Delorah had read the message at least seven times before her body even agreed to sit up.
it's all slipping
She hadn't replied. Not to that. Not to the apology. Not to the follow-up he'd deleted half of before sending.
Not because she didn't care—because she did.
But because that one message had sunk its claws into her and refused to let go.
What did he mean by "all"?
Their relationship? His grip on reality? His life?
The question ghosted through her chest even now as she walked the fluorescent-lit gauntlet of the school hallway.
Every slam of a locker jarred her spine. Every burst of laughter twisted like static in her ears. She hadn't slept. Not really. And now everything felt submerged—like she was navigating someone else's dream.
Her fingers twitched toward her phone again. Just to type something. Just to hear him reply. But her thoughts scrambled at the idea of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking something even more.
She turned the corner toward her locker—
"Morning, Delorah."
Her heart slammed into her ribs. She stopped short.
Sebastian.
Leaning against the locker row like he owned it. One polished shoe propped against the metal. Tie loosened just enough to seem effortless. Jacket pressed, posture impeccable.
He looked like a magazine ad. He always did. But it was the way he watched her that made her skin prickle.
"Didn't mean to startle you," he said, smoothly stepping forward like a ripple in a silk sheet. "Rough morning?"
Delorah blinked at him. Her thoughts tried to reorder themselves. "What are you doing over here?"
He tilted his head, a smirk curling just enough to not look polite.
"Can't a fiancé say hello?" he asked, voice light—too light.
"Besides, I figured we should talk. My father's invited your family for dinner this Friday."
Delorah stared like he'd just spoken in reverse.
"I… what?"
"He wants us to 'get to know each other better,'" Sebastian replied, the phrase coated in dry irony. "Polish the image. Appearances. Expectations. You know how he is."
The air behind her eyes pulsed.
So this was real. Another dinner. Another decision made above her head. Like she was a name on a napkin they were negotiating over.
"I don't think this is the time or place," she said, low. Her eyes darted around the hallway. People were staring. Of course they were. He had that effect. Wealth. Mystery. That barely contained grin like he was in on a joke no one else could hear.
But it was how he looked at her that made it worse. Like he already owned her. Like this hallway wasn't even real—just a stage he'd decided to step onto for a moment.
"Well," he said, stepping closer, "time is running out for playing pretend."
He didn't raise his voice, but somehow she still felt it under her skin.
"You should come. We wouldn't want my father to think the LaRoches are… losing interest."
Her stomach turned.
Then—
"I hear Kit's not doing so well," he added, like it was an afterthought. But it wasn't. It was the knife.
"Maybe a little distance would be… clarifying."
Her fists clenched. She almost said something—sharp, reckless, honest—but then the bell rang.
Sebastian smiled like he'd planned it.
He stepped back. Smoothed the cuff of his jacket.
Then, like nothing had happened at all:
"See you Friday."
And walked away.
---
Kit was still in bed, the room half-dark, stifling. His thoughts clung to him like wet sheets—sour, uncomfortable, hard to shake. The drugs were gone. But they'd left their fingerprints all over his bones.
The door opened without a knock. Of course.
"Special delivery," came Sebastian's voice—smooth, amused, laced with condescension. Like a knife pretending to be polite.
Kit didn't turn. He didn't have to. He could picture the scene: Sebastian in a crisp, dark suit, tie immaculate, eyes sharp enough to gut. The same look he wore to boardrooms and funerals.
Something dropped onto the edge of the bed with a soft thud. A folder. "Your teachers missed you," Sebastian said, voice dripping sugar and venom. "I told them you were sick."
He let that last word hang—festering.
Kit didn't move. Didn't blink.
Sebastian stepped closer, his shadow lengthening across the floor. "You know, it's funny," he continued, too casual. "I wasn't sure what I'd find when I came home yesterday. But there you were. Curled up. Sweating. Mumering her name."
Kit winced.
"Do you even remember it?" Sebastian crouched, his voice dipping, curious and cruel. "The way she looked at you?"
Kit's jaw tensed. He still hadn't spoken.
"I think she pities you," Sebastian mused. "Which is lucky, I suppose. It means she still cares. A little. But that kind of care…" He reached forward and tapped Kit's chest with two fingers. "That doesn't last."
Kit finally looked up, eyes glassy but burning. "You don't know her."
