Day Five since Keith left.
I'm sitting at my desk, staring at the same page of my law textbook I've been pretending to read for the past hour, when Dylan knocks on my door.
Again.
"Cecil? Made some pasta. Your favorite—the one with the cream sauce you mentioned liking."
My jaw clenches.
He's been doing this all week. Cooking elaborate meals. Finding excuses to check on me. Hovering like I'm some fragile thing that might shatter at any moment.
And every single time, he mentions Keith in some way.
"Keith usually likes this too."
"Keith showed me how to make this."
"Keith will be back soon and we can all eat together."
Keith. Keith. Keith.
The name makes something dark and angry twist in my chest.
"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," I call back, keeping my voice carefully neutral even though I want to scream.
There's a pause. Then—
"You said that yesterday. And the day before. Cecil, you need to eat."
"I said I'm not hungry, Dylan."
My voice comes out sharper than intended.
Silence on the other side of the door.
Then, quietly: "Okay. I'll leave a plate in the fridge if you change your mind."
Footsteps retreat down the hallway.
I dig my nails into my palms, the pain grounding me just enough to keep the spiral at bay.
Barely.
The offer to leave food in the fridge reminds me of two days ago. Dylan had done the same thing then—appeared in my doorway with that same careful expression he's worn since finding Keith's note.
"Want to watch a movie?" he'd asked. "It'll help take your mind off things."
Off things. Off Keith abandoning us with a bullshit excuse about "family stuff."
"I'm fine," I'd said.
"Cecil—"
"I said I'm fine, Dylan."
He'd studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. But the offer stands. Keith has a pretty good collection and—"
There it was. Keith's name. Like Dylan couldn't go five minutes without reminding me that he exists.
That he left.
That he lied.
"I have studying to do," I'd said, turning back to my book with enough finality that even Dylan got the message.
The door had closed softly.
I'd stared at the words on the page, not seeing them.
Keith has a pretty good collection.
Keith this. Keith that.
Like I could forget. Like the note wasn't still sitting on the kitchen counter, a constant reminder of betrayal.
My phone buzzes now, pulling me back to the present.
I pick it up, hope and dread warring in my chest.
Maybe it's Keith. Maybe he's finally answering Dylan's messages. Maybe—
It's Naomi.
"Hey! How's it going? Keith back yet? Miss you guys!"
I stare at the message for a long moment before setting the phone face-down on my desk.
Can't deal with that right now.
Can't deal with her cheerfulness and her questions about Keith and—
Stop. Focus on something else.
I pull up a new case study, forcing my eyes to track across the words.
Plaintiff v. Defendant. Breach of trust. Failure to disclose material information...
The irony isn't lost on me.
The legal language about breach of trust triggers another memory. Just last night—or was it the night before? The days are blurring together—Dylan had found me on the balcony at two in the morning, staring out at the city lights.
I hadn't been able to sleep. Again. The nightmares had been worse—twisting Keith's face into my father's, his abandonment echoing through every dream.
"Can't sleep?" Dylan had asked quietly, settling beside me.
"Something like that."
We'd sat in silence for a while. Comfortable, almost, like that first morning when we'd watched the sunrise together.
Before everything got complicated.
Before the note.
Before Keith became this gaping wound between us.
"He'll be back soon," Dylan had said eventually. "Three more days."
And there it was again.
Keith.
Always Keith.
"Maybe," I'd said, my voice flat.
"Not maybe. He will. I know him, Cecil. He wouldn't just—"
"Wouldn't just what?" I'd turned to look at him, anger finally breaking through the careful control I'd been maintaining. "Wouldn't just lie? Wouldn't just leave without explanation? Because he already did, Dylan. He already did all of that."
Dylan's expression had flickered—surprise, then understanding, then something that looked almost like pain.
"I know you're angry—"
"I'm not angry."
"Cecil—"
"I'm not." I'd stood abruptly. "I'm tired. I'm going to bed."
I'd left him there on the balcony, his concern burning into my back.
In my room, I'd pressed my palms against my eyes and tried to breathe through the fury threatening to consume me.
Liar. You're absolutely furious.
And you have every right to be.
Evening settles over the apartment now like a heavy blanket.
I hear Dylan moving around in the kitchen, the clink of dishes, water running.
My stomach growls—loud and insistent.
When was the last time I ate properly? That first day? That disastrous breakfast where I choked down a few bites of eggs?
You need to eat. You're going to make yourself sick.
Good. Maybe that's what you deserve.
The thought comes unbidden, familiar, comfortable in its cruelty.
Monster. Worthless. Better off dead.
My hands start to shake.
Not now. Not again.
I press them flat against the desk, breathing carefully.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
The technique Aethera taught me. The one that's supposed to help with panic.
