All I’ve done is drink water, gallons of it. Maybe I thought it would rinse out the ache in my chest, the fire in my throat. It hasn’t. But at least it’s kept me breathing.
I’ve lost track of the days. I’ve lost track of myself.
I feel like I’m having withdrawals, not from a drug, but from him—Alex, his voice, his presence, it’s like a craving so sharp, mixed with the trauma, slicing the memories into something almost… bearable. He’s a drug I’ve been hooked on, and now that he’s gone, my body is breaking down without him, barely functioning. And still… I can’t go back. I won’t ruin him with my rot.
But why isn’t he here? Why hasn’t he come to tear me out of this hell? To pick me up, like I secretly want him to?
I know I pushed him away. I remember stiffening when he tried to touch me in the hospital. Turning my back away from him. Letting the silence between us choke every word he tried to give me.
But even so… why hasn’t he come? Why hasn’t he called? Doesn’t he want to know if I’m alive or dead?
fuck, I’m such a hypocrite.
I flush the toilet and drop the lid, then crawl until my back hits the wall. My head leans against the cold tile, my eyes fixed on the floor as if it might give me answers.
Maybe he’s come to his senses. Maybe he’s finally realized what I am—used, ruined, nothing but the leftover trash of a bunch of teenage boys who took what they wanted from me. Just like my mother, who used to sell herself to strangers, except I did it for free.
A laugh claws its way out of me, it’s dry, cracked, empty. It hurts more than it should. Just then, the bathroom door creaks open, and Tyler steps inside. His eyes catch on me, and I watch them change, shifting from worry to something deeper, heavier. Sadness. He kneels in front of me, slow, like he’s afraid I might shatter before he gets there.
Tyler’s hands lift slowly, trembling just enough that I notice.
“Lucas…” he signs, my name moving from his fingertips like it’s fragile glass.
I don’t answer. My eyes just stay locked on his tiredly.
“I’m scared for you.” He signs, his throat bobbing, “You’re pale. You’re weak. You’re not eating. You’re barely drinking anything but water. You’re not… here anymore.”
His expression folds in on itself, his mouth tightening.
“If this goes on, I’ll have to call someone. 911. Or a hospital. I’m not watching you die in front of me, Lucas. You’re scaring me.”
The words hit like a fist to my chest.
I shake my head, a weak jerk of movement. My throat burns—not from vomiting, but from the weight of the thought of being in a hospital bed or gown again, of being impaled with needles, or worse, getting sent to a mental institute if that be the case.
“Don’t,” I sign back, small and slow, because my hands feel like stone. “Please. Don’t take me away, Tyler, please.”
“I don’t know what else to do for you, Lucas.” His eyes are glassy, wet, and unblinking. “You’re breaking down in front of me, and it’s killing me. It’s pulling me back to when things were so much worse… years ago. I hate it.”
The words land in me like a punch. I bite down on my lip so hard I taste metal, anything to keep my face still.
“Today makes it the fourth day you’ve been back,” he continues, each sign more frantic than the last, a tear dropping down his cheeks. “And I haven’t gone to work once since then because I’m scared. Scared you might do something to yourself when I’m not here. I can’t sleep. I check on you every hour at night, just to make sure you’re still breathing. I’ve hidden all the knives. The blades. Even my skipping rope. Anything that could—” He breaks off, his hands falling to his lap as his chest heaves.
My throat feels scraped raw, but no sound comes. I want to cry, to let it out the way he does—shaking, spilling—but all my tears are trapped, thick in my chest.
Instead, my hands move on their own. “Do you know what they did to me in that treehouse?”
The question freezes him. His eyes blink slowly, his throat works around a swallow, and for a moment he looks anywhere but at me—at the floor tiles, the wall, anywhere that isn’t my face. I know it’s a hard question for him because we never talk about it, and I never wanted to.
“I don’t know everything,” he signs finally, his movements slower now, heavier. “Your mom kept it quiet. She just said some boys attacked you on your way back from church.” His jaw flexes. “But I knew you were hurt in the treehouse. I knew Nate and his friends… took advantage of you.”
My stomach knots tight, twisting with the old sickness. “How did you know?”
He looks away again, wiping at his eyes as if he could erase the conversation along with the tears. He breathes out hard,stares up at the ceiling for a moment, then drops his gaze back to me. There’s anger in his face now, but it’s wrapped in pity and something deeper, something that burns.
“I went to confront Nate a few days after the incident.” His signs are sharper now, like they’re cutting the air. “The motherfucker didn’t even look guilty. Instead, he said…”
He stops. His teeth catch his lower lip.