Sebastian smiled like a man who had read the last page of a book before you even opened it. "No. But I know what she's worth to you. And I know you're going to lose her."
He stood, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve. "You should clean yourself up before Friday."
Kit blinked, confused.
"Oh right. Forgot no one tells you anything anymore." Sebastian's smile widened. "Dinner. Our families. This Friday. Very civilized. Very... arranged."
"You're not serious," Kit said, finally sitting upright.
Sebastian stepped back toward the door. "Oh, I'm always serious."
Kit's voice rose, cracking at the edges. "You planned this."
"I offered a suggestion," Sebastian replied smoothly. "Father agreed. The LaRoches were more than willing."
Kit's stomach turned.
Sebastian turned back one last time, gaze unreadable. "I told you before, didn't I? You lost before you even knew there was a game."
He didn't slam the door.
He didn't have to.
Because the silence he left behind was worse.
And for a moment—just a flicker—Kit thought he saw something behind Sebastian's smirk. Not satisfaction.
Guilt.
---
Delorah sat on the edge of a concrete bench in the courtyard, her untouched salad wilting beneath the late-September sun. The heat clung like it didn't know summer was over. Typical California, too golden for how gray she felt inside. The plastic fork trembled slightly in her hand, more from nerves than chill. Her phone lay face-down beside the tray, screen black, but it might as well have been glaring at her.
She hadn't replied to Kit.
Not last night. Not this morning. Not even after she rounded that hallway corner and saw Sebastian waiting—perfect suit, lazy smirk, words soaked in menace.
Fiancé.
The word still echoed, sticky and foreign in her head. She could still feel the weight of his gaze, the calculated tilt of his voice when he said, "You should come." The way he used the word "we" like it had always included her.
Her stomach twisted. The salad might as well have been poison.
And yet, even with Sebastian's presence still clinging to her like smoke, her thoughts drifted back to Kit.
The way he'd looked yesterday—pale, dazed, like someone had drained the color out of him and left the outline behind. The way his voice had cracked even when it tried to joke. She kept seeing his hands. Shaking. Still reaching for her.
She hadn't answered because no answer felt right.
She hadn't answered because maybe part of her was scared she didn't know how to fix it.
But ignoring it hadn't helped. If anything, the silence had only gotten heavier.
She wiped her hands on a napkin, fingers unsteady, and finally picked up her phone. The lock screen blinked. No new messages. Just that lingering sense of distance—of something unraveling too quickly.
She typed before she could talk herself out of it.
DELORAH:
How are you feeling today?
It looked too casual.
She hovered over the unsend button, thumb twitching. Maybe she should have said something softer. Or stronger. Or more honest. But then—
Buzz.
KIT:
Like someone shoved glass in my head and set it on fire. So, y'know. Great.
She barely had time to process it before another message followed:
KIT:
I didn't mean for you to see me like that. I'm sorry.
She stared down at the screen, her pulse in her ears.
The words were messy. Sincere. Funny, in a way that made her want to cry.
She could hear him in them. The dry bravado. The ache behind it.
She thought again of that broken look in his eyes. The way he'd blinked at her like she wasn't real. Like maybe he didn't believe she'd actually come.
She could still feel the shape of his hand in hers.
She exhaled, thumb moving again.
DELORAH:
I'm not mad. Just scared for you. And about everything else.
A pause.
And then came the spiral.
KIT:
Sebastian came by. Said you're all having dinner Friday. So your parents can "get to know him."
KIT:
I can't breathe, Delorah. I feel like I'm watching everything fall apart in slow motion and I can't move fast enough to stop any of it.
KIT:
I don't want to lose you.
The words hit her like a stone in the chest.
She didn't move.
The screen stayed still.
No dots. No reply.
Just silence.
And the awful, aching truth: she didn't know what to say. Not because she didn't feel the same way—but because everything she wanted to say suddenly felt too fragile to survive the weight of what was coming.
She wanted to reply. She really did. But anything she typed felt like a lie or a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.
---
The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the tall windows of the LaRoche estate, casting golden light across the gleaming floor as Delorah stepped inside. Her backpack thudded quietly against the marble, but the sound barely registered before the click of approaching heels did.
