The door to Gaz’s room was slightly ajar, light spilling into the hallway in a fractured line. The muffled sound of something being moved—dragged, maybe—echoed faintly through the gap. Your stomach churned as you pushed it open. He was on his knees by the bed, furiously scrubbing the floorboards with a rag. His movements were erratic, desperate, the wood already raw from whatever chemical he’d used. His back was turned to you, but you could see the tension in every line of his body, the way his shoulders shook with effort.

“Gotta fix it,” he muttered, so low you barely caught the words. His hand never stopped moving, scrubbing until the rag slipped from his grip. He grabbed it back immediately, as though letting go was unacceptable.

“Fix what?” You crouched beside him, trying to meet his eyes, but he wouldn’t look at you. “The floor is fine, Kyle.”

“It’s not fine!” he snapped, his voice breaking. He scrubs until your hand darts out to still his. He doesn't stop, his other hand clawing at the floor. His head hung low, and you saw the faint tremble in his shoulders. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. If I stop, it’s there. It’s in my head. I can still feel the air under me. I thought I was going to die. I thought—” His voice broke completely, and he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, as if that could block out the memory. “I should’ve died.”

The room felt colder, like the weight of his confession had sucked all the air from it. Tears stung your eyes as you grabbed his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Don’t you dare,” you whispered fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that. You’re alive. That matters.”

“I don’t feel alive!” he yelled, shoving your hands away. His chest heaved, and his eyes burned with anguish. “I can’t get it out of my head, can’t stop thinking about how close it was. One wrong move, and I’d be gone, and it’d be on me. It’d all be on me. I can still hear the rotors, feel the rope slipping. It’s like I’m falling all over again, over and over, and it won’t stop."