I don't sleep.
Not really.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, watching shadows shift across the unfamiliar space as hours crawl past. Every time I close my eyes, I see Dylan's face—that serious expression, the genuine concern in his voice.
Why were you screaming?
My arms burn beneath my sleeves. The scratches throb with each heartbeat, a constant reminder of my loss of control.
You ruined everything. First day and you've already shown them how broken you are.
Around two am, exhaustion finally drags me under for maybe an hour. Maybe two. I'm not sure.
When I wake up, pale morning light is filtering through the enormous window and my first thought is immediate, visceral panic.
I'm still here. This is real. Yesterday happened.
I sit up slowly, my body feeling heavy and wrong. The scratches on my arms sting as I move and I carefully avoid looking at them.
Don't think about it. Just... don't.
Routine.
I need routine.
I force myself out of bed and into the bathroom down the hall, moving quietly so I don't wake Keith or Dylan.
The bathroom is still perfectly organized—nothing for me to fix, nothing for me to control.
I brush my teeth. Four minutes exactly. The mechanical motion grounds me slightly, pulling me into my body instead of my spiraling thoughts.
Stretch. Arms overhead. Side to side. Touch my toes.
The movements hurt—pulling at the scratches on my arms—but I do them anyway because I need to. Because without the routine, I'll fall apart completely.
Back in my room, I pull on jeans and a long-sleeved hoodie despite the fact that it's going to be warm today.
Can't let them see. Can't let anyone see.
I roll the sleeves down carefully, making sure they cover everything. The fabric rubs against the scratches and I bite back a wince.
You deserve this. You deserve worse.
I stand in my room for a long moment, staring at the door.
You have to go out there eventually. You live here now. You can't hide forever.
Can't you though?
My phone shows 7:15 AM.
Too early for most people, but I can hear movement in the kitchen.
Dylan.
Of course Dylan is already up.
I take a breath and force myself to open the door.
The living room is empty, still decorated with Naomi's chaotic streamers and balloons from yesterday. They look wilted now. Sad.
You ruined the party. Like you ruin everything.
I head toward the kitchen and find Dylan at the stove, cooking something that smells incredible despite my complete lack of appetite.
He glances up when I enter, and for just a second, our eyes meet.
Then he looks away.
He feels guilty. He thinks he hurt you by asking.
He did hurt you. But not the way he thinks.
"Morning," Dylan says quietly, his voice carefully neutral.
"Morning."
Silence stretches between us—heavy and uncomfortable.
Dylan returns his attention to the stove. "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes."
"Okay. Thanks."
More silence.
I want to say something—anything—to break this awful tension. To tell him it's not his fault. That he didn't do anything wrong.
But the words won't come.
I retreat to the living room and settle on the couch, pulling my knees up and wrapping my arms around them carefully.
Don't move wrong. Don't let the sleeves ride up.
Keith emerges from his room about fifteen minutes later, his hair sticking up in every direction, wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt that's way too small for his frame.
When he sees me, his entire face lights up.
"Morning, C! How'd you sleep?"
The cheerfulness feels forced. Too bright. Like he's trying extra hard to seem normal.
"Fine," I lie.
"Good, good." He stretches, yawning. "Dyl's making breakfast?"
"Yeah."
Keith settles into the armchair across from me, and when our eyes meet, something in his expression shifts.
The smile stays in place but it doesn't reach his eyes anymore.
There's something else there instead—something careful and assessing and almost... pitying.
He knows.
The thought hits me like ice water.
He knows something. Maybe not everything, but something.
Did Aethera tell him? She wouldn't... right?
"You okay?" Keith asks, and his tone is too gentle. Too careful.
Like I'm made of glass.
Like I might break.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
The lie tastes bitter.
Keith studies me for another moment before forcing his smile brighter. "Cool. Hey, so I was thinking maybe we could—"
"Breakfast," Dylan interrupts from the kitchen doorway.
We migrate to the dining table—the same seats as always. Keith and Dylan on one side, me on the other.
Except Naomi isn't here to fill the fourth chair and her absence makes the space feel wrong. Empty.
Dylan has made eggs and toast and bacon. It looks perfect. Smells perfect.
My stomach turns.
You need to eat. If you don't eat, they'll know something's wrong.
They already know something's wrong.
I force down a few bites of eggs, chewing mechanically. Each swallow feels forced and it technically is.
Keith fills the silence with chatter about some game he wants to play later, some movie he heard about, some funny thing that happened in class last week.
Dylan is quiet, moving food around his plate without eating much.
I catch him glancing at me once—just once—before his gaze skitters away like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't.
Guilt. He feels guilty.
This is my fault. I made him feel guilty for caring.
Monster. You're a monster who ruins everything you touch.