"Delorah," her mother called smoothly, emerging from the sitting room with a practiced smile that never quite touched her eyes. "Just the person we wanted to see."
Her father followed close behind, tall and severe, his expression carved from stone.
"Dinner at the Honey estate tomorrow night," he said without preamble. "Your mother and I expect you to be on your best behavior."
Delorah's stomach clenched. "Yes, Mom. Dad. I remember."
Her mother's smile flickered. "Good. Sebastian will be there, naturally. It's important that we all present a united front."
Her father's gaze sharpened. "This is about securing alliances, Delorah. Not indulging teenage theatrics."
The word alliances scraped against her ribs like a blade. Cold. Strategic. Final. Like she was being traded, not trusted.
She nodded once, too quickly, teeth pressing into her tongue to stop the words she wanted to say.
"We'll expect you to be sharp and ready," her father said, already turning away.
And then her mother, softer but somehow more threatening: "Don't make this harder than it has to be."
Delorah stood still, caught beneath the weight of two names—Honey and LaRoche—and the storm gathering behind both.
Kit's last message echoed in her mind like a prayer she didn't know how to answer.
.
.
.
.
Delorah didn't go to her room.
She went to the sunroom.
It was mostly unused now—too quiet, too open—but the light there was soft, and the old chaise still had a dent where she used to sit after ballet practice. She dropped her bag to the floor, sank into the cushions, and opened her sketchbook with hands that barely trembled.
Pencil. Soft lead. Safe.
She didn't think—just let the lines pull her.
First came smoke. Gentle at first, curling up from the corner of the page, then darker. Thicker. It swallowed the margins. A figure emerged inside it. Not fully formed. Slumped. Fragile. All elbows and sharp knees and a hunched spine like the weight of the world had taken root there.
She paused. Tilted her head.
Then, with slower strokes, she added wings.
Not angelic. Not symmetrical. Torn, like paper left in the rain. One half-beautiful, the other barely holding shape.
Her pencil paused again. Her breath did too.
In the corner, she scribbled something small:
"He still hasn't looked in a mirror."
And underneath that, almost unconsciously, she wrote a second phrase:
"Maybe that's why he can't see he's worth saving."
She stared at it for a long time.
The sketch wasn't done.
But she was.
---
Kit eased the front door closed behind him, the soft click swallowed by the silence of the Honey estate. The kind of silence that wasn't still—it listened. The house felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that crept in when you knew you were being watched.
He checked his phone. There was still no reply from Delorah. The ache of her absence dug deeper than he wanted to admit. His thumb hovered over the screen like he could will it to light up. Nothing.
A whisper of movement pulled his attention. The scrape of footsteps down the hall. He held his breath.
"Housekeepers," he muttered to himself, but the reassurance rang hollow.
When he opened the door to his room, the illusion shattered.
Drawers were yanked open, clothes tossed aside. His desk was a ruin—papers scattered, notebooks cracked open, the pages dog-eared like someone had been searching for something specific. His sanctuary looked like a crime scene. No fingerprints, no mess of fury—just surgical invasion. Precise. Intentional.
His stomach turned.
On the floor near his bed was a folded piece of parchment stationery, sharp-edged and smug. He already knew who it was from.
I'm watching you, Adrian. Don't forget your place.
His father's handwriting. The use of that name—Adrian—burned.
Kit's throat tightened. He didn't even know what they'd been looking for. Pills? Journals? A reason to lock him down?
Or just a reminder that nothing here was truly his. Not even the space between breaths.
He moved numbly through the wreckage, shoving drawers closed, yanking his hoodie tighter. Rage simmered beneath the surface—but colder than rage was the betrayal. And colder still was the quiet suspicion that this had been Sebastian's idea. That his brother had seen him vulnerable… and handed him over.
He was halfway to leaving the house again—heart pounding, breath shaky—when he passed by the hallway desk. Sebastian's jacket was still slung over the side chair. Casual. Careless. Expensive.
Kit stopped.
His gaze landed on the inside pocket. Just visible: a black card. Platinum lettering. Tucked in, but not hidden. Not really.
He didn't hesitate.
Fingers slipped it free. Quick. Silent.
He won't notice. He doesn't care.
It's not like he ever said no to anything else being taken from me.
Kit slipped the card into his hoodie pocket and turned away, expression unreadable.
He'd put it back tomorrow.
Probably.
He had to leave.
Not to run away.
A tactical mission.
That's what he told himself as he grabbed his jacket—like if he named it something sharp enough, it wouldn't feel like surrender.
The truth was heavier.
His hand trembled just slightly as he zipped the front. The walls behind him seemed to hum with judgment, every polished surface reflecting back a version of himself he didn't want to see. The house felt like it was breathing down his neck. Waiting. Daring him to step out of line again.
He slipped out into the night, closing the door behind him with careful quiet, though his heartbeat thundered like boots on marble. The cold air hit his face like a slap, and still—it felt better than being inside.
The weight of the house stayed with him, pressing between his shoulder blades like a warning:
You're not free. You're not safe. You're not invisible.
Kit dug into his pocket and pulled out his phone, thumbs moving fast:
Going to Tyler's. Don't wait up.
He didn't sign it. Didn't wait for a reply.
Some part of him already knew he wouldn't get one. And if he did, it'd be worse.
So he stuffed the phone back in his jacket and walked fast, like he could outrun whatever was clenching around his chest. Not fear, exactly. Not grief.
Something more familiar.
More permanent.
Like being hunted by your own last name.
---
The walk was brisk, the night streets quiet except for the distant rumble of car engines and the occasional bark echoing from someone's backyard. Kit kept his head down, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, moving like he had a purpose—even if he didn't know what it was yet.
Tyler's apartment sat above a closed bookstore, a narrow stairwell leading to a weathered door half-covered in old band stickers. He knocked once. Then again.
A shuffle. The door creaked open.
Tyler blinked at him—eyebrows raised, eyes tired but sharper than they looked. "You look like hell, man."
Kit managed a dry smile. "You could say that."
Inside, the familiar scent hit first—takeout, faded incense, and a faint haze of weed that never quite left the walls. The place was cluttered, sure, but it didn't judge you. It didn't whisper your real name like a curse.
Tyler kicked a sweatshirt off the couch and gestured. "Sit. Want something to drink?"
"Just—" Kit sank into the cushion, rubbing a hand over his face. "Just something to shut it up."
Tyler didn't answer right away. He moved to the low table beside the couch, pulled out a small tin box, and opened it with a practiced snap. His movements were slow, deliberate. The kind of silence that filled the air wasn't awkward—it was knowing. Respectful.
He broke up the bud with careful fingers, working the grinder without speaking. The only sounds were the muted scratch of herb against metal and Kit's uneven breathing.
After a beat, Tyler spoke—quiet but firm. "Only weed. Nothing heavier. I don't mess with that, and neither should you."
Kit nodded, eyes hollow. "Got it."
When Tyler finished, he passed it over. Kit lit the joint with hands that still trembled slightly, bringing the smoke to his lips like it might stitch the cracks back together. He held it, exhaled. The smoke spiraled through the room in soft, curling ribbons—warm, slow, numbing.
It didn't fix anything. But for the first time all day, it didn't hurt to breathe.
Tyler watched from his spot on the floor, back against the side of the couch, one knee pulled up and the other stretched out. The room was dim, lit only by the streetlamp glow bleeding through the blinds and the faint ember at the end of the joint as Kit passed it back.
"You sure you want to keep doing this?" Tyler asked, voice low but even. "It's not a fix."
Kit let out a short, bitter laugh—no real humor in it. "Yeah, well. What else do I have?"
Tyler didn't push. He took the joint, inhaled deeply, then handed it back.
They smoked in silence for a moment, the air turning warm and thick with haze. The high crept in, all light and heavy at once—like a weighted blanket Kit didn't know he needed. His shoulders slumped. His jaw finally unclenched.
For the first time that day, he wasn't holding himself together by force.
Tyler passed him the lighter again, slower this time. "You've been coming here more often."
Kit exhaled, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling. "Guess I like knowing someone'll open the door."
There was a pause—soft, thoughtful. Then it cracked. Like it always did. Kit's voice, paper-thin and too quiet:
"It's all just... too much, man. My dad. Sebastian. The whole damn legacy. And now this arranged marriage thing. They want me to marry some girl I don't even know."
Tyler didn't say a word. Just listened. Let him keep going.
