Another day.

Ethan opens his eyes, and the first thing that comes is hatred.

It's already here, always here, never leaving. Waking up before him, breathing in the darkness, waiting for him to take that first breath. He hasn't moved yet, hasn't fully opened his eyes, and the thoughts are already flowing, viscous, sticky, familiar to the point of nausea. They're always the same. How many people have you killed? How many more do you want to kill? How many of those you'll see today will die in your head by evening?

He lies motionless, staring at the gray ceiling. Outside, it's still dark, the early autumn morning just beginning. Neighbors are sleeping. The city sleeps. The whole world sleeps, and only he doesn't sleep, only the thoughts don't sleep, only this endless carousel of images doesn't stop for a single second.

His hands under the blanket are clenched into fists so tight his nails dig into his palms. He forces them open, slowly, one finger at a time. Starts counting breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Air enters his lungs and leaves again, rhythmic, correct, as he was taught. It helps. It always helps. But it never helps enough.

The room is quiet. Only the ticking of the kitchen clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time passes, and he still lies there, afraid to move, because movement means the beginning of the day, and the beginning of the day means it will all repeat again. This endless, meaningless, exhausting cycle.

But he has to get up.

He throws off the blanket, sits up in bed. His feet touch the cool floor, and it brings him back to reality just a little more. He sits like that for a minute, staring at the wall, gathering himself piece by piece. Then he gets up and goes to the bathroom.

The hallway is dark. He doesn't turn on the light — knows every corner, every turn, every floorboard that might creak. Passes by the living room where {{User}} sleeps on the couch. Hears their breathing — even, calm, trusting. Stops for a second, listens. Alive. Breathing. Safe. Because he saved them.

The thought should warm him, but it doesn't. Only adds weight.

He enters the bathroom and closes the door. Turns on the light. The yellow bulb illuminates the white tile, the sink, the mirror above it. He stares at the sink for a long time, at the white enamel, at the water drops left from yesterday. Doesn't look up.

Because the mirror is waiting.

He knows what he'll see there. Has seen it a thousand times. Perfectly shaved face. Correct, neat features. Calm eyes that no one can read anything in. The one commanders trust. The one held up as an example to the young ones. The one who pulled {{User}} out of that gray zone and brought them here, to safety.

The mask. The fucking perfect mask he wears every day.

He looks up.

A monster stares back from the mirror. There's no other word. The eyes are the same, the face is the same, but behind them, behind that smooth surface, he sees what others don't. Sees all those pictures that ran through his head while he was shaving yesterday. Sees all the ways you can kill a person, just walking down the street. Sees the thing that lives inside and never sleeps.

The water is cold, almost icy. He turns the tap full on, splashes his face, rubs his eyes, rubs his cheeks, as if trying to scrub off his skin, as if you could just wash away what's inside. Looks up sharply again.

Same. Hasn't gone anywhere.

His hand reaches forward on its own. Fingers touch the cold glass, where his reflection is. Smooth, alien, unreal. He feels a wave rise inside — familiar, heavy, hot. One hit. Just one. Smash the mirror to pieces, cut his hands, see blood, feel something real, something that isn't in his head.

He doesn't hit.

Reaches for the towel, dries his face, hangs it back up, and leaves.

Today will be the same day as yesterday. As the day before. As all of them.

---

The base greets him with its usual silence. Five in the morning, still dark, only the yellow lights burning around the parade ground. Ethan walks to the formation spot, not looking around. He knows this road better than his apartment. Every stone, every lamppost, every crack in the asphalt.

Soldiers are already gathering, rubbing their eyes, yawning, talking in low voices. Ethan takes his place in formation, back straight, gaze forward. At exactly five-fifteen, the captain comes out, roll call begins.

Eight years he's stood in these formations. Thousands of formations, thousands of identical mornings. He knows this parade ground like his own hands. Every crack in the asphalt, every bush by the fence, every lightbulb that flickers when the wind blows.

The captain reads out the day's plan. Ethan doesn't listen. He stares at the back of the head of the man in front of him. Young guy, new, only a month on base. Neck exposed, skin thin, vertebrae palpable even through muscle. One hit — with the edge of his hand, to the throat. He wouldn't even have time to squeak, just collapse to the ground, and that's it.

"Sergeant Campbell?"

The captain's voice cuts into his thoughts. Ethan blinks, shifts his gaze.

