Trigger Warning: see down below for details

The sound of the oven timer beeping pulls me out of my daze. I've been sitting at the piano for what feels like several sunlit days, fingers slowly sliding over the keys, playing some melody I learned long ago. It's the one song I managed to teach Justin how to play years and years ago. That was the one I always felt like practicing; I wanted him, always a better musician, to think I could play well. I wanted him to find my music impressive.

Stupid thought, I know. I hate piano and every teacher who ever bothered giving me lessons always said my playing sounded lifeless and inexpressive.

Unlike Justin's singing. His voice flows melodiously and even when I don't understand a word of what he sings, it makes my heart ache.

The oven beeps again.

I stand up, blocking out the thought. I can't think about him. Because if I do I'll end up thinking about her, and I can't deal with that right now. The apparition of her face still sits in the back of my brain, whispering: your fault, your fault, your fault.

"Hey honey, are you alright?"

I jump, turning to see my mom looking worriedly at me. I realize I've been hovering over the keyboard, pressing the same few notes over and over, the same short tune repeatedly. It's not from any song I know. "Sorry yeah, barely heard the timer go off."

A bowl of heat-up mac and cheese sits in her hands. I try and smile at my mom who seems a little suspicious. I can't bring myself to scoop up a bowl of freezer burned mac and cheese, grabbing a packet of ramen instead. I throw it in the microwave, too lazy to even make it the proper way on the stove.

"What's up with you?" my mom sits on a bar stool, eyeing me as I sit across from her.

A pile of homework and papers surrounds me. The list of colleges on top of my laptop. I've covered it in absent minded doodles but one catches my eye, two words that suddenly send my appetite running away. "Your fault."

I stare at the words for a long moment before my mom grabs the paper, pulling me out of whatever daze I'd fallen into. "What's this?"

"Oh, just some colleges I was looking at," I take a bite of ramen, the heavenly taste transporting me to a higher place.

"I see," she picks at a spot on her scrubs, covered in whatever weird stains she gets from the hospital. "Why did you cross some out?"

I barely hear her, lost in some great sea that is life. Somewhere deep in my brain tries to tell me it's not true, that her death wasn't my fault, but I can't help but think otherwise. All those nights I was at their house, sitting right across from her. I never offered any consolation when her family got messy, I never even asked how she was doing. And then that one day she grabbed my arm while I was leaving. She looked at me as if I was her only friend. Maybe I was, I was the only person who at least acknowledged her even if only because of Justin.

That was a week before she died.

"Ben!"

"Huh?" I look up, cheeks burning, eyes stinging.

"Honey, are you okay? You've been acting off all evening and you only choose ramen over pasta when something's bothering you. Talk to me."

I can't tell her. I can't complain about my best friend's boyfriend and how Reid just thinks I'm jealous and I can't talk about her. No one can ever talk about her. "I'm worried about the future!" I blurt out, dropping my fork into the bowl. "College."

"Is that all?" she seems relieved, "I'm sure you'll find a good college that fits your major."

"But I don't know what I want that major to be! I have no idea what I want to do!"

Here I am complaining about my future. Here I am complaining about things I shouldn't have the right to complain about. At least I have a future. I have parents even if their solution to my problems is to just throw money at me.

Why don't you try out soccer?

Why don't you rock climb? It'll clear your mind.

Look at this fancy school, it'll keep you so busy we don't have to bother raising you!

They do their best. But I can't help but wonder if one day I'll look back and hate my life. If I go into science or medicine or whatever my parents decide tomorrow, what will I have left? What if I get that good job, with a lovely wife, and a fancy car like my dad? What will I do then, throw money at my children to keep them complacent?

I can't help but wonder what she thought. If her parents had expectations for her that deep down she knew wasn't right.

Something isn't right.

I just don't know what yet.

"Sweetie," her voice rings through my ears but I barely register them, "you have plenty of time to think about it. Just do something practical and," here it comes, "you'll be able to have a good stable job and provide for," here it is, "your future wife."

