i write, supposedly

Bay Harbor Butcher Suspect Commits Suicide After Damning Evidence Surfaces

Yesterday at approximately 10:34 pm a body was discovered in a remote area of Miami. The cause of death appeared to be suicide via explosion. The body, while severely damaged, has been identified as Sgt. James Doakes of Miami Metro Homicide. The body was found only hours after damning evidence surfaced in regards to Sgt. Doakes’ relation to the ‘Bay Harbor Butcher’ case. While the details of the evidence condemning Sgt. Doakes is unknown at this time, Captain Matthews of Miami Metro Homicide assures the public that all evidence points towards the Butcher being off the streets of Miami.

A photo accompanies the article: a group picture zoomed in on a short, well-built black man in a police uniform. Even through the photo, you can almost feel the man’s intense, piercing gaze. 

There had been no further investigation into the Bay Harbor Butcher case after Doakes’ untimely demise. It later came out that the evidence in question had been a box of blood slides; each slide correctly matched a different victim of the Butcher’s. You absently poke at the large bandage on your cheek covering the three-inch incision the mystery man had left behind.

Dismembered bodies, wrapped in plastic. Blood slides of his victims. Criminals who managed to slip through the tide of the law. 

The Butcher is still out there.

The thought isn’t entirely unpleasant to you. You’d paid close attention to that case, back in the day. You remember being confused as to the scrutiny the unidentified man had been receiving. He was only hurting people who deserved it: just like you. You’d never voiced your opinions aloud, but you’d secretly been rooting for the Bay Harbor Butcher throughout the state-wide manhunt. When the case had closed–main suspect deceased–you’d stopped paying close attention to the news outlets milking the case for all its worth. But you paid attention now.

James Doakes had been a loner. An ex-special ops soldier. It seems he’d suffered from severe PTSD and was known to be intensely committed to a sense of justice. It all checked out–of course, it’s easy to accuse a dead man. You have your doubts now. Sure, it was possible that the man who’d kidnapped you was nothing more than a copycat, a wannabe. But something about the depth of his gaze told you otherwise.

It only took a quick search of Miami Metro’s staff profiles to find him. A familiar face: normal, unassuming, with the forced sort of smile everybody had in identification photos. You read the name accompanying the picture:

Dexter Morgan

Forensics Expert

-

You should let it go.You know that. You’d been lucky to survive the Butcher–Dexter Morgan’s–grasp. Nobody else had ever escaped from the killer. You should leave Florida, move on with your life. 

But there was something inside of you, a hole waiting to be filled. A longing, an ache, for connection. Feelings that perked up at the idea of finding somebody who might understand, really understand. When Dexter Morgan’s eyes had met yours, it was the sole moment of your entire life that you felt seen. Not just seen, but understood, justified. Like your souls had been connected, mirrored for just a second. He’d let you go because you were like him. Because you worked to make the world a better place, whatever your personal motivations may be. You didn’t know Dexter personally, didn’t understand why he did what he did. But you wanted to. 

That was how you found yourself sitting in a cafe outside Miami Metro’s police station. It wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. In the past few weeks, you’d come to know Dexter Morgan much better. You’d traced his routine–extra careful not to be spotted–he’d leave his modest apartment around 9 am, head to the station, go out to a nearby food stall for his lunch break, back to the station, then home. There was little variation in the man’s schedule, only breaking for the occasional crime scene or coffee break. You’d even memorized his usual coffee order–white mocha, almond milk. Not exactly what you’d expect from one of the world’s most notorious serial killers, but then, you drank primarily frappuccinos, so who were you to judge?

You didn’t believe for a second that Dexter truly hadn’t noticed you. He was too smart, too precise, too observant, if his killings and framing of his co-worker were anything to go off of. It was the only time of your life that you simultaneously watched and felt watched. The crawl of a familiar car in your periphery. The uneasy feeling of eyes on you when you checked into a hotel. Green eyes meeting your own across a coffee shop, only for a moment–only with a hint of recognition. Sure, it could be your imagination. But you had a feeling that Dexter Morgan was watching you just as much as you were watching him.

