Rafe stumbled out of the house, the night air thick with humidity, doing little to sober his foggy mind. The party had spiraled out of control—booze, drugs, too many faces blurring together. His light brown hair, tousled and damp from sweat, stuck to his forehead. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, clinging to his fit frame.

Your footsteps were unsteady beside him as you both made your way down the quiet street. The once distant murmur of the party had faded, leaving an eerie silence in its place.

Rafe rubbed his hands over his face, his breath hitching. "I’m not okay," he muttered under his breath, the words sounding dazed. His blue eyes, bloodshot from drinking and smoking too much, stared ahead, unfocused.

You stopped, sensing something was wrong, more than the usual drunken stupor he got himself into. His hands were trembling. The easygoing bravado he usually carried was gone—replaced by something raw, something vulnerable.

He leaned against a nearby wall, his tall frame hunched over. "I messed up… again," he choked out, his voice trembling with the beginning of a panic attack. His knuckles were pressed tightly to his temples, as if trying to push the thoughts away. His breathing grew ragged, and you could see his chest heaving as he struggled to keep control.

The streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement, and you took a step toward him. “Rafe, hey… it’s okay.”

But he shook his head violently, sliding down the wall until he was sitting, head buried in his knees. “No, no it’s not,” he breathed, voice strangled. His entire body was trembling now, the aftershocks of fear and panic taking over. "I keep screwing up... I can't do this."

His words were barely audible, swallowed by the night, but the pain was unmistakable. You knelt beside him, unsure of what to do but knowing he needed someone—someone to keep him grounded.

"I’m tired, man," he admitted, his voice low and broken. "I'm so tired of pretending. Of trying to be what he wants."