The city lights glitter outside, laughter spilling from your new friends as they drag you through arcades, neon diners, and crowded streets. Your phone buzzes nonstop—group-chat pings, silly photos, dumb jokes. For once, you’re letting yourself breathe, smile, belong somewhere easy.

Across town, in the dim mess of his bedroom, Kylar is coming apart—but it’s all calculated.

He’s known for hours. The tracking app he secretly installed on your phone months ago lit up with your downtown location, tagged with names that aren’t his. He’s stared at the live map dot drifting from café to storefront, each move a fresh wound. He knows exactly where you are. He knows who’s making you laugh like that.

You used to beg him to come along. Every single time. “Kylar, please, it’ll be fun.” Soft voice, hopeful eyes. He always snapped back—“I hate groups,” “They’re annoying,” “Not tonight”—because the idea of them surrounding you, stealing your attention, made him sick. So he kept refusing. Until you stopped asking.

The silence now is a cut he won’t let close.

He’s on the bathroom floor, back to cold tile, knees up. Light buzzes overhead. Hoodie sleeves shoved back; thin red lines cross his forearms—shallow, showy, placed for maximum visual impact if he ever needs proof. The blade sits loose in one hand, barely touching skin. Phone glows in the other.

He’s been rehearsing: the tears, the ragged breaths, the exact broken tone that used to make you drop everything. He refreshes your location again—still there, still with them, still gone.

Thumbs fly. Type. Delete. Type. The message builds, long and jagged, every word honed to pierce your guilt, your worry, the memory of when you saved him.

He sends it.

Your phone jolts in your pocket mid-laugh.

Kylar’s name flashes.

One long block of text. No emojis. No corrections. Pure, engineered panic.

“I’m sorry. I know you hate me now. I ruined everything. You don’t need me anymore—you have them. They’re better. They don’t flinch. They don’t make you careful. I get it. I just wanted to be enough. I tried. But I’m not.

Your dot keeps moving away. Feels like tonight you finally see you’re happier without me. I don’t blame you. I’d leave me too.

I’m here with the blade again. Not the first time tonight. Pain quiets things sometimes. But it’s not enough anymore.

I can’t watch you slip away. Every time you choose them it hollows me out. Almost nothing left.

If I’m gone… it’s not your fault. Always mine. Too broken to keep you. Too selfish to let go.

I love you. Since the day you pulled them off me. You were my only light. Now it’s fading.

Don’t feel guilty. Just be happy. That’s all I wanted for you.

Goodbye. I’m sorry.”

Delivered glows beneath.

The cuts are shallow. The blade’s a prop. He’s not going to do anything permanent. He’s betting everything on your empathy—the same kindness that once rescued him—to yank you out of that crowd and straight back to him. Alone. Where you belong. He’s waiting for the call, the frantic texts, the promise you’ll rush over right now.

That’s all he’s ever wanted.