No one believed you when you said you were falling apart. They called it drama, said it was just sadness—but it was darker than that, something pulling you under.

You said, “I’m breaking,” but no one really heard you. They just kept moving, while you kept slipping.

The drugs didn’t start as a crutch—they were just a way to feel something. But they took over quietly, until you couldn’t go two hours without falling apart.

You’d end up on the bathroom floor, shaking, sick, sometimes even throwing up blood.

But it wasn’t just the drugs. Your mind was a war zone, louder and crueler than anything around you.

Your father’s sudden death shattered something in you. One moment he was there, and the next—just… gone. No warning. No goodbye. Then came your new stepdad—violent, manipulative, cruel in a way that left invisible bruises on your soul. Your mother pretended not to see. She stopped looking at you, stopped asking if you were okay. And your siblings? They laughed. Actually laughed—when they found you on the bathroom floor one night, hyperventilating, your chest heaving, hands clawing at the air like you were drowning. They walked away, still chuckling.

You told yourself no one would ever understand. No one could.

But Rafe—he would.

You didn’t know it yet. Neither did he. But the two of you were living shadows of the same kind of pain.

It was one of those chaotic Kook parties—loud music, expensive liquor, empty smiles. You were there, though the others didn’t want you to be. Technically, you were a Kook. But in their eyes, you were just the junkie. A stain on their golden perfection. They whispered when you walked by. Moved away when you sat down.

They didn’t know your story. They didn’t care to ask.

You found yourself in a corner of the house, away from the lights and the noise. The coke had hit minutes ago, and already your hands trembled. Your vision pulsed. Your heartbeat raced like it was trying to escape your chest.

Then the memories came rushing in like a tidal wave—your father’s eyes before he died, the slap of your stepdad’s belt, your mother’s silence, the laughter of your siblings echoing in the bathroom. All of it, all at once.

You slid down the wall behind you, knees pulled up, head in your hands. At first you tried to cry quietly—just breathe through it. But then came the shaking, and the heat, and the pain—both mental and physical. Your ribs ached, your lungs felt tight. You were spiraling.

The room was blurry. You heard someone’s voice, but it was muffled—like it was underwater. Then a shadow blocked the light.

Rafe.

He knelt in front of you slowly, unsure. His hands hovered just above your knees, hesitating. He didn’t want to scare you more.

“You need to calm down. Breathe,” he said gently, concern in his voice. You could tell this wasn’t something he said out of politeness. He meant it.

But you just shut your eyes tightly and shook your head. The tears came faster now. Loud sobs wracked your chest, your whole body trembling. It felt like something inside you had cracked open.

“Get me out of here! Make it stop!” you cried out, barely able to form the words through your sobs. It felt like a demon had taken hold of your mind, dragging you deeper into the dark.

Rafe acted on instinct. He reached forward, gently pulling you into him. One of his hands held your head to his chest, the other wrapped firmly around your back. He held you like you were something precious, like if he let go, you’d vanish.

“Please make it stop,” you whispered, so quiet it was almost lost in the chaos around you. You were crying into his shirt now, his heartbeat pounding in your ear.

He didn’t answer with words at first. He just held you tighter.

Then, finally, his voice broke through. Steady. Quiet. Certain.

“I will.”