Adrenaline: An Ode to Love and Heartbreak by Sunniva Dee, Clarise Tan

story of a disturbing relationship. Of fraying nerves and emotional torture. On and off, on and off. Jesus Christ, how can people do that stuff to themselves?
    Much later, I swirl her tighter in one of her blankets so her body doesn’t keep mine awake. I hop out of my pants and bury myself under the comforter with her. She nestles against the hollow of my neck. For peace, I know, and it’s strange and sort of touching that someone seeks me for that.
    She breathes out slowly, unleashing air that sounds overdue. I check the alarm on her nightstand and read five a.m. I’m going to sleep with this girl in my arms, now, because she needs me. And that’s all I’m going to do.

    There’s nowhere else I want to be right now. I need to get Ingela back to the insolent, hot, silly chick she is. I fucking hate seeing her like this.
    Inga doesn’t exit her house without a layer of black rimming her eyes and red on her lips. Usually, the red is so bright it’s hilarious and erotic as fuck at once. But today when we woke up, I had to remind her to take a shower and she didn’t put on makeup afterward.
    Turns out she has a pale mouth. Light pink lips I’m not taking my chances on kissing today. Since our first fling a week or two ago, I’ve tasted those fruit-flavored pillows every chance I got, but the ex’s visit has set me back hardcore.
    I’m craving a high, but it won’t come from Inga today. In my early teens, I dabbled in drugs to sate my craving, but heights and speed—in addition to sex—provide the same rush without the low. The destruction is different too. With my sports, it’s just external damage. Bruises and broken bones, concussions and whatnot—nothing permanent. Unless I croak, of course.
    I stare at her across from me in the Ferris wheel. From a sandwich place en route to this rickety old thing, I grabbed us each a sub, and now she’s staring back at me over crumpled-open wrapping paper. The girl’s hardly even nibbling.
    “Eat,” I demand. “All of it. What you’re doing right here is bullshit.” She blinks at me with blonde lashes, not taking in my order.
    “What a stupid machine.”
    “What machine?”
    “This huge, mmm, metal tire or whatever you call it.”
    “The Ferris wheel?” I’m smiling. “I figured it’s dangerous enough to be fun. Look down, Kitty.”
    She narrows her eyes, suspicious. Then, she peers over the edge and the hundred-and-fifty feet down. There’s no amusement park in town, but a few weeks before spring break, a couple of the hotels join in on city efforts to draw people instead of having the student crowd escape and leave the town deserted.
    This sad excuse for a pleasure wheel is hungry for a dash of oil. It creaks on its axis, a main reason for our excursion; Inga’ll focus on something besides Swedish exes, and I might get a rush from imagining a bungee jump from up here.
    Hmm. A bungee jump.
    When did I last do one of those? The prickle of excitement I’d hoped for from the so-so height of this thing skims up my scalp at the thought. The bridge. Hell yeah, the bridge.
    Hips bent and torso vertical over the side, Ingela’s leaning out far. It looks entertaining, so I shift closer and copy her. We’re almost at the top. Unfortunately, with a measly one hundred-and-fifty feet, the experience doesn’t scream danger. Inga holds her sandwich out as far as she can and drops it. We both watch her breakfast plunge to its splashed-by-asphalt death. We exchange a glance, and a ghost of a first smile sifts over her mouth.
    “Not afraid of heights, huh?” I ask.
    “Nope. Never was. Guess they’re not real enough for me.”
    “Interesting. Want to try something fun?”

    “Are you fucking serious?” she screams, sounding a whole lot like herself, cusswords and all. Damn, her eyes are wide. I chuckle out loud.
    “Of course I am—this is safer than watching TV.”
    “Yeah, right.” She scoffs and shakes a stray chunk of hair off her forehead. “Sitting in