It's not working.
Nothing's working.
Everything's falling apart and Keith isn't here and Dylan keeps trying to fix things but he can't because nothing can be fixed and—
A knock at my door.
"Cecil?"
Dylan's voice. Gentle. Careful.
Too careful.
"What?" The word comes out harsher than intended.
The door opens slowly. Dylan stands there with a plate—pasta, garlic bread, salad arranged with precise care.
"Thought I'd bring it to you," he says. "Since you're studying."
The anger flares hot and immediate.
"I don't need you to take care of me, Dylan."
"I know. I just thought—"
"You thought what? That if you bring me food and check on me every five minutes, you can fix whatever's wrong?" I stand, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'm fine. I don't need fixing."
Dylan's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Hurt, maybe.
"I'm not trying to fix you," Dylan says quietly. "I'm trying to be here for you."
"Well, maybe I don't want you here."
The words hang in the air between us.
Dylan sets the plate down on my dresser, his movements careful and deliberate.
"Okay," he says. "I'll leave you alone."
He turns to go and something in me cracks.
Wait. Don't go. I didn't mean—
But the words won't come.
The door closes.
I'm alone again.
I sink back into my chair, staring at the plate of food Dylan brought.
The pasta is still steaming slightly. He made it exactly how I like it—extra cream sauce, lots of parmesan, fresh basil on top.
He remembered.
The realization makes my chest tight.
He's been trying all week. Cooking my favorite foods. Giving me space when I ask for it. Checking on me without being overbearing.
And you keep pushing him away.
Because he keeps talking about Keith.
Because every time he mentions Keith's name, it feels like a knife twisting in an open wound.
Because you're angry and hurt and you don't know what to do with these feelings except lash out at the one person who's actually here.
I pick up the fork Dylan left on the plate.
Take one bite.
Then another.
The food is perfect. Of course it is.
I eat mechanically, tasting nothing, feeling nothing except the hollow ache in my chest that won't go away.
The hollow ache reminds me of yesterday morning. I'd been in the kitchen making coffee—my third cup of the day, sleep deprivation catching up with me—when Dylan had appeared.
"Morning," he'd said.
"Morning."
I'd focused on the coffee maker, watching the dark liquid drip slowly into my mug.
"So I was thinking," Dylan had started, and I'd already known where it was going. "When Keith gets back tomorrow, maybe we should—"
"Can you stop?"
Dylan had blinked. "Stop what?"
"Talking about Keith. Mentioning Keith. Acting like his return is going to magically fix everything."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." I'd turned to face him, anger finally breaking through. "Every conversation. Every meal. Every single interaction, you find a way to bring him up. 'Keith likes this.' 'Keith will be back soon.' 'Keith wouldn't want you to—' I don't care, Dylan. I don't care what Keith likes or wants or thinks because Keith isn't here."
Dylan's jaw had tightened. "I know you're upset—"
"I'm not upset."
"Cecil—"
"I'm not." I'd grabbed my coffee and headed toward my room. "I just need you to stop talking about him like he's some kind of savior who's going to swoop in and make everything better."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Isn't it?"
We'd stared at each other across the kitchen, tension crackling between us.
"I'm trying to give you hope," Dylan had said quietly. "Trying to remind you that he's coming back. That this isn't permanent."
"Maybe I don't want hope. Maybe I just want to be angry."
Dylan's expression had softened in a way that made me want to scream.
"Okay," he'd said. "You're allowed to be angry."
"I don't need your permission."
I'd left before he could respond.
In my room, I'd set the coffee down with shaking hands.
You're being cruel. He's trying to help and you're being deliberately cruel.
---
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, my phone still dark where it landed after I threw it the day Keith left.
The crack in the screen feels appropriate somehow.
Broken, just like everything else.
Tomorrow Keith returns.
The thought circles endlessly, a loop I can't escape.
Keith, who knows. Who's always known. Who left anyway.
My eyes burn but I refuse to close them.
Sleep means nightmares, and I can't handle those right now. Can't handle seeing my father's face, or the debt collectors, or the rooftop, or—
Stop.
I force my breathing to steady, counting each inhale and exhale.
Eventually, despite everything, exhaustion drags me under and I fall asleep.
---
I wake to darkness and panic.
My heart is racing, my skin slick with sweat.
The nightmare clings to me like cobwebs—Keith's face morphing into my father's, his voice saying "I know what you are, I know what you did, monster, killer, it should have been you—"
I sit up too fast, the room spinning.
What time is it?
I fumble for my phone before remembering I threw it.
The clock on my nightstand reads 3:47 AM.
My chest is too tight. The walls are too close. Everything is pressing in and I can't breathe, can't think, can't—
Control. You need control.