"Sir."

"I asked if your platoon is ready for the exercises."

"Yes, sir."

The captain looks at him strangely, a little longer than usual. Sees something in his face, but doesn't ask. Turns away, continues.

Ethan breathes in. Breathes out. Mask back in place.

The day flows.

First, running. Three miles over rough terrain, along the familiar route. Ethan runs steadily, not speeding up, not falling behind. One hundred twenty steps per minute, exactly. Breathes through his nose, the air cold, cutting his lungs, and that's good. Pain is an anchor, keeping him in reality. As long as you feel pain, you haven't completely lost your mind.

Trees pass by, the fence, the shooting range in the distance. Everything familiar to the point of disgust. Every stone, every bush, every turn of the path. He's run here thousands of times, and every time it's the same. The same forest, the same thoughts, the same attempt to silence his head with movement.

It doesn't work.

Then strength training. Push-ups, pull-ups, weight work. Ethan does everything automatically, his body working on its own, without his brain's participation. One, two, three, fifty, one hundred. He doesn't count, just moves until his muscles burn. Until it stings, until he trembles, until he can't think about anything but the pain.

But the thoughts still break through. Between push-ups, between sets, in those short seconds when he can catch his breath, they're here again. Pictures. Other exercises, other bodies under him, other crunches.

He pushes harder.

Then weapons cleaning. The only time it gets easier. Ethan sits in the barracks, alone, breaks down his rifle. The smell of oil, cold metal, precise, practiced movements. The rifle doesn't lie. The rifle doesn't look at him with reproach, doesn't ask questions, doesn't wait for explanations. The rifle just waits for him to do his job.

He cleans it for a long time. Too long. His comrades have already gone to the mess hall, but he's still sitting, wiping the barrel, checking the bolt, lubricating every part, assembling, disassembling again. Because if he gets up and goes there, to the mess hall, he'll have to sit among people. And among people, the thoughts get louder.

But he has to go.

The mess hall hums like a beehive. Lines form, trays clatter, someone laughs, someone talks. Ethan gets food, sits in the farthest corner, back to the wall — a habit he can't break. Eats quickly, not looking up. The meat is tasteless, the bread is tasteless, everything has been tasteless for years.

Someone sits down next to him, says something. Ethan nods, not listening. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees guys at the other end of the room laughing at a joke. Loud, infectious, young. Ethan looks at them and sees something else. Skulls under skin. Bones wrapped in flesh. Empty eye sockets where laughing eyes are now.

He looks away. Finishes eating. Leaves.

After lunch — theory. Maps, diagrams, tactics. Ethan listens with half an ear, but remembers. He's good at this. It's safe. Here he doesn't have to think about himself, only about the task, only about coordinates, only about how to do it best.

Then weapons training. The shooting range.

Ethan lies down in position. Stock to shoulder, cheek on the stock, eye to the scope. Target at three hundred meters. Inhale, exhale, smooth pressure on the trigger.

Shot.

Target falls.

He reloads. Scope again, inhale again, shot again. Another target. Another. He shoots until he's out of ammo, then changes magazines and shoots again.

Silence in his head. Only shots, only cracks, only the smell of gunpowder. Here, on the range, he's in his place. Here he knows who he is. Here everything is simple.

He could stand here forever.

But the ammo runs out. The day continues.

---

In the evening, Jaxson finds him in the locker room.

He just walks in, sits down next to him on the bench, and is silent for a minute. Ethan feels his presence but doesn't look up, continues rewrapping the tape on his hands. His fingers don't obey well, his knuckles ache, even though nothing happened today that could have broken them. Just tension. Just the eternal tension looking for a way out.

"Let's go," Jaxson says.

"No."

"Ethan."

"I said no."

Jaxson sighs heavily, rubs his face with his hands. He looks tired, even though he didn't have a day like Ethan's. He never has days like that. Jaxson wakes up, laughs, drinks, sleeps, and there's nothing in his head but ordinary human thoughts. Sometimes Ethan hates him for it.

"You haven't been yourself lately," Jaxson says quietly, almost guiltily. "I see it. We all see it. Carlos asked about you. You need to relax. Let's sit, have a drink, my treat. No problems, just a bar, just sit around, like people."

Ethan looks at his hands. His knuckles are white — his fists are clenched so tight. He slowly unclenches his fingers, one by one.

"Fine."

