Seeing him yesterday made my blood boil. It made me feel what I hadn't felt in ages. He stood there, all confused like he didn't know what he'd done, and it made my fists itch.

I wanted to hit him—Gosh, I wanted it so badly. Not just one punch, either. I wanted to knock some sense into him, wipe that clueless look off his face, make him feel even a fraction of what I'd carried because of him.

The thought of it was almost sweet, a rush of satisfaction simmering just under my skin. But I didn't. I swallowed it down, letting the bitterness burn through me instead, even though my knuckles ached with the weight of what I didn't do.

I pop another pill in my mouth. It did scare me a little bit the first time I took it, although the feeling after I calmed down was much better.

It was like my little secret to escape the reality. To go far, far away from it and hide somewhere where no one would find me. Where I'd be alone with myself, thinking about everything.

As much as it scared me, I still wanted to think about all of it. I wanted to search for the reasons why Kallias did what he did, and I couldn't help but hate myself for the way I had spoken to him the other day.

I had every right. Or so I tell myself. He ruined my life, and caused me to spend the best years of my life stuck somewhere I didn't belong. No one belonged here.

Memories crept back, sucking the air out of my lungs. It was no relief that I was out of that place because it still haunted me.

The fact that almost everyone I had met were still there was killing me. It was destroying me to realize that they were going through hell while I had finally escaped.

I remembered one boy from there. He wasn't even twelve when I first met him. He had curly hair, rosy cheeks, and the most kind eyes I had ever seen in my entire life.

Apparently, his parents had abandoned him, leaving him with an aunt who sent him there because she couldn't be bothered by him. I remember when he told me that story. His big eyes were filled with tears while his bottom lip trembled, telling me that he didn't want to be there.

I tried to escape with him and my other friend once. It was more of an attempt to try and get him out of there rather than to help ourselves, but we got caught. I took the blame of course, although Maliah was punished too, since she was also older than Chuck.

I don't know what she went through that night till this day, but I know it was way worse than what I had endured. She was never the same after that night. She was like a ghost, wandering around like a broken soul. Maybe she was broken. Maybe I should've paid more attention.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, paying attention to my red eyes and disoriented expression. It feels good. euphoric. Although it doesn't stop my thoughts from flooding my mind.

Maybe I need something better. Something stronger.

I stumble out of the bathroom, sitting on a couch beside Alec— my roommate.

His sharp gaze lands on me, eyes softening as he sees my expression. "You're going to get addicted, Newt." He says with a careful tone and that's all he does before fixing his attention on the TV again.

I don't answer. Simply because I can't think of anything other than denying it. I won't get addicted. And even if I do, does it really matter? Does it matter in what way will I destroy myself?

"Do you have anything stronger?" I ask, glancing at him patiently.

"No." He says sharply, not taking his eyes off the TV screen.

"You're lying."

He sighs before turning off the TV. "Look, Newt. You're a good guy, I like you. And that is exactly why I won't give you any more drugs. Now quit whining and go lay down, it'll wear off sooner if you try to sleep."

My jaw clenches and I shoot him a sharp glare. "I don't need you telling me what to do." I protest. "I'm an adult and I can take responsibility for my own actions."

"I'm not giving you more drugs."

"Whatever man, I'll buy them myself then."

"Yeah? And how are you going to do that?" His voice is laced with sarcasm, like he's making fun of me.

"I'll figure it out." I shrug, not backing down.

"Are you trying to ruin yourself? Is that your plan?"

"Do you think that's not the case already?" I snap but my expression softens and I let out a long sigh. "I need this. I'll do anything to stop thinking."

"No type of drug will fix whatever's in your head man. Nothing will keep you from thinking, trust me on that one."

I clench my jaw but don't argue back. He may have more experience with it than I do, so I just go along with it.

Memories are strange things honestly. They linger in the spaces between what you remember clearly and what you pretend you've forgotten. Sometimes they come back in sharp flashes, jagged and unforgiving, like shards of glass catching the light. Other times, they're heavy and distant, sitting at the edge of your mind just far enough away that you can't quite grasp them—but close enough that you feel their weight pressing down on you.

I used to believe time dulled the pain of it all. That if I'd wait long enough, the past would blur, lose its grip, and let me breathe again. But time doesn't heal; it hides things. It buries them like bones under layers of days and years, waiting for the right crack to bring them back to the surface. And when they rise, you realize you never forgot—you just built walls around what hurt too much to face.

I wish I could say I was strong enough to tear those walls down myself. But maybe strength isn't about breaking things apart. Maybe it's just standing in the ruins when everything collapses. Maybe it's knowing some memories will always haunt you, but you keep moving anyway, even when every step feels like dragging the weight of what you can't undo.

I close my eyes, letting the weight of it all settle in. There's no running from it, no escaping the pull of what's already done. All I have left is to live with it, which I have absolutely no idea how to manage.

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