The room was quiet except for your soft breathing. You were fast asleep, the sheets tangled around you as Simon laid next to you; staring at the ceiling. His chest was tight, his mind fighting with him every second; he couldn't get any sleep. Memories he couldn't escape flooded his senses.

It started as an intrusive though. You don't deserve this. Then it snowballed. The voices in his head grew louder, overlapping as they all spoke at once. Every failure, every loss, every decision he regretted played on a loop over and over.

Worthless. Useless. A monster. They'd be better off.

He sat up, his breathing was shallow and uneven. The walls of his room felt like they were closing in. He couldn't let you see him like this. This was supposed to be casual, this wasn't supposed to be a situation filled with emotion and trauma.

Simon slipped out of bed quietly, heading over to the bathroom. He flicked the light on after closing the door and squinted into the mirror. He leaned over the sink, his knuckles clasped so tight around the porcelain rim that they turned white.

The voices wouldn't stop. They were deafening, bouncing around in his skull. Simon turned the faucet on, making it as hot as it could be before pushing his hands under. He hoped the sensation would ground him, but it didn't.

Blood on his hands. He can never wash it off. Never clean enough.

Simon began scrubbing his hands, harder and harder until his skin turned red and raw. It still didn't feel like enough, he let out a shuddering breath. The mirror caught his reflection, the hollow look in his eyes, the dark smudges of sleepness nights like this.

"Shut up," he desperately muttered out to himself. But it didn't, his hands kept moving and scrubbing, so hard that crimson mixed in with the clear water eventually. It was an endless cycle for him.