Everyone stares at me. During breakfast, lunch, dinner, work— all the time.

I hear them whisper about me. It's not the walls. It's actually them. And it hurts more than the walls, because in the end, walls don't pretend to be your friends.

Nick pulls me out my hammock every morning and he has to keep me from going to bed straight after dinner. And even though I go to bed early, I can't sleep at all. It's too loud in my head. And when the boys think I'm asleep, they whisper in the dark.

"She's gone mad," one would say.

And the other would reply, "Yeah, I feel kind of bad about it. You should've known her before the incident. She was really sweet."

Sweet? I guess I was sweet. I think I'm still sweet.

"So... it's on Minho?"

"I don't know. Partly."

And then I feel really bad for Minho because everyone is blaming him all the time and they don't talk about anything else but me and his memories to him. They don't acknowledge that he also has feelings and that he is hurting just as much, or maybe even more.

But Minho's been smiling. It's strange. It makes me angry, then sad, then confused. It doesn't make sense. Why is he smiling? He spends all his time with Newt now, and I don't know why. They keep whispering, too. Laughing. Are they laughing at me? Are they hiding something? I don't know.

It's a bit strange, because I love both Newt and Minho and I know Newt wouldn't allow Minho to whisper about me. I don't know why I get these thoughts. They give me shivers. Make me shrink. I want them gone.

"Come on." Nick tugs at my blanket. "Time to get up."

"I don't feel well."

"You say that every day," he sighs. "And it's always an excuse unless you mean mentally. You mean mentally, right?" He kneels down. "You know I'm here if you mean mentally. But that doesn't mean you get to stay in bed all day."

"You got this, Zee!" Stan's voice squeals. Too high-pitched. Too cheerful. It's wrong. Everything's wrong.

"Exactly! Listen to Stan. You got this."

"But we will need to twist your hammock the other way if you don't listen," Stan says with a smile.

I grab the blanket tighter. If I stay still, they can't drag me out. But they do. They rip me out of the hammock, and the world tilts and spins.

"Okay, that didn't work," Stan says, because I remain still on the ground. "Zee, come on!"

They haul me up. Nick yanks a plaid shirt over my head, tugging my arms through the sleeves like I'm a doll they're dressing. They leave my white top and shorts on as they add shoes.

"Great. Now we go walk to Fry and get some food, and then we socialize, and then we go to work," Nick says.

I run my fingers over my head. It's itchy. My skin crawls. I feel bugs, tiny ones, crawling under my scalp.

"We should really take those braids out," Nick mutters. "Will look better and feel better."

"Can I do it? I want to do it," Stan says, bouncing like he's excited. His eyes are too wide. Too bright. He's not real. None of them are real. No. It's Minho who is not real. The old Minho.

I nod anyway.

"Alright. You two go sit down, and I'll get our food."

I rub my eyes as I sit. "How do I do it?" Stan asks.

"Cut half of them off and then loosen the braids."

"Cut it?"

"Half of it's fake hair, Stan," I yawn.

"Oh, right... I still don't understand. I'm going to ask Minho."

"No, don't—" but he's already gone.

I stare at the table, pretending like I don't know Minho will soon be looking at me, probably with hatred in his eyes.

After a minute or so, Stan returns. "He says I have to cut them and then loosen them to the roots."

"Yes, that's what I— wait," I look up, "he really said that?"

Stan nods.

"He didn't snap at you or anything?"

"He did say it in a snappy tone."

But at least he said it.

"Wow," I murmur, then clear my throat. "Yeah, okay, go get some scissors."

Stan darts off to find scissors, leaving me alone at the table. The boys all sit together at other tables, laughing and shoveling food into their mouths. They glance over sometimes.

When Stan comes back with the scissors, he looks pleased. "Okay, Zee. Let's get these off."

He stands on the bench and starts snipping. I feel the tug of each braid as he works, like he's ripping my skin off. The little pieces of hair fall around us like black rain, and I wonder if they'll make plants grow.

"Almost done," he hums.

As Stan loosens the last braid, I touch my scalp. It feels raw now. The bugs are still there.

"Better?"

"Yeah. Thanks," I mumble. I glance over at the other table. I don't mean to look, but I can't help it. Minho is there, packing his backpack. He doesn't have a particular emotion written over his face.

"Zee, you okay?" Stan asks, his face too close. I want to scratch my scalp until it's bleeding. His voice— it's annoying me. All those questions. My name, the whole time. I wonder if Minho knows that Zee is actually not my real name. "You look pale."

"I'm fine," I say flatly.

I look down at my hands. They're shaking. I ball them into fists and dig my nails into my palms until it hurts. Pain is real.

★

He is not real.

Yet I opened the door of the Bloodhouse for him because I don't know.

"Hi," Minho greets, slightly unsure. "I—"

"Go away," I snap immediately. He needs to leave me alone. The old Minho is gone. The one who would hang out with me in his free time is gone.

"I just need to—" he tries.

"You're not real," I murmur. That usually helps. It doesn't make him go away, but it keeps me from attacking him with a hug right then and there. "Leave me alone."

His face falls in something I can't recognize. "Listen, eh, Newt said..."

I press my hands to my ears. "I don't want to see you." My vision blurs. "You're a ghost. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. Leave—"

The door slams shut. I don't know which one of us did it—me, Minho, or the wind—but when I open it again, Minho is gone. Because he was never there.

Winston quickly looks away when I turn around, yet the frown on his face remains.

I wonder if it is because I was talking to air or because I just ruined the one chance Minho gave me.