I wake up on moving day to sunlight streaming through my window and the immediate, visceral awareness that this is the last morning I'll wake up in this room.
Last time in this bed. Last time looking at this ceiling. Last time—
I cut off the spiral before it can gain momentum and swing my legs out of bed.
Routine. Focus on routine.
I stretch—arms overhead, side to side, touching my toes. The familiar movements ground me, even as my mind tries to race ahead to everything that needs to happen today.
The boxes are already packed and stacked neatly by the door. I finished last night, organizing everything with meticulous care. Clothes in one set of boxes, books in another, school supplies labeled and ready.
And the plants.
All twenty of them, carefully arranged near the window where they've been soaking up morning light all week.
My babies.
I shower, brush my teeth for exactly four minutes, and get dressed. Black jeans, gray t-shirt, comfortable shoes for moving.
Downstairs, I can hear voices—Dad and Molly talking in the kitchen.
When I enter, Molly takes one look at me and her eyes immediately start welling up.
"Molly—" I start.
"I know, I know," she says, waving a hand in front of her face like she can physically wave away the tears. "I'm being ridiculous. You're just moving across town, not across the country. But still—" Her voice breaks. "You're leaving us!"
Dad puts an arm around her shoulders, but he's grinning. "Molly, you're making it sound like he's dying."
"It feels like he's dying!"
Despite my anxiety about the day ahead, I can't help but smile. "I'm not dying. And I'll visit. A lot, probably."
"You better," Dad says, his tone shifting to mock-serious. "Or I'm bringing those photo albums to Keith and Dylan's place. The embarrassing ones."
"Dad, no—"
"The ones with you in the bathtub. And that one where you dressed up as a princess for Halloween—"
"I was six—"
"Still have the photos."
Molly laughs through her tears, which I think was Dad's intention.
I grab a piece of toast and some tea, eating quickly. My stomach is too tight for a full breakfast but I force down what I can.
You need energy. It's going to be a long day.
At exactly nine o'clock—because of course I planned this down to the minute—I hear a car pull into the driveway.
Keith and Dylan.
Right on time.
I head outside and find them climbing out of Keith's car, both dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts clearly meant for moving.
Keith's face lights up when he sees me. "Moving day! You ready?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
Dylan nods in greeting, his dark eyes sweeping over the house. "Everything packed?"
"Yeah. Most of it's upstairs. Boxes are labeled."
"Efficient," Dylan says, and it sounds like approval.
We head inside and I introduce them to Molly, who's gotten her emotions mostly under control. Dad shakes their hands, studying them with the kind of scrutiny only fathers can manage.
"You'll take care of him?" Dad asks, and despite the casual tone, there's weight behind it.
"Of course," Keith says immediately.
Dylan just nods, but something in his expression must satisfy Dad because he relaxes slightly.
"Alright then. Let's get you moved."
---
We head upstairs to start loading boxes.
Keith immediately gravitates toward the plants lined up near the window, staring at them with wide eyes.
"Cecil."
"Yeah?"
"You weren't kidding about the jungle."
I can't help but laugh. "I warned you."
"I know, but like—" He gestures helplessly at the collection of greenery. "Twenty plants."
Dylan moves closer, studying them with his usual intensity. He doesn't look surprised at all.
He believed me when I told him. Keith thought I was exaggerating.
"They're not that big," I say defensively, even though two of them are definitely pretty substantial.
"That one is literally taller than you," Keith points out.
"Barely."
Dylan picks up one of the smaller pots carefully. "We'll need to be strategic about packing these."
"Please be careful with them," I say, and I can hear the anxiety creeping into my voice. "They're... they're my babies."
Keith deadpans. "Did you just call them your babies?"
Dylan makes a sound that might be a chuckle.
My face heats. "They're plants. They need care. That makes them—" I stop, realizing I'm just digging myself deeper. "Just be careful, okay?"
"We will," Dylan says, and his tone is gentler now. "I promise."
Keith grins. "Don't worry, C. We'll treat your plant babies with the utmost respect."
We start the process of moving everything downstairs. Keith and Dylan work with surprising efficiency—Keith handling the lighter boxes with enthusiastic energy, Dylan taking the heavier ones with quiet strength.
I supervise the plant transport with probably excessive concern.
"Careful with that one—it's delicate—"
"This one needs to stay upright—"
"Don't let the leaves get crushed—"
Keith pauses halfway down the stairs, a medium-sized plant in his arms, and looks back at me with barely suppressed laughter. "Cecil. I love you, but you need to breathe. The plants are fine."
I love you.
The words are casual—the way friends say it. But they still make my chest do something complicated.
"I know, I just—" I force myself to take a breath. "Sorry. I'm being ridiculous."
"You're being careful," Dylan corrects from behind me. "There's a difference."
We get everything loaded into Keith's car and my car with impressive speed. The boxes fit neatly in the trunks and backseats. The plants...
Well.
The plants take up significantly more space than I anticipated.
Keith stares at the botanical explosion that is now his car interior. "I can barely see out the back window."
