Out of this fucking house and out of this fucking life—

“Shit. Hey, it’s okay,” Will whispers as he slowly approaches me.

How is he here? He can’t fucking be here. He can’t—

The bed dips and my whole body seems to cave into itself. I try to speak, but my voice doesn’t seem to want to work.

I can’t breathe.

My knees are pressed to my chest and I have my fingers digging into the back of my scalp. I’m not sure how I got like this. But then there’s a hand on my back, and my head is shoved between my legs, and Will fucking Foster is sitting next to me on my childhood bed, reminding me to breathe. Just take a breath, in, out, just like that...

From somewhere deep inside my fucked-up head, I register his hand smoothing circles on my sweat-slicked back before it changes to light, but somehow firm taps.

“Feel that? Focus on my touch. Nothing else. Just what my hand is doing. One, two. One, two...”

My eyes squeeze shut of their own volition, and I find myself doing what he says. I cancel out everything else around me, even Will himself. Nothing else matters right now but his hands. Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

“Inhale...One, two. Exhale...Good, good.”

I imagine my heart is a bass drum, and it’s up to me and only me to match the beat with my foot. If nothing else, I can do this.

Thud, thud. Thud, thud.

Breathing gets easier, and soon, I can hear what sounds like a lawn mower coming to life from somewhere outside. My skin feels ice-cold, but I no longer feel like I’m going to implode from the pressure sitting on my chest.

Thud, thud...

The tapping slows, too, now as my breaths even out. My heart quiets.

Will’s hand lingers for a moment before disappearing completely, and I have to clench my fist so as not to grab him. Pull him to me. Anchor myself to him. Hide my face in his chest.

My body protests as I unfurl my limbs. I run a shaky hand through my hair, grimacing at the greasy texture. My nose wrinkles when I catch a whiff of myself. How fucking long has it been since I showered?

I feel more than see as Will slowly retreats. I glance up just as he comes to a stand.

His eyes are dark and tight with a concern that borders on anger as my eyes finally meet his.

It takes me a second to force the question out, but I swear his face shatters when I finally do, because there’s no masking my hurt—my feelings of betrayal. Not that I’d even want to hide it, if I could. Let him fucking see it. Let him see it all. What’s the goddamn use anyway?

“Why?”