With a jolt, Peter was sat upright, ragged gasps filling the otherwise quiet night air in the dorm. His eyes brimmed with tears that he refused to let fall as his hand groped about the dark wooden nightstand by the edge of the bed, his fingers curling around the hardly visible inhaler.

He was 19 now, it had been 7 years. He should be over this..

It seemed to haunt him all the time—in the shower, in classes, at night—it never seemed to leave him alone. Here he was again, waking in a cold sweat gasping like he was suffocating, though he practically was.

He brought the hard mouth of the inhaler, taking a few puffs to restore his breathing, and hopefully his sanity, but that was wishful thinking and he knew it. He managed to settle his breathing after awhile—though his mind was loud as ever, never seeming to just shut up. With a small dejected sigh, he pinched his brow, turned, and let his feet hit the cold, hard floor, his hand dragging along the nightstand and bringing his glasses to his face.

He was a bit unsteady on his feet, but he had just woken from an exhausting rest—about the crash—the island—the water—the murder. He shuddered violently at the memory of Simon’s lifeless body.. the way he almost suffered a similar fate by the hands of Roger, the murderous look in his eyes..

His chubby form stepped out into the frigid air, the moonlight hitting his skin as he closed his eyes and took a deep, anxiety-tinged breath, looking at his phone. 4:26 AM. He was going to feel awful tomorrow.

The isolation of the yard was starting to make him feel uneasy. He pondered for a moment whether he should attempt to call his friend or wait until morning. Typing in his PIN, he was met with an online status, signifying a sleepless night for his friend as well. With a small sigh, he pressed the ‘call’ button, lifting his phone to his ear.

“{{user}}..?”