"You don't need to see out the back window," Dylan says reasonably. "You have mirrors."
"That's not the point—"
"It's one trip. You'll survive."
I bite back a smile, warmth spreading through my chest despite my anxiety.
They're doing this for me. All of this.
Dad and Molly come out to say goodbye. Molly hugs me tight enough to make breathing difficult.
"You call if you need anything," she says fiercely. "Anything at all."
"I will."
Dad's hug is briefer but no less meaningful. "Proud of you, kiddo," he says quietly. "This is a good thing you're doing."
Is it? I hope so. What if I ruin it? What if—
"Thanks, Dad."
We climb into our respective cars—me in mine, Keith and Dylan in Keith's—and caravan toward the apartment.
The drive feels simultaneously too long and too short.
By the time we pull into the parking lot, my hands are shaking slightly on the steering wheel.
This is it. This is real. You're moving in.
You're moving in with people who will eventually see how broken you are.
Stop. Not now.
We unload everything in one trip—Keith and I handling the boxes while Dylan somehow manages to carry three plants at once.
"Show off," Keith mutters good-naturedly.
Dylan doesn't respond, but his mouth quirks slightly.
Getting everything up to the third floor is a workout. By the time we've hauled the last box into the apartment, we're all breathing harder and Keith is dramatically sprawled on the couch.
"I'm dead. This is it. This is how I die."
"You're fine," Dylan says, not even winded.
"Easy for you to say, Mr. I-Can-Carry-Three-Plants-At-Once."
I stand in the living room, surrounded by boxes and plants, and just... look around.
This is home now.
This is where you live.
The thought is overwhelming and grounding all at once.
"Want to start unpacking?" Keith asks, hauling himself upright. "Or take a break first?"
"Break," I say immediately, because I need a minute to just breathe.
"Good call. I'm making lunch," Keith announces, heading toward the kitchen.
Dylan frowns. "I was going to—"
"Nope. You've been cooking all week. It's my turn."
"You can't—"
"I can cook some things, Dyl. Give me some credit."
Dylan looks skeptical but doesn't argue further.
Keith disappears into the kitchen, and soon I hear the sounds of pans clattering and the fridge opening.
Dylan turns to me. "Want help unpacking after lunch?"
"That would be... yeah. That would be great. Thank you."
He nods and we settle into comfortable silence, the apartment filled with the ambient sounds of Keith cooking and occasional muttered commentary from the kitchen.
---
Lunch is surprisingly good—Keith makes grilled sandwiches that are maybe a little unevenly toasted but perfectly edible.
"See?" Keith says triumphantly. "I can cook."
"You made sandwiches," Dylan points out.
"Good sandwiches."
"Acceptable sandwiches."
"You're just jealous I'm expanding my repertoire."
I eat slowly, chewing mechanically, trying to ignore the way my stomach twists with each bite.
You should be happy. You should be excited. Why does everything feel so tight?
After lunch, we head to my new room.
Dylan starts unpacking boxes with methodical efficiency while I direct where things should go. Clothes in the dresser, books on the shelf, school supplies on the desk.
He finds a box I'd packed carefully and opens it, revealing the contents.
Band-aids.
So many band-aids.
Different sizes, different types, neatly organized in the box.
Dylan stares at them for a long moment. "Why do you have so many of these?"
My throat goes dry.
Because I need them. Because I scratch and pick and hurt myself when the thoughts get too loud.
"You never know what might happen," I say, keeping my voice light. Casual. "Better to be prepared."
Dylan's dark eyes study me for a moment—too long, too intense—and I can see him turning over my answer, examining it from every angle.
He's not satisfied with it.
I can tell.
But he doesn't push.
"Makes sense," he says finally, setting the box on my desk.
I breathe again.
He suspects. He knows something's off.
But he's letting it go. For now.
We continue unpacking in silence, but now it feels heavier. More careful.
Dylan's movements are just as efficient, but I catch him glancing at me occasionally—assessing, maybe. Concerned.
He sees too much. They both see too much.
By the time we finish, my room looks... lived in. My clothes are put away, my books are on the shelves, my plants are arranged on every available surface near the window.
It looks like mine.
It looks like home.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For helping."
Dylan nods. "Of course."
There's something in his expression—something I can't quite read. Worry, maybe. Or uncertainty.
He knows. He doesn't know what exactly, but he knows something's wrong.
Before I can spiral further, Keith pokes his head in. "Yo! Naomi's here and she brought—" He pauses. "Actually, I don't know what she brought. A lot of things."
I follow them to the living room and stop short.
Naomi is standing in the middle of the apartment, surrounded by bags and boxes, wearing the biggest grin I've ever seen.
"SURPRISE!"
The living room has been transformed.
Streamers hang from the ceiling in bright, chaotic colors. Balloons are tied to every available surface. There's a banner that reads "WELCOME HOME CECIL" in glittery letters that are already shedding sparkles onto the floor.
And snacks.
So. Many. Snacks.
Chips, cookies, candyfloss, pretzels, candy—spread across the coffee table and kitchen counter in overwhelming abundance.
