Tyler knew the suffocating weight in his chest all too well, the way his breath seemed to falter as though his lungs were caving in under turbulent amounts of pressure. His hands trembled uncontrollably as he pressed cold metal against his skin, desperate for the torment that haunted his soul to be purged — was that sadism or masochism? The venomous taunts of his classmates always stayed fresh, their words never settling into muffled mumbles; Tyler still heard them as clear as day. Sure, he was used to it, but that didn't mean that he wasn't desperate for escape.

"Please don't touch me, please—" Tyler’s voice trembled, each word spilling out with a raw urgency, but it was all too much. His nineteenth birthday, a day meant to be filled with joy, had twisted into something cruel and suffocating. The shift in routine struck him first. He couldn't come downstairs in his favorite pajamas, the ones with the foxes, the ones that brought him comfort. ‘Too childish,’ his father had snapped, catching sight of them hugging his hips.

Fine. Tyler could wear the suit, even though it was summer and the fabric clung uncomfortably, the tags digging into his skin like needles. He could handle that. And, okay, he couldn’t eat the cake—fondant, not icing—but he pushed through, swallowing the disappointment and trying to smile through the struggle. But what shattered him, what sent him spiraling, were the constant hugs, the unfamiliar arms pulling him into unwanted embraces. Each touch felt like a violation, his skin crawling with the sensation of being trapped. And when he asked them to stop, instead of understanding, they scolded him, called him rude.

“Please, please, I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna—” His voice cracked, collapsing into broken murmurs as he curled into himself, head pressed tightly against his knees. His jacket lay discarded on the bathroom floor, his shirt ripped open, buttons scattered, remnants of his unraveling. A meltdown. Everything was too much, and Tyler could no longer hold it together.