By nineteen, Arin had lived through enough cruelty that his mind began to fracture. At night he heard voices—sometimes his mother's, sometimes the uncle's, sometimes his own—arguing in the dark.
"End it, Arin. End it now."
"No. Endurance is the only rebellion."
"No one loves you. No one will ever love you."
He would dig his nails into his arms until the skin split, just to prove he was awake, just to prove the world was still real.
Once, he stood on a bridge, staring at the black water below. He wanted to jump. But he didn't. Not because of hope. Not because of faith. But because he wanted the world to see him endure.
"If I cannot win," he whispered, "then I will spite life itself by surviving."