"Naomi," Keith says slowly. "What is this?"
"A party!" She spins around, arms outstretched. "Cecil moved in! We have to celebrate!"
Dylan looks like a cat that wants to take a nap but is being forced to tolerate a hyperactive kitten.
"You didn't have to—" I start.
"Of course I did! This is huge! You're living here now!" She bounces over and hugs me. "This calls for a party!"
Keith catches my eye and grins. "Well, we've got snacks now."
"So many snacks," I say faintly, staring at the sheer volume of junk food.
"And decorations!" Naomi gestures at the streamers. "Isn't it perfect?"
"It's... a lot."
"It's perfect," she insists.
Dylan sighs quietly but doesn't protest.
The energy shifts immediately—Naomi's enthusiasm is infectious, filling the space with noise and color and movement.
Keith matches her energy easily, helping her arrange the snacks and joking about the excessive decorations.
I stand there, trying to absorb it all, feeling the tightness in my chest increase with every passing moment.
Too much. Too loud. Too bright.
But I smile anyway.
Because this is what you do. You smile and pretend you're fine and don't let anyone see that you're drowning.
---
We settle into the party—if you can call four people eating junk food and talking a party.
Naomi suggests games and somehow we end up playing Truth or Dare.
"I'll start!" Naomi announces. "Keith—truth or dare?"
"Dare."
"I dare you to do your best impression of Dylan."
Keith immediately adopts a deadpan expression and says in a flat monotone, "That's ridiculous. I don't sound like that."
Dylan throws a pillow at him.
We laugh and the game continues.
Naomi picks dare and has to eat a spoonful of hot sauce. Keith picks truth and admits his most embarrassing moment in class. Dylan picks dare and has to let Naomi style his hair, which results in the most ridiculous ponytail I've ever seen.
Then it's my turn.
"Truth or dare, Cecil?" Naomi asks.
I hesitate.
Dare feels unpredictable. Dangerous.
"Truth."
Dylan leans forward slightly, his expression serious.
"Why were you screaming? That night. The nightmare."
The room goes very still.
Naomi's smile falters. Keith's eyes widen slightly.
And I—
I can't breathe.
He's asking. He's actually asking. In front of everyone.
What do I say? What can I say?
The rooftop. Mom. The fall. The blood. The guilt. The—
"I—" My voice comes out strangled. "I don't—"
Dylan's gaze doesn't waver. He's not being cruel. He genuinely wants to know.
But I can't.
I can't do this.
Not here. Not now. Not with everyone watching.
"I'm sorry," I manage, standing abruptly. "I'm just—I'm feeling under the weather. I think I need to sleep."
"Cecil, wait—" Naomi starts, reaching for me.
But I'm already moving toward my room, my heart pounding so hard I can barely hear anything else.
Dylan stands too. "Cecil—"
I close my bedroom door before he can finish.
The sounds of the party continue on the other side—muffled voices, concerned tones, Naomi's distressed "I didn't know he'd ask that—"
But I can't focus on any of it.
My room.
My new room.
My safe space.
Except it doesn't feel safe right now.
It feels like a trap.
They know. They're going to figure it out. Dylan already suspects something with the band-aids and now this—
You ruined it. You ruined the party. You ruined everything.
Monster. You're a monster. You don't deserve this. You don't deserve them.
Mom died because of you.
You should have died instead.
You should have stayed dead.
My hands are shaking.
No—my whole body is shaking.
I sit on the edge of my bed and press my palms against my thighs, trying to ground myself.
Breathe. Just breathe.
But I can't.
The thoughts are too loud, too fast, too overwhelming.
My hands move to my arms—scratching, digging, trying to find some release for the pressure building inside me.
Control. You need control. This is the only thing you can control.
My nails rake across my skin—once, twice, three times.
Some scratches bleed immediately. Others just turn red and angry.
I barely feel it.
All I feel is the desperate need to make it stop.
To make the thoughts stop.
To make the guilt stop.
To make me stop.
I don't know how long I sit there, scratching and spiraling, my breath coming in sharp, painful gasps.
Eventually—finally—my hands still.
The scratches on my arms burn. Some are bleeding sluggishly. Most are just raw and red.
I stare at them, my vision blurry.
What did I do?
What am I doing?
I pull my sleeves down carefully, hiding the evidence.
The party is still going outside my door—quieter now, more subdued, but still there.
They're probably worried.
Or angry.
Or disappointed.
All of the above.
I lie down on my bed fully clothed, pulling the blanket over myself even though I'm not cold.
My mind won't stop.
You ruined everything. First day living here and you've already shown them how broken you are.
Dylan knows something's wrong. Keith probably does too.
They're going to regret asking you to move in.
They're going to realize what a mistake this was.
You should leave. Pack everything back up and leave before they have to ask you to go.
The thoughts spiral and spiral and spiral.
I don't sleep.
Not really.
I just lie there in the dark, listening to the muffled sounds of the party winding down, my arms burning beneath my sleeves, my chest tight with panic that won't ease.
This is home now.
This is where you live.
And you've already ruined it.