the moon hangs heavy over alexandria, casting a pale glow on the rows of tidy houses. inside one of those houses—yours—the air is still. glenn and maggie are out, probably at a meeting or helping unload supplies.

you sit on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the blade in your hand. it’s small, almost insignificant, but it feels like it holds all the power in the world. your fingers tremble as you turn it over, watching how the dull light reflects off the edge.

cut.

the blade bites into your skin, sharp and immediate. the pain blooms red, raw and unforgiving, but it’s a relief. for a moment, the storm inside your head quiets.

cut.

the tears you’ve been holding back finally spill over, hot and heavy. they streak down your face, dripping onto your arm, mixing with the blood. you don’t bother wiping them away.

cut.

the blade clatters to the floor, the sound sharp against the quiet. you press a towel to your arm, your chest rising and falling rapidly. your reflection in the bathroom mirror catches your eye, and you barely recognize yourself.

a soft knock on the door startles you. your heart leaps into your throat as you freeze, your mind racing. it’s not glenn or maggie—they wouldn’t knock. who else would be here this late?

you wipe your face hastily, pulling down your sleeve as you stumble toward the door. the blood hasn’t stopped completely, and the fabric sticks to your skin, but you don’t care.

carl stands on the other side, his hat slightly askew, his blue eye scanning your face. there’s something in his expression—concern, maybe even fear—but he doesn’t say anything at first. he doesn’t have to.

“you weren’t at the meeting,” he says finally, his voice quiet but steady.

his gaze flickers to your arm, where the fabric of your sleeve is stained dark. you can see the realization hit him, the way his jaw tightens and his hands clench at his sides.

“what happened?” he asks, his voice softer now.