everyone else, and her friend Claire had asked her a question, turned to her in her gym shorts and a training bra, and Paige just knew, deep in her gut, that it wasn't admiration or friendly feelings that made her stare at Claire's barely clad figure.

She had freaked out about it all day, long after Claire had put her shirt back on, through all nine class periods, on the bus, walking from the bus stop to her house, through homework and dinner and a movie before bed. So when she found a discarded razorblade in the hall closet while searching for a clean towel, she had taken it, and in the seclusion of her bathroom, had slid the cold blade along the smooth skin of her stomach. She pressed lightly at first, then deeper, until there was a trail of deep crimson blood behind the razorblade. She was scared, of her ability to hurt herself like that, of her feelings toward Claire, and of the way she felt just a little bit better after she made herself bleed. So she had continued to cut, at first two or three times a week, then once a day, then it got so bad that she began to carry the blade with her everywhere, would sneak off to the bathrooms during the school day to get her fix.

She had stopped the summer before eighth grade, her stomach crisscrossed with light scars (because that was the only place she could hide them beneath a swimsuit), and began suppressing every one of her feelings instead. Instead of allowing herself to feel that pain, of being different and weird and wrong, and then allowing herself to medicate herself by spilling her own blood, which only caused momentary relief, Paige just decided to stuff everything inside herself. She built up her walls so thick and so tall that not one drop of emotion could spill out, so that no one could worm their way in and ever make her feel that way again.

So here Paige was again, in a situation nearly the mirror of the one that had occurred almost four years ago. She stood naked in her bathroom, the door locked securely, the razorblade held gingerly in her fingertips. Her other hand rested softly on her stomach, running lightly over the old scars that still lingered there, a reminder of what she had once done to suppress the pain that she was now feeling all over again. Her heart was beating so fast that she could feel it in her throat. That wall that she had built up so earnestly for herself was crumbling. It was full of cracks, and her feelings were slowly leaking out; they had been ever since she had slipped quietly into Emily's car and stolen a kiss. So she needed this, this physical pain, she deserved it.

"I deserve it," she whispered quietly to herself as the blade made contact with her soft flesh. She cried out softly, mindful that her father was asleep just next door, as she felt it bite into her skin, looked down and saw the bright blood that now adorned her stomach. She lifted the razorblade, moved it, pressed it into herself again, and again, and again. A silent tear slipped down her cheek as she continued to mutilate herself.

"I deserve it. I deserve it. I deserve it." It became almost like a chant of self-hatred. She finally stopped, her hand shaking visibly, barely able to see through her tears. Paige dropped her eyes to see her handiwork, and it was a shock to see just how many cuts there were. "Fuck," she spit out angrily. The furious red lines, some slowly oozing blood, covered her stomach in a large patch, nearly as big as her hand. Paige rinsed off the razorblade in the sink, washing off the physical evidence, and shoved the blade back into the depths of her medicine cabinet. She was angry with herself for caving, for going back to cutting, and she was even more angry that she felt bad about reverting back to it. You deserve it, remember?

Paige stepped into the shower, closed the curtain behind her, and allowed the water to run over her body. The spray was washing away the blood from her self-inflicted wounds, but the marks were still there, a reminder of her weakness. The reality of her relapse was beginning to set it, and she wondered if she was strong enough to make this the only incident. Then her thoughts turned to Emily again, as always, and she doubted her resolve. She didn't want to suppress her feelings for easily the most beautiful girl in Rosewood. She didn't want to have to slice into her own flesh to punish herself for hurting Emily. She didn't want to spend her nights alone, with only her thoughts to keep her company. But she wasn't brave enough - couldn't be brave enough - to have the only person that she really wanted.

She shut off the water, and began to get ready for bed. Going to bed with her head still wet would be a disastrous idea, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Pulling back the comforter on her bed, she set her alarm clock to a ridiculously early 5 am, and climbed into bed. But before she shut off the light, Paige grabbed her phone from her nightstand. She flipped it open, pressed the button for her contacts, and scrolled down to "Emily Fields." Reading the name alone caused tiny butterflies to flutter in her stomach. She clicked, and a picture of Emily flooded the screen, a picture that Paige had taken right after their foray into karaoke. She had said something to make Emily laugh, and had snapped a picture of her, eyes sparkling and smile wide. Paige's lips curved into a sad smile at the memory, and she abruptly snapped her phone shut and placed it beside her on the table. She clicked off the light and turned onto her side. While she pulled the comforter and sheet around herself, the fabric of her shirt brushed her cuts and she winced at the sensation.

"I'm sorry," Paige whispered to her darkened room, though whom she was speaking to, she was unable to say.