My hands shake slightly as I set down my fork.
Keith notices. Of course he notices.
"You good, C?"
"Yeah, just... full. Thanks for breakfast, Dyl. It was really good."
Dylan nods but doesn't meet my eyes.
I stand carefully, keeping my sleeves pulled down. "I'm gonna... go study. I have a lot of reading to catch up on."
"Sure, yeah." Keith's smile is still too bright, too forced. "Let us know if you need anything."
"I will."
I retreat to my room and close the door, leaning against it for a long moment.
Okay. You got through breakfast. You can do this.
I settle at my desk and pull out my law textbooks, trying to lose myself in case studies and legal precedents.
The words blur together.
I read the same paragraph five times and still can't tell you what it says.
Focus. Just focus.
Hours pass in a haze.
I hear Keith and Dylan moving around the apartment—muffled voices, footsteps, the TV turning on at some point.
But they don't come to my door.
They're giving me space.
Or they're avoiding you because you made everything weird.
Around noon, there's a soft knock.
"Yeah?" I call out, keeping my voice steady.
The door opens slightly and Dylan appears, his expression carefully blank.
"Made lunch. If you want some."
The scratching urge spikes immediately—sharp and desperate.
He's being nice. He made you food. And you're going to lie to him.
I dig my nails into my palms under the desk, hard enough to hurt.
"Thanks, but I actually ate already. I had some of those snacks Naomi brought yesterday."
Liar. Liar. Liar.
Dylan's eyes search my face for a moment. "You sure?"
"Yeah. But thank you. Really."
He nods slowly. "Okay. Let me know if you change your mind."
The door closes and I'm alone again.
I press my palms flat against the desk, breathing carefully.
You're making them worry. You're making everything worse. Like always.
The same thing happens at dinner.
Dylan appears at my door. "Made dinner."
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry. I had a big lunch."
Another lie.
I haven't eaten anything since those few bites of breakfast.
Dylan doesn't push. Just nods and leaves.
And I sit there feeling like the worst person in the world.
---
By evening, I can't take it anymore.
The walls of my room feel like they're closing in. The silence is suffocating. My thoughts are so loud I can barely hear anything else.
You're worthless. You're broken. You should have stayed dead. You ruin everything. Everyone would be better off if—
Stop. Stop stop stop.
I need to move.
I need to get out.
I pull on sneakers and grab my earbuds, heading out into the living room where Keith and Dylan are watching something on TV.
They both look up when I appear.
"I need some fresh air," I say quickly. "Going for a run."
Keith sits up slightly. "You want company?"
"No, I just—I need to clear my head. I'll be back in a bit."
Dylan's eyes track me carefully but he doesn't object.
"Be safe," is all he says.
"I will."
I leave before either of them can say anything else.
The evening air is cool against my overheated skin. I put in my earbuds, crank the music as loud as it will go, and just... run.
No destination. No plan.
Just movement.
The music drowns out my thoughts—bass pounding in my ears, lyrics washing over me without meaning.
I don't think.
Don't plan.
Don't feel.
I just run until my legs burn and my lungs ache and my mind finally, finally goes quiet.
When I check my phone, an hour has passed.
I should go back.
Do you have to? Can't you just keep running? Leave and never come back?
And go where? Back to Dad's? Alone with your thoughts?
If they're this bad around Keith and Dylan, they'll be unbearable alone.
I turn around and jog slowly back toward the apartment.
---
When I get back, Keith and Dylan are still in the living room. They both look up when I enter, something like relief crossing their faces.
"Good run?" Keith asks.
"Yeah. Helped clear my head."
Liar.
"Good. That's good."
I head to my room, close the door, and sink down to sit against the bed.
The silence presses in again immediately.
You can't keep doing this. You can't keep lying. You can't keep hiding.
You also can't tell them the truth. They'll see how broken you are and they'll regret everything.
I pull out my phone, staring at the screen.
Then, before I can second-guess myself, I reach out through the mind link.
"Aethera?"
Silence.
"Aethera, I need to ask you something."
Still nothing.
My hands are shaking.
"Did you tell Keith?"
My voice—even just in my head—comes out fractured. Shaking.
"Did you tell him about... about me? About what happened?"
Silence stretches.
She's there. I can feel her presence in the connection.
But she doesn't answer.
"Please. I need to know. Did you tell him?"
Nothing.
I sit there against my bed, phone clutched in my hands, waiting for a response that doesn't come.
The numbness spreads slowly—starting in my chest and radiating outward until I can't feel anything at all.
Not the scratches on my arms.
Not the hunger in my stomach.
Not the panic that's been clawing at me all day.
Just... nothing.
I stare at the wall, my mind completely blank, and wait.
For an answer.
For something.
For anything.
But there's only silence.