It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, actually. More like you were playing some strange game of cat-and-mouse; getting as close as you could without being caught, and vise-versa. You knew Dexter had no reason to try and kill you again. And he knew that you wouldn’t turn him into the police. Doing so would be entirely self-incriminating. The both of you had the same goal, and you had no reason to fight one another. Your interest in the man was more curiosity than anything, and you imagined his was as well. It wasn’t everyday you met a fellow killer that you didn’t kill yourself.

Just as you’d anticipated, there were no interruptions the second time you decided to take out Rufus Beyer. You’d followed your previous plan to a T, easily stabbing his drunk ass to death in his own bedroom. You’d staked out his home the next day (risky, you knew, but you always enjoyed a bit of a thrill) as Miami Metro Homicide examined the crime scene. Rufus’ absence had been noticed far sooner than you’d anticipated, but even monsters had loved ones. 

You’d watched amusedly as a familiar car pulled into Rufus’ parking lot, revealing a familiar man with reddish hair and a button-up shirt. You knew that they wouldn’t find any evidence–you were far too careful for that. And you kept your every move unpredictable: you’d always thought that’d been the downfall of most famous killers, having an easily-traceable niche. But you didn’t leave behind playing cards or cut off your victims ears or anything weird like that. A stabbing here, a strangulation there, the occasional ‘accidental’ fall down the stairs. None of them could be traced back to you, not without a lot of effort–and who would put in the effort for these people? They were monsters with a list of enemies longer than a Starbucks menu. It was easy. Too easy, maybe. It’d been so long since you’d encountered a challenge. 

That’s why the frantic beating of your heart was more excitement than fear when Dexter Morgan exited the house, briefcase and camera in hand, before his eyes fell onto yours once again. You were parked pretty far from the street, certainly not drawing attention. He’d known what he was looking for, and he’d known that you would be there. Any chance of a coincidence vanished when the corner of Dexter’s mouth had quirked up, his right eyebrow lifting up as if to say, ‘that all you got?’ 

Rufus Beyer.

The name, while unsaid, tasted bitter in your mouth. Rufus was a caucasian man, five foot eleven, with dark hair and possibly the worst goatee you had ever had the misfortune of witnessing. He was laughing at something you’d said, his obnoxiously loud voice still barely registering over the pounding music surrounding you. The intense scent of alcohol, sweat, and weed permeated the air. The blinking lights and vibration of the hip hop-blasting stereo only made your surroundings all the more disorienting. Luckily, you were used to it.

You laugh back, purposefully pitching your voice higher than usual. Smile, you think to yourself, and you do. Not just with your mouth, but with your eyes, your body. Rufus is in no condition to detect the fakeness of your disposition, but you don’t like to take chances. Best make it believable. You sway slightly, just barely tripping over your own feet. You hadn’t had a drop of alcohol tonight, but Rufus didn’t know that.

You’d followed the man from North Carolina all the way to Miami, stalking him for days before making your move. Three months ago you’d read a headline that had made your blood boil.

Local Man Released After Faulty Trial–Child Abuser Let Loose

You’d read into the details of that case. They were appalling, something you didn’t like to think too much about. They’d been enough to lead you back to your hometown–Miami, your original hunting grounds. You normally made a point never to double back over your own tracks, but Rufus was worth it. Every time he met your eyes, you saw red. Every time he laughed, you wondered if he had laughed the same way while he committed the unthinkable. You had to do this. 

“Be right back, baby” Rufus says, winking at you before heading in the general direction of the bar, slinking through the inebriated crowd with the practiced ease of a snake. You take the opportunity to take stock of your surroundings. 

You’re surrounded by couples, all making out and grinding on one another. Nobody’s attention is on you, not even in your general direction. You quickly make your way to the restroom–a single room, no stalls–locking the door behind you.

You look into the mirror and find somebody both familiar and unrecognizable. Makeup piled on to hide your original features. Your outfit, colors you don’t particularly like ripped in the most promiscuous areas possible. Of course, you weren’t playing as yourself tonight. You check your stash: lipstick, check; pocket knife, check; gloves, check. There wasn’t enough space in your party clothes to carry much else, but this would do. You reapply your lipstick quickly before heading out, when something unexpected happens.

You’re a fighter: you always have been. Somebody prepared for anything–God knows you’d made sure of that a thousand times. And you’d prepared for this night. