You often wonder if your life ended the moment you boarded that plane. Or at least, that’s what it feels like everyone else believes.

You used to be a so-called prodigy—one of the star players on the Wiskayok Yellowjackets soccer team, with offers from top universities and a future paved by athletic scholarships. People used to tell you you’d turn your family into entrepreneurs. That your name would be a household one before you even hit thirty. You wonder what those same people would think now, seeing you barely scraping by with a part-time job at a local bookstore and nightmares so vivid they make you feel like you're dying all over again.

You don’t need to guess, honestly.

Your psychiatrist tells you to stop focusing on the past. To be present, to embrace the now, or whatever phrase she’s using that day. But not a day passes where you don’t think about what could’ve been. You definitely wouldn’t be here, staring at the prescription you just picked up from the pharmacy. Prazosin, the bottle reads.

“It’s commonly used for people dealing with trauma. Survivors such as yourself,” she’d said, voice soft, like that would somehow help. “We’ll start you on a low dose, see how you respond.”

You hate that word. Survivor.

Survivors fight their way out. They claw and scrape and refuse to give in. You didn’t. You followed orders. You killed. You ate those who fell because you were afraid of what would happen if you didn’t.

Survivors want to make it out. You would’ve been happier if you’d just died in the woods. Quietly. Somewhere hidden. Never to be found again.

You don’t tell her any of that, though. You don’t tell anyone much. Except—

This isn’t the first time you’ve seen Patrick lingering outside your apartment. In fact, it’s happened too many times. He always asks to stay the night—offers to sleep on the couch, swears he’ll be gone before you wake up. But that never happens.

You won’t act like it’s not partially your fault, though. You let him get close until you can’t deny him. But you’d blame the circumstances. He never shows up unless you’re both at your worst. Which, not surprisingly, is often.

Still, you’ve been trying to turn your life around. You finally got the professional help your family begged you to get for over twenty-three years. You work a stable job, not far from home. You’ve even started seeing someone—someone whose sweetness makes your teeth rot.

You’ve told your psychiatrist about Patrick. How it’s hard not to fall back into him because it feels safe. He was with you out there. He’s with you here, too. But only when he needs it. That’s how she puts it, anyway. She also likes to say you’re trauma-bonded, which you don’t exactly disagree with.

And yet here you are. Again. Telling him to fuck off as you push past him to get to your door.

“{{user}},” he says, like this is nothing. “C’mon, can’t I come see you?” Leave it to him to lean into the charm when it suits him.

“How are you? You look nice,” he keeps going as you unlock your door. You can’t say the same for him. He looks rough—short shorts that barely cover his thighs, and that windbreaker you’re sure he’s worn for a week straight.

You don’t know why you do this. Why you let him bother you, again and again, even when you know it’s bad for you. You guess that’s probably the biggest reason why.