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He knows. He knows the worst thing about me.

I stand up, closing the door of the bathroom and pressing my back against it.

His hand moves before I see it coming. His fingers grab my jaw, tilting my head back, forcing my eyes on his.

“Look at me,” he says again, and this time it’s meaner. “Look at me and tell me how much you took.”

For a second, I just stare at him, then I smile. “Why?” I whisper. “So you can calculate how much trouble I’m in?”

His grip tightens around my cheeks. “Don’t.”

I lean into his hand instead, because I can’t help it, because even like this he feels safe and everything else doesn’t. “You’re angry,” I murmur, almost curious. “That’s new.”

“I’m not angry,” he snaps.

And that’s when I laugh again, soft and broken. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Okay.”

His thumb presses hard against my jaw. “Fuck,” he mutters, scanning my face like he’s trying to piece me together. “You’re—” His voice drops. “You’re high.”

I blink at him, the words take a second to land, then I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “I think I am...” I’m not okay too.

When the fear started crawling under my skin, waiting for him to come here and judge me, I fed it instead of fighting it. I wanted a few more minutes of silence and now…now he’s here, and I’m high again.

My smile collapses. “I didn’t mean to,” I choke, and now the tears come back, hot and unstoppable. “I didn’t—I just needed—it was one time, I just needed to⁠—”

To let go.

“You came back and did more.”

I swallow hard and don’t answer. His hand drops from my face like I burned him from being myself.

“Are you trying to ruin yourself?” he demands. “Is that what this is? Because you’re doing a damn good job.”

“Don’t—” My voice breaks. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“Like what?” he fires back. “Like you’re not throwing everything away? Like this doesn’t matter? Fuck…” He’s angry. Why is he so angry? “You’re high and you’re not thinking straight.”

“It matters,” I snap, pushing myself away from the door even though the room tilts. “It’s the only thing that matters. That’s the problem, don’t you get that?”

“Then why⁠—”

“Because I can’t stop!” It rips out of me. Raw and ugly. My voice turns raspy, as though it has grown tired of watching me destroy myself, and carrying all the words I can never let out.

Where is the blade? You need it again. Feel. Breathe. Bleed.

“I can’t…I can’t just decide to be better, okay? I can’t wake up and suddenly not feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin every second I’m here, every test, every evaluation, every time I think about what happens if I fail…” My voice fractures. “I can’t stop needing it. It never fucking stops!”

I needed to forget…

Feel. Breathe. Bleed.

He stares at me like I’ve just said something unforgivable. Or maybe something he understands too well. “You should’ve told me,” he says finally, quieter now, but worse somehow. “How bad is it?” Stop. “How long has this been destroying you?”

Since it started hurting.

I shake my head immediately. “No.”

“Why not?”