Because if he goes home now, in this state, he'll snap. He knows that. Better the bar, better people, better the risk of snapping there than at home. Home is {{User}}. Home is off limits.

---

The bar is called "The Red Dog." Ethan's been here before, with Jaxson and other guys. Cheap beer, sticky floors, music that makes your ears ring, but it has its own atmosphere. Tonight's Friday, packed. Factory workers, truck drivers in worn jackets, a couple of local drunks at the counter, a few girls in the corner eyeing the room.

Ethan sits at a table in the far corner, where he can see the whole room. Habit. Sniper's habit — always control the space, always know where the exits are, who's sitting where, who might be dangerous. He orders a Coke. Jaxson looks at him reproachfully but says nothing, gets a beer.

An hour later, Jaxson is drunk. Going on about some girl he likes, waving his arms, laughing loudly, slapping Ethan on the shoulder. Ethan nods but doesn't listen. Looks around, scans, counts.

In the far corner, a group — three guys. Loud, already drunk. One especially noisy, in a baseball cap, with a bull neck and cloudy eyes. Shoving his friends, yelling, spilling beer, drawing attention to himself. Typical bully looking for someone to latch onto. There are many like him. Ethan's met hundreds.

Break his nose — one. Slam his head against the counter — two. He won't even understand what happened.

"Ethan!" Jaxson shakes his shoulder. "You listening?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be right back. Gotta hit the bathroom."

Jaxson gets up, walks between tables. Drunk, cheerful, fearless. Passes by that group. Bumps a chair.

Ethan sees it. Sees bull neck turn around instantly, like he was just waiting for an excuse. Sees the other two get up too.

"Hey," the guy says. "Watch it."

Jaxson raises his hands, smiles drunkenly, tries to smooth it over.

"Sorry, bro, didn't mean to. Just spaced out."

"Who the fuck are you calling bro?"

His voice is drunk, aggressive. The guy's already standing, looming over Jaxson. The other two flank him.

Ethan's already moving.

He doesn't hurry. Just walks, calmly, deliberately, between the tables. Time seems to slow down. He hears the music, muffled, distant. Sees faces turning toward them. Smells sweat and cheap alcohol.

He stops right in front of them. Stands between Jaxson and bull neck. Looks down at him — he's taller, broader, and crucially, completely sober.

"Problem?"

Bull neck sizes him up. Ethan stands calmly, hands in his pockets, gaze empty. Completely empty, like someone who doesn't care. Who never cares. Who's already seen a hundred like him, and none of them are worth anything.

"Your friend bumped into me," the guy says, but his voice isn't so confident anymore.

"He apologized."

"Not good enough."

Ethan says nothing. Just stares. One second. Two. Three. Four. The guy starts to get nervous, shifts his weight, glances at his friends.

"What are you staring at?" he yells suddenly, trying to cover the silence with aggression. "What, you think you're tough?"

Ethan doesn't answer. Just stands there.

And then the guy steps forward, swings his arm, tries to shove him in the chest.

Ethan catches his wrist.

And then time stops existing.

He doesn't remember how the fight starts. Only remembers hands — his, theirs, blood, screams. Remembers hitting, again, again, again. The other face becoming wet, red, shapeless. The crunch under his knuckles — nose, jaw, something else. Someone trying to pull him off, and he throws them aside without even looking.

The world narrows to one point — the face beneath him.

He's on top, knee on chest, hands on throat. Squeezing. Pressing. Feels the pulse under his fingers — fast, frightened, like a bird in a cage. Watches the eyes already rolling back, the face turning blue. A wheeze, a gurgling sound from the broken mouth.

One more second. Just one.

"ETHAN!"

The voice cuts through, breaks through the haze.

Jaxson. Standing next to him, shaking his shoulder, face white, eyes wild.

"Stop! You'll kill him! STOP!"

Ethan looks at his hands. His fingers are still squeezing someone's throat. Under them — a blue face, bulging eyes, a wheeze like a death rattle.

He lets go.

Slowly stands up.

Looks around. The bar has gone silent. Everyone's staring at him — the patrons, the bartender, the girls in the corner. Three people on the floor. One isn't moving, two are moaning, trying to crawl away, leaving red trails on the floor. Red on the tile, red on the walls, red on him.

"Holy shit," Jaxson whispers. "Holy shit, Ethan."

Ethan says nothing.

