Andrik hasn’t left my side, and I should feel safe—I know I should—but instead I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my own skin.
I don’t want to be around anyone. Not even him.
My brain feels wrong, like bugs are skittering through it. Voices that can’t be real keep threading themselves through the silence, and yet I hear them, clear as my own heartbeat.
I chased a man through the woods who’s been dead for over a week. I ran into something in my apartment hallway that just disappeared.
I want to be alone, but every time I get three seconds to myself, something happens—every damn time. I haven’t wanted to run this badly since the night Anna died.
“Lumi?” His voice, normally grounding, scrapes across my nerves, and guilt flashes sharp and acidic in my gut.
How shitty am I,resenting the only person who has literally ever tried to take care of me?
What’s the opposite of Stockholm syndrome? Because whatever that is, I think it’s eating me alive.
I know part of it is just... overload—the past week has been a nightmare. But deeper than that, there’s something else. Something I hate admitting even to myself.
I don’t know how to accept softness. Peace makes me uncomfortable. It means exposure. It means there’s nowhere to hide the parts of me that are still bleeding.
I know I’m ruining this before it even has a chance to become something, because deep down, I still believe I have to earn every good thing.
If it comes too easily, too willingly, it feels like a trick.
So I pull away first. I question everything. I fortify the walls. Because if I’m the one who lets go, then it can’t be ripped from me later.
“Lumi?” His voice snaps the thought in half. “Do you want something to eat?”
I almost chuckle. How very domestic of him. He wants to cook for me while I’m hearing voices no one else can hear.
What’s next?
Chasing dead men through the woods?Oh wait.
I drag my palms down my face until it stings. Maybe if I rub hard enough, the images behind my eyelids will smear away. Maybe the voices will go with them.
I shouldn’t resent him. I know that.
He’s been nothing but patient. But patience feels like pity when you’re already being held together by threads.
Every kindness feels like a hand closing around my throat, soft at first, then tighter, until I can’t tell if I’m being held or choked.
A laugh tries to claw its way up again. I press my knuckles against my mouth to trap it. It’s not funny. None of this is funny. But my brain isn't processing reality in the right shape anymore.
I think about her scarf, damp and cold in my hands like she’s only just worn it.
I think about the dead man standing where he shouldn’t be.
I smell Anna’s perfume on my skin, and feel Andrik’s hands trying to keep me from falling apart.
It’s all too much.
All of it is just... too much.
What kind of person runs to monsters for protection from othermonsters?
I curl tighter and stare out through the morning window until my eyes sting. It’s easier to focus on the frost feathering across the pane than the heart print I still swear I can see.
I wish I could pretend none of this was real. But, even at the risk of losing my mind—I can’t.
