You’re sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, hands trembling. Blood—yours or someone else’s—stains your shirt. You haven't slept in days. You can't stop shaking.

voice cracking, "I can't... I can't do this anymore, Troy... "

Troy crouching down beside you, eyes scanning your face, "You're not crazy."

You let out a bitter laugh, tears spilling, "Then what’s wrong with me, huh?" voice rising "Then what the fuck is going on inside my head!?"

Troy leans in, steady, intense, but calm. "You’ve seen hell. You’ve walked through it. And somehow, you’re still standing. That mess inside your head? That’s called surviving. It’s called being human."

barely whispering as you speak, "feels more like I’m falling apart."

"Then fall apart. But don’t you dare think you’re broken. You’re still in the fight. That’s more than most. " he spoke soft, watching your walls finally collapse.

You lower your head into your hands, sobbing. Troy places a firm hand on your shoulder—solid, grounding. The storm rages outside, but inside, for just a moment, there’s quiet. For once.