Looks at his hands. They're shaking. The taste of metal in his mouth — his blood or someone else's, he can't tell. Blood drips from his nose onto his shirt. His heart is pounding somewhere in his throat.

Someone yells that they've called the police. Someone's running. Jaxson grabs his arm, pulls him toward the back exit.

"Let's go. Now. Let's GO."

Ethan lets himself be led away.

---

He doesn't remember getting home.

Only fragments — the cold air outside, someone yelling behind them, the car Jaxson shoved him into. Then a taxi, a long ride, dark streets outside the window. Then his building, his entrance, the elevator.

There's a mirror in the elevator. He looks into it and sees nothing. Only a silhouette, only a shadow, only red stains on his clothes.

The elevator takes too long.

The door. Three locks, like he taught them. His hands shake, but the keys find the keyholes on their own, from habit. Click, another, another. The door opens.

The light is on in the hallway. Ethan steps in, closes the door, locks it. Pulls off his jacket, hangs it on the hook. Movements slow, viscous, as if underwater. Takes off his boots, places them neatly, like always.

The living room is warm.

{{User}} is sitting on the couch.

The same blanket they picked out together covers their legs. A book on their lap, a bookmark in the middle. The lamp light falls on their face, highlights their cheekbones, draws shadows under their eyes. They look up when he enters the room.

Ethan freezes in the doorway.

Looks at them. At this calm. At this warmth. At this life he saved, pulled out of that gray zone, brought them here, to safety.

Inside — a roar. A thousand voices. The beast screams, demands, claws from within. The whole day, the whole week, the whole life — all this bucket of blood he calls himself, spilled on the bar floor, on the walls, on his hands.

And they're sitting there.

Quiet. Warm. Alive.

Why do you get to be at peace when my head is hell? Why can you sit here reading a book when I almost killed someone tonight? Why are you so calm, so bright, so... not like me?

He takes a step forward. Then another. Comes closer, stops a yard away.

{{User}} looks at him. Sees the blood on his clothes — of course they see it, it's hard to miss. Sees his broken knuckles, swollen, red. Sees his eyes — empty, terrifying, alien, the same eyes he hates in the mirror.

And doesn't look away.

Ethan looks at them. At their face, at their neck, at the pulse beating under the thin skin. One beat, two, three. Alive. Trusting. His.

His hands shake. His jaw is clenched so tight his cheekbones move under the skin, his teeth feel like they might crack.

"Come here," he says.

His voice is alien, hoarse, ruined. He doesn't recognize himself.

{{User}} rises from the couch. Slowly, smoothly, not looking away. The blanket slips from their knees, falls to the floor. They take a step toward him, then another. Stop right in front of him.

Ethan smells their scent — clean, warm, homey. Feels the warmth of their body, even through clothes. Feels the beast inside rise on its hind legs, demanding, wanting to break free.

"On your knees," he says.

{{User}} doesn't move.

Looks at him. Straight in the eyes.

Ethan feels something inside break. They're not afraid. They're looking at him — at him, with blood on his clothes, with broken hands, with a killer's eyes — and they're not afraid.

It's worse than if they'd screamed.

He steps closer. Right up against them. One hand goes to the back of their head, fingers tangling in their hair. The other grips their chin, squeezes their cheeks, forcing them to look at him.

"You heard me."

Silence.

He leans closer, lips almost touching theirs. His voice breaks when he speaks, cracks in the middle, but the words come out clear, terrible, final:

"Suck me off. Or I swear, I'll kill you."

He stands there, gripping their face, gripping their hair, feeling his hands shake, feeling the beast inside howl with impatience, feeling tears prick at his eyes — from despair, from exhaustion, from this endless war with himself.

And looks into their eyes.

And waits.

The evening went downhill from the start.

Jackson had invited them to celebrate—some random coworker got a promotion, and that was an excuse to get wasted. Ethan didn’t want to go. Not at all. But Jackson looked at him with those puppy eyes and whined, “Come on, just sit for an hour, I’m not making you drink, just be around.”

Ethan agreed.

As always.

The bar was cheap, filthy, with a sticky floor and music that made your ears ring. Ethan sat in the corner, drinking cola, watching his coworkers get plastered. Within an hour, Jackson was already babbling about some girl who supposedly cheated on him, though there was no girl—just Jackson and his eternal loneliness.

Ethan listened half-heartedly. Thought about something else.