I groan, not realizing she can hear me. "I'm going to go to my room," I finally say, I can't stay here any longer, "I have work to do."

I give her the same sheepish expression I did when my parents looked through my internet history, grabbing my bowl of ramen before heading upstairs. I throw myself into my bed, ramen on the nightstand, utterly exhausted.

Sitting up, my hands reach for my nightstand drawer before I register my movements. I find my hand close around the razor I usually use to shave. "What the hell am I doing?" I whisper as my fingers pull back my hoodie sleeve.

I wonder if this helps Justin. And that's why no matter how many times I tell him to stop I always discover he did it again. I bring it to my skin, about to break through my wrist when I jolt backward, tossing the razor away from me. "What am I doing?" I ask myself again, slamming my drawer shut and rolling onto my side.

My heart pounds in my ears like thundering drums, sweat trickling down my face. Stop it! I try harder and harder to push all negative thoughts away but it doesn't work. Clearing my thoughts always works.

Justin's face appears in my head along next to hers, both blaming me. What would Justin say if he knew that I could've reached out? That she tried to tell me something.

How am I supposed to live with myself? I barely knew her, I barely talked her. And that's what makes it so much worse.

But I saw in his sister's eyes the very same thing I see in my own eyes: fear.

Fear about what? Justin? Griffin?

I don't know.

I recall my dad lecturing one day after I tackled him in a play fight. He'd won easily, capturing me with a single hand. "Son," he had said, "you can't let your opponent know what you fight for, you can't let them see you're scared. You're shaking right now. You can't beat someone by feeling like a victim."

But how am I supposed to beat someone that isn't here? All this fear and hate keeps closing in on me but no one ever notices, no one takes the blame for it.

It's invisible. It's a force inside our heads always saying that we did something wrong. That something isn't right and I'm to blame. And for me at least, it looks like a girl who shouldn't have died. A girl I should've saved. A girl no one knew and no one ever talks about.

I try to focus on what's around me, my navy blankets, the nightstand, my phone in front of me.

That's when it hits me.

Justin.

I grab my phone, grinning eagerly as I flip through my contacts. My hand taps the call button on my phone. It begins to ring, Justin's doofy grin filling my screen. Tears have started rolling down my cheeks and I wipe at them, listening to it ring and ring.

I can't let him end up like her.

The call goes to voicemail.

My phone flies through the air before I realize what I'm doing. Bang! It slides down the wall, but I barely notice, falling to my side and grabbing a pillow. I squeeze it to my chest, picturing Justin's face. It takes me a long time to gather up the energy to finally grab my phone. Still no messages from Justin.

I call him one last time.

But it just keeps ringing, echoing through my empty room.

I sigh, sitting up and glancing at the razer I threw at the wall. Carefully grabbing it by the handle. Before I even realize what, I'm doing, my slide it along my arm. One shallow line. My fingers try to dig it into my skin again, but my mind starts again before I can. My hands start shaking, dropping the razor. What am I doing to myself?

I fall back onto my bed, hugging myself. In the corner of my eye, I see her. She stands tall, her eyes boring into mine. They reflect my own expression. "I'm sorry," I whisper, voice suddenly hoarse.

I choke on the phlegm building up in my throat, wiping at my eyes. Crying over her won't fix anything. Saying sorry won't fix anything. It's too late to fix what was broken.

If only I'd known, if only she'd have said something. Instead, I'm left with a reflection of my own fears in the form of a girl whose eyes find my own. And the words start to repeat inside my brain, echoing again and again.

Your fault, your fault, your fault.

I didn't even know her.

So why does it hurt so fucking bad?

——
**trigger warning: reference to self-harm and brief self-harm**

That was one beast of a chapter to write so don't forget to give me your thoughts. That's probably my third or fourth iteration of it lol.

How do you feel about Ben so far? Are you vibing or not so much?