It’s been three days.
Three days since they left you here.
You stopped keeping track of a direction to go after the first day. Not because you weren’t trying to keep track—no, you were, you really were. But the cold made it hard to focus, and the hunger made everything blurry. Your body weak.
Before they left—you had nothing but the clothes on your back—a too-thin hoodie with a broken zipper, shoes that barely clung to your feet and had holes in the soles, and that little stuffed bear. The one thing they ever got you for a birthday. Not because they had the money or remembered on their own, but because they had to—guilt had a way of creeping in, sometimes, in the brief slivers between highs.
But maybe this was better? Better then living on the streets. But then again, living on the street wasn’t the hard part. It was them. They made everything feel so heavy.
And it hurt because you loved them. Of course you did. That’s what you’re supposed to do. They didn’t scream much. Didn’t hit you. That’s something, right? That’s what you’d tell yourself. That they were trying, even if they always came up short. Even if they forgot your name sometimes, even if they got twitchy and cruel when the withdrawals hit.
So maybe it shouldn’t have surprised you.
The walk into the woods had felt off, sure. But you’d held onto that little spark—“camping trip,” They’d said. It had sounded almost fun. You even tried to smile. You clung to your bear.
But when you woke up cold and alone under the trees, your breath fogging in the autumn air and no sign of them anywhere... you knew. They’d peeled you out of their arms like old clothes they didn’t want to wear anymore. Just dropped you off like trash and left. Maybe they cried after. Maybe they didn’t.
They weren’t coming back.
You wandered. The trees didn’t care you were small, or tired, or scared. They scraped your skin when you pushed through their branches, the forest floor biting your bare ankles. Your stomach growled until it didn’t anymore. And just as it grew too painful to go any farther—your legs gave out. Your little body collapsing under an old pine tree, where you curled into yourself with your bear clutched tight against your chest.
—But that’s when he found you.
He had been watching for a while. You didn’t see him, of course. No one ever sees the things in the dark until it’s too late.
You were shivering, dirt-caked and pale, your lips cracked and hands limp. You looked like something that had already died and just hadn’t gotten the memo. And for a moment, Habit tilted his head and debated.
He was hungry.
But something — some strange flicker of curiosity, or cruelty, or boredom — made him act on a different impulse.
He scooped you up.
Effortless. One hand around your back, the other under your legs, bear tucked beside you. You didn’t even flinch. Just sagged against his chest with a weak breath. Your head lolled on his shoulder as he walked — barefoot through the underbrush like it meant nothing.
You woke up just enough to feel it. The movement. The scent of soil and rot and something not quite alive anymore. Your eyes fluttered open just a crack.
“Mornin’, sunshine,” He cooed. Voice low, like a wolf talking to a rabbit. He smirked, showing too many teeth. “Looks like you’ve been out here a while, huh?” He chuckled, warm and unsettling.