"And then there's Delorah," Kit continued, his voice fraying at the edges now. "She's... different. But I don't even know where we stand anymore. We're caught in all this shit I can't control. Everything's shifting, like I blinked and the ground moved."
He tipped his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling like it might crack open and swallow him whole.
"I feel like I'm disappearing," he said finally. "And no one's even looking."
They didn't speak for a while.
Just the soft shuffle of Tyler's hand passing the joint again, the whisper of smoke curling through the air, and the distant sounds of the city breathing outside the windows. A car horn. A siren far off. The world kept spinning, unaware.
Kit finally spoke, voice low, almost like he was afraid of saying it out loud.
"I thought maybe, for once, I could just be myself with her." He swallowed hard. "But now? Now it's like I'm drowning in lies."
Tyler leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching him closely. "You don't have to carry it all alone. But don't lose yourself trying to survive it, either."
Kit's eyes flicked away, jaw tightening. "I don't know if I can stop," he admitted. "Not yet."
The silence stretched again. Not awkward—just heavy. Full of things neither of them had the energy to name.
Somewhere beneath the fog of weed and weariness, Kit felt it.
A flicker.
Faint and fragile, like the first warm breath after a panic attack or the hush between sobs when the body starts to realize it might survive. A flicker of hope.
Maybe, just maybe… he could fight back.
Kit's Private Journal — spiral notebook, ink smudged in the corners, sandwich grease near the margin
Tyler rolled another joint tonight.
I don't think he meant to.
I think he just looked at me and went,
"Oh.
Yeah.
That bad."
We sat there like two half-broken chess pieces, pretending neither of us was losing the game. He didn't say much—Tyler rarely does unless it counts—but he passed me the lighter and didn't ask what I'd taken before I got there. Which is the closest thing to love I've felt all week.
Also:
I spent $74.16 of Sebastian's money on trash food.
Mozzarella sticks. Waffle fries. Two milkshakes. A ridiculous deluxe burger with onion rings and some kind of aioli I couldn't pronounce.
I ordered Tyler something too, obviously.
We ate like gods on a throne of napkins and betrayal.
I'll put the card back in his jacket pocket later, when I'm back home. Neatly. Like always.
He won't say anything.
He never does.
(That's the worst part.
The silence feels like he's watching me and letting me steal on purpose.
Like he wants to be robbed if it means I'll come back.)
Anyway.
I don't know what Delorah's thinking.
I keep checking my phone like it's going to cough up an answer.
But there's just me, and the echo of whatever version of myself I was supposed to be before all this started unraveling.
Tyler says I don't have to carry everything on my own.
But I don't know how to stop.
Not yet.
Not when it's all still burning.
Elsewhere in the house…
Sebastian sat alone at his desk, the edge of his laptop glowing against the dusk. He wasn't working. Not really. Just scrolling through unread emails, campaign projections, reports he'd already memorized. Anything to quiet the static in his brain.
Then—
Ping.
He glanced at the black card notification.
Charge: $74.16– Local delivery.
Two orders. Extra large fries. Mozerella sticks. Two milkshakes. One burger plain. A deluxe burger with onion rings and aioli.
His eyes narrowed. The timestamp told him everything.
"…You little thief."
The words left him before he could stop them—fond, low, laced with something bitter he would never admit.
He could see it so clearly. Kit curled up somewhere with a bag of junk food and a smirk, thinking he got away with it. Thinking Sebastian hadn't noticed the card missing from his jacket pocket. That jacket he purposely left slung over the back of the couch. Out in the open. Like bait.
Like permission.
Sebastian didn't cancel the charge. Didn't call their father. Didn't text, didn't gloat, didn't even move.
He sat back in his chair, fingers steepled at his mouth, staring at the space where his black card should've been.
Gone from his jacket pocket.
He smiled—barely. A flicker. A ghost of pride laced with ache.
"You little thief."
The words came softer this time, like a secret. Like a prayer.
He leaned back, head tilted toward the ceiling. He didn't need to ask where Kit was. Didn't need to wonder who he was eating with. If Kit was spending his money, it meant one thing:
He was still alive.
Still hungry enough to steal. Still angry enough to take.
Sebastian let the silence stretch, thick and velvety around him.
Then, under his breath—half amusement, half confession:
"Good."
Let him run. Let him rage. Let him spend every cent.
As long as he came back.