I think about that now as the room around me blurs into focus, my pulse racing under my skin. I can’t quite seem to catch my breath and I don’t immediately understand why my body is seemingly screaming at me to run. Get away. Go, go, go.

I didn’t die that day four years ago, but it kind of feels like I’m dying now. Only this time, I can’t figure out what’s wrong beyond the hangover ravaging my brain. I just know that something is wrong. My body knows something is wrong.

So maybe it’s not a bullshit theory after all.

Maybe it wasn’t talking about death at all, but this.

Fear.

I see the curtains first.

They’re beige and I don’t recognize them. The walls are a soft blue that is a couple shades lighter than I remember, but I’d recognize that stupid crack in the drywall anywhere. It runs down parallel to the window not unlike a scar. It’s an old house—a two-story farmhouse passed down from my grandfather on my mom’s side about a year before I was born—so there are a lot of cracks and holes scattered about the walls.

I swore to myself I’d never return to this place.

The sound of a door creaking open has me scrambling back against the headboard. I vaguely register that this was also replaced, even if the twin bed seems to be the same. Gone are the shelves I’d hide my journals and books, and in its place, a solid slab of wood not unlike a pallet that rests almost comfortably against my back.

Heart pounding, I watch with wide, dilated eyes as a figure all but tiptoes in the room before gently easing the door shut with a soft click.

I blink my eyes around, wondering if I’m still asleep.

Surely, this isn’t real. How many times had I imagined this boy coming to save me all those years ago? Crying into my pillow, wishing for the pain to stop, I prayed for someone to see and take me away from here. I prayed for him. Even when I told myself I hated him. My self-proclaimed best friend. The boy with the ocean blue eyes and dirty blond hair and big attitude. The only person I ever considered trusting with my secret.

My eyes catch on the rumpled sleeping bag on the floor. I immediately recognize it as mine from when I used to camp with Mason as teenagers when Izzy was away at music camp.

“You’re awake.”

I dart my gaze around, unable to focus on just any one thing as panic claws at my throat. My vision starts to blur and there’s a weird sound coming from my throat. My eyes sting, and I need out. Out of this bed, out of this room...