My arms itch beneath my sleeves.
That familiar, desperate need clawing at me.
No. Not again. You promised yourself you wouldn't—
But Keith knows. Keith knows everything and he left and he's coming back tomorrow and he'll look at you with pity or disgust or worse, understanding, and you can't—
I can't—
I need—
My hands are shaking as I throw off the covers and stumble toward the door.
The apartment is silent. Dylan's door is closed, no light underneath. He's asleep.
Good.
He can't see this. Can't see you falling apart.
Again.
I move quietly down the hallway to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me and locking it.
The mirror shows a stranger—pale, hollow-eyed, barely holding together.
Monster.
The word echoes in my head, in my father's voice, in my own voice, in the debt collectors' voices.
You should have died on that rooftop.
You should have stayed dead.
My breathing is coming too fast now, shallow and ragged.
I turn on the shower—hot as it will go—and the sound of rushing water fills the small space.
Cover the noises. You can't let Dylan hear.
I sink down to sit on the bathroom floor, my back against the wall, and roll up my sleeves with shaking hands.
The scars from previous episodes crisscross my forearms—white lines and pink marks, a map of every time I've lost control.
Aethera did heal them but they were too deep to be actually healed completely.
My stomach twists at the mention of her.
Aethera told him.
The thought burns through me like acid.
Keith knows about your mother. About your father. About the debt. About the jump.
He knows everything and he still left.
My nails dig into my left arm, dragging down slowly.
The pain is sharp. Immediate. Real.
This is the only thing you can control.
I do it again, harder this time. The scabs from before break open.
Keith knew. This whole week, he knew.
And he didn't tell you. Didn't give you the choice. Just left.
Blood wells up along the lines I've made. Red against pale skin.
Monster. Killer. It should have been you who died that day.
My right hand moves to my left arm, scratching harder, faster, no longer careful or controlled.
Just desperate.
Desperate for something—anything—that I can manage, that I can dictate, that's mine to command.
Your mother died because of you.
Scratch.
Your father left because of you.
Scratch.
The debt collectors came to your life because of you.
Scratch.
Keith left because of you.
The blood is flowing freely now, dripping onto the bathroom floor.
I watch it, detached, like it's happening to someone else.
Everything you touch dies or leaves or breaks.
The steam from the shower is thick in the air, making it hard to breathe.
Or maybe that's just the panic.
I can't tell anymore.
You ruin everything.
My arms are burning, the scratches deep enough now that they'll definitely scar.
Let them scar.
Let there be permanent evidence of what you are.
A monster.
I press my palms against my eyes, blood smearing across my face, and try to breathe through the crushing weight in my chest.
This is it. This is all you are. This moment, this pain, this self-destruction.
This is the only thing you're good at.
The water continues to pour from the shower, steam billowing, the sound drowning out everything else.
Including the small, broken sounds I'm making that might be sobs.
Keith is coming back today.
The thought cuts through the fog.
And he'll see this. He'll see you like this and he'll know he was right to leave.
My arms throb, blood still dripping steadily onto the tile.
He'll look at you and see exactly what you are.
A monster who can't even keep himself together for one week.
I should clean this up. Should stop the bleeding. Should do something other than sit here on the bathroom floor bleeding and breaking.
But I can't move.
Can't do anything except sit here in the steam, the blood and the pain.
Control.
That's what I wanted, right? Control over something, anything.
But this isn't control.
This is the opposite.
This is falling apart while pretending it's a choice.
My vision blurs—whether from tears or steam or blood loss, I don't know.
Doesn't matter.
None of it matters.
Keith knows everything.
Aethera betrayed you.
Dylan's been keeping secrets and probably figured out everything.
And you're sitting on a bathroom floor at four in the morning, bleeding and broken, exactly like you've always been.
Nothing ever changes.
You never change.
The words circle endlessly, a litany of self-hatred I can't escape.
The shower keeps running.
The blood keeps flowing.
And I keep sitting here, unable to move, unable to stop, unable to do anything except exist in this moment of complete and total collapse.
Today, Keith returns.
Today, everything will get worse.
They'll all see what you really are.
The thought should terrify me.
Instead, all I feel is numb.
Cold.
Empty.
Like I've finally scratched away everything that made me pretend to be human, and all that's left is this—
Blood and steam and silence.
And the certain knowledge that nothing will ever be okay again.
The water runs cold eventually.
My arms throb with each heartbeat.
The pain is grounding. Real.
The only thing that makes sense in a world where nothing else does.
Keith is coming back today.
I close my eyes and wait.
For Keith.
For the confrontation.
For everything to finally, inevitably, fall apart.
The way it always does.
The way it always will.
Monster.
The word settles over me like a shroud.
And for once, I don't even try to fight it.