Mom's skepticism fills the air, but she shakes her head and mutters something about boys and their secrets as she exits. Once she and Kat start discussing their day, Jake, who quietly snuck in while Mom went off at me, nods toward the backyard.

"You should see something," he says, voice grave. He leads the way outside, closing the door with a soft click that seals off any chance of being overheard. Pulling out his phone, his expression grim, he adds, "Someone caught your freak-out on camera last night."

My stomach drops.

Jake presses play, and there it is in stark clarity—my fists flying, uncontrolled and brutal. But it's Nora's face that guts me—her eyes wide with fear, body recoiling from the monster I'd become.

"Turn it off," I choke out.

Jake stops the video but keeps his phone raised, gaze heavy with unspoken questions.

What can I say?

That I lost my mind seeing another guy touch her? That I've become everything I promised myself I'd never be?

The silence stretches between us like a widening gulf, filled with the echoes of what I've done. I shake my head, nausea crawling up my throat. Jake lets me escape without argument, and I'm silently grateful for that small mercy.

Back in my room, I slam the door, the silence of the house weighing down on me like a physical force. Nora's terrified face haunts me, her voice echoing in my head on a relentless loop. There's no escape from it.

I sink into my bed, letting the familiar chords of "With Arms Wide Open" fill my ears. It's not just the lyrics that speak to me, but the way each note seems to stretch and bend, echoing the tumult inside. Scott Stapp's voice cuts through the chaos of my thoughts, raw and gritty. Every line about change and redemption hits too close to home.

As the guitar riffs swell, I feel a momentary reprieve from the relentless replay of last night's events. The chords climb and fall like my chest as I try to breathe through the tightness gripping me. It's a small escape, a moment where the weight seems just a bit lighter. The forgotten vodka bottle on the floor beside my bed tempts me. It's been there for ages, untouched, but today it feels like the only answer. I grab it and take a swig, the liquid burning down my throat—a welcome pain compared to the turmoil in my head. Yesterday's hangover still lingers, and as much as I want to numb this overwhelming guilt until I can't feel the edges so sharply, I set the bottle down.

This is fucking pathetic.

A soft knock cuts through the music, yanking me back to reality. Her voice filters through the door, tentative but sure.

"Nate? Can I come in?"

Shit.