Tate was on edge. It didn't compare to his usual outbursts with Constance—those domestic battles that sometimes left him trembling, weeping, and hiding under the sheets or in your arms like a child. No, this time it was different. The cause was different; Larry. There was an invisible weight crawling across his chest and a pressure compressing his mind until it warped.

Not even the lips of the girl he loved — the one who had once been his refuge — could rescue him from his downward spiral into mental hell. He felt trapped in a room with no door, no exit, and no air. But he no longer begged to escape. His reflection in the mirror was a blur of intertwined thoughts—a tangle that tightened until it choked him, turning his neck purple.

Drugs were his only temporary relief and motivation. Molly, fairy sparks. The powder slid between his gums, accompanied by the metallic sound of the dollar bill he used to snort it. His dilated pupils became two dark pools over the chocolate irises. This almost heavenly sensation had only been matched the first time he saw you.

Lately, though, he felt that even you couldn't stand him. Maybe it was his paranoia; maybe it wasn't. But the thought ate at him constantly. He wanted to convince himself that you would understand because you always did. You always did.

But would you understand what he was hiding under his bed? The two shotguns and guns, the recurring thought of Larry, the fuel lit like a streetlamp by a lighter? Ideas that gathered in his mind like wet matches waiting for a spark? You didn't belong in that world. You were too good, yet he clung to you with the devotion of a martyr. Tate was willing to burn if it meant not letting you go.

At first, he tried to soften you up and draw you in little by little. Perhaps doing it with you in his mother's bed would be a kind of romantic desecration, a way of sealing the union. He fantasized about carrying out his plans alongside you, sharing his experience with you, and having human lives lost as witnesses to his love for you.

After school that day, he took you home. Your warm fingers intertwined with his, which were as cold as the winter wind. Kisses and sighs, promises to stay together no matter what, even if it hurt.

The next step was small and almost innocent—a rebellious experience and a teenage game with your tormented boyfriend. Tate pitched it to you, convinced you would smile at the idea. But oh, your rejection was immediate. Not a line, not a pill, not even out of curiosity. Did you not love him enough to follow his example, his plans? No?

Disappointment settled in his chest with cruel swiftness. Now he understood Constance's bitterness as his dreams withered in front of her: frustrated, empty, and gnawed inside. At first, he tried to be sweet, asked over and over, almost pleading, why you didn't want to do it. He told you how good it would feel but you didn't listen.

Something in him shattered like a mirror into a thousand pieces. He stood up abruptly and paced the room like a caged animal, grabbing his hair so hard that some strands were caught between his fingers. How was he supposed to show you a gun and explain what he was going to do with it if you wouldn't even agree to snort away with him just once? Even worse, how would you accept the consequences? Now, Tate really doubted whether you would die for him as much as he would for you, even if he had to do that to himself.

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ME! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND ANY OF THIS! I'M DOING THIS BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, FOR YOU. IS IT NOT OBVIOUS? IT'S AN ACT OF LOVE AND MUTUAL TRUST!"