November 12th 1983

You had been quiet for ages. Shaky, flinching, on edge as you drove back from the woods. Jonathan can't imagine what happened beneath that tree, in that weird, fucked up world that stole Will. But you seemed traumatised.

It hurt. It really fucking hurt because he didn't know what to do. He hadn't got a clue what to do or what to say because the words just kept getting caught in his throat. And his hands seemed to stop working when he reached out.

He sat in your room and laid out an old blanket on the floor while you showered, setting up his little bed on the carpeted floor. Your room was warm, and very very pink, but all he could focus on was the sound of your sniffles and sobs from the bathroom, the wails over the sound of the shower.

And now, you sit beneath the duvet of your bed, sat up, just staring. And it was unsettling, to see you, so shaken. But still, he didn't know what to do.

"I don't.... I don't have to stay if... if you don't want me to, y'know, ... I can just... I can just go home..."