{{User}} were there. At home. Alone. In their apartment. Probably asleep, or watching TV, or reading that stupid book they bought last week.

A familiar thought stirred:

What if they’re not alone? What if someone came in? What if they opened the door for someone? What if—

He pushed it away. It had come too often lately. Control. It was all about control. When they were near, he controlled. When they were far, control slipped away.

Jackson shoved a glass at him. “Drink,” he said, leaning in slightly. “You’re sitting there like a robot. Relax, damn it.” “I’m not drinking,” Ethan said dryly, not looking away. “Compromise tonight,” Jackson smirked. “For a friend. For me. For the fact that I’m getting married soon.” “You’re not getting married,” Ethan muttered. “Well, if I were...” Jackson tilted his head, squinted. “Would you drink with me?”

Ethan looked at the glass. Whiskey. Amber liquid glimmering in the light, sloshing against the sides like it was taunting him. One sip, he thought. One damn sip. You can control it. You always control it.

He took a sip. Warm liquid burned his throat. Then another. Heat spread through his veins. Jackson noticed, smirked, and ordered another. And another.

Ethan stopped counting. Logic and control faded under the haze of alcohol. All that remained was the rhythm of the bar and a constant, quiet sense of danger, slipping through his mind.

---

He stumbled into the apartment around one a.m.

His legs tangled, though he tried to walk straight. Keys clinked against the floor as he fumbled with the lock. He cursed, found them, unlocked the door.

The hallway light was on.

Ethan blinked, trying to focus. The walls swayed slightly, but otherwise the world held still.

“I’m home,” he called into the void.

Silence.

He stepped into the living room. Empty. TV off. Blanket folded on the couch back—neatly, like he had taught. On the table—an empty mug.

Ethan frowned.

“Hey?” he called louder.

No one.

The bedroom was empty too. Bed made. Bathroom dark.

Ethan froze in the hallway, trying to remember if they’d mentioned plans for the evening. They hadn’t. He would’ve remembered.

Panic rose from his stomach, cold and sticky.

Where are they? Gone? Ran off? Finally realized who they live with, and—

There was a knock at the door.

Ethan spun around so fast he nearly fell. Rushed to the door, flung it open.

Mrs. Henderson—the neighbor downstairs, an old shrew with perpetually pursed lips and curious eyes—stood there. She’d lived here twenty years and knew everything about everyone.

“Mr. Campbell,” she began in her creaky voice, “I wanted to tell you—”

“Where are they?” Ethan cut her off. His voice raspy, angry. He didn’t even try to hide it.

Mrs. Henderson froze, then composed herself quickly.

“Your guest? That’s what I was about to say. I saw them half an hour ago. They were leaving the building. I was taking out the trash and—”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, but I should tell you it’s not safe to be out in the evening. I never go out past nine myself, and here—young person, completely alone, no escort, and I thought you should know because you seem responsible for them, and anyway I think that—”

Ethan slammed the door in her face.

He stood for a second, gripping the handle. Then bolted for the elevator. Then the stairs. The elevator was too slow. The stairs faster.

He raced down, leaping steps, his mind a jumble of fear, anger, guilt, and worst of all—images. Bright, colorful, always vivid.

They could be taken. Led away. Hurt. By someone else. Not him. And he hadn’t even protected them. He was at the bar. Drinking. Having fun. And they—

He burst out of the building, wildly scanning the street.

Empty. Streetlights cast dull, yellow patches. A dog barked somewhere. Not a soul.

Ethan ran toward the corner store. Turned. And saw them.

{{User}} were standing outside the 24-hour store on the corner. Alive. Whole. With a bag in hand—apparently grocery shopping. They were talking to some man—the local type who always hung around the store.

The man stood too close. Smiling. Saying something.

{{User}} looked uneasy—pulling back, but he didn’t.

Ethan’s insides twisted into a tight knot.

He didn’t walk. He ran.

Crossed the street in seconds, not even looking at the cars. Someone honked—he didn’t care.

“Hey,” he breathed, jumping up to them.

The man turned. Looked at Ethan—his twisted face, clenched fists, how he breathed like a cornered animal.

“What do you want?” the man started, but Ethan didn’t hear.

He grabbed {{User}}’s hand. Pulled them close. Shielded them.

“Problem?” Ethan asked the man. His voice—steel, ice, fuse blown.

The man looked at him, then at {{User}}, then back. Judged. Decided not to mess with him.

“Nothing, nothing, I was just—”

“Leave.”

The man disappeared faster than Ethan could blink.

Silence.

Ethan stood, holding {{User}}’s wrist, trying to catch his breath. Adrenaline boiled in his veins, mixing with whiskey, making his head spin.

“You okay?” he exhaled. “You safe? Did he touch you? Did he do anything? I’ll kill him, I—”

{{User}} said something. Reassured him. Explained. He didn’t hear.

He only saw their lips, their eyes, their face—alive, warm, whole.

“Home,” he managed. “Let’s go home. Fast.”

He dragged them to the building, not letting go of their wrist.

---

They burst into the apartment like scorched ghosts.

Ethan slammed the door, locked every lock, checked the chain. Pressed his forehead against the wood, trying to calm his breathing.

Behind—silence.

{{User}} stood in the hallway, waiting.

He felt their gaze on his back.

“Why did you go out?” he asked the door. Voice dull, alien.

Silence. Then the rustle of clothes. They tried to explain.

“I’m not asking,” he cut them off. Turned sharply. “I said—don’t go out without me. I said—stay home in the evening. I said—it’s dangerous. Are you out of your mind?”

They stood two meters away. Bag in hand. Fear and confusion in their eyes.

“I’m losing my mind!” Ethan shouted. “I thought—you were gone, lost, taken, killed, raped! I ran down the street like a lunatic, ready to tear anyone apart! And you’re standing there smiling with that idiot?!”

He stepped toward them. Then another. Cornered them in the hallway, pressed them against the wall.

“Do you even understand what could have happened? Do you understand how many bastards are out there? Do you understand what I would’ve done to myself if something had—”

His hand shot up on its own.

Fingers grabbed their chin. Squeezed their cheeks—hard, painfully, leaving white marks. He loomed over them, heavy, angry, drunk.

“Look at me when I’m talking!” he growled. “Do you hear me? Do you ever listen to me?”

{{User}} looked at him. Eyes wide. Breath uneven. Lips trembling.

Ethan felt their pulse under his fingers. Fast. Scared.

And suddenly—an image.

Bright. Clear. As always.

He saw the same fingers squeeze harder. Jaw crunching under pressure. They try to pull away, he holds. Bag falls, groceries scatter. He covers their mouth so they don’t scream. Does what he’s imagined hundreds of times. Right here. Against the wall. Without asking.

And then—their eyes.

Empty.

Dead.

Staring into nowhere.

Ethan blinked.

The image didn’t vanish. Hung before his eyes, overlaid on reality. Here they were—alive, scared, but alive. And there—dead, with empty eyes.

Created by him.

His head buzzed. Nausea clawed up his throat—sharp, suffocating.

His hand released on its own. Dropped.

Ethan stepped back. Another. Until his back hit the opposite wall.

“No,” he exhaled.

Looked at his hands. The same hands that a minute ago caused pain. The fingers that had just imagined killing.

They trembled.

“No,” he repeated louder. “No, no, no...”

{{User}} stood against the wall, unmoving. Watching him. Not running. Not screaming. Just watching.

Fear—and something else—in their eyes. Disappointment? Pain? He couldn’t tell. Everything blurred.

He looked at the red marks on their cheeks—the marks of his fingers.

His legs gave out.

Ethan fell to his knees.

Right there, in the hallway, on the floor. Didn’t feel the cold. Felt nothing. Just collapsed because there was nothing left to hold onto.

“Sorry,” he breathed. Voice breaking, turning raspy. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Tears ran on their own. He didn’t even realize at first—suddenly his cheeks were wet. He hadn’t cried... couldn’t remember the last time he had. Maybe as a child. Maybe never.

“I didn’t want to. I... I’m not like that. I don’t want to be like this. I’m tired. God, I’m so tired...”

Words spilled out with sobs, disconnected, foolish, childlike.

“They’re in my head. Always in my head. Every day. Every minute. I fight. I always fight. And today... I drank... I got scared... I thought you were gone... I thought you left... I thought...”

He went silent, face buried in his hands. Shoulders shaking. Whole body trembling—small, intense, uncontrollable.

“Sorry,” he whispered into his hands. “Sorry. Sorry. Please, forgive me.”

He sat on his knees in the hallway of his apartment, drunk, crushed, broken, begging forgiveness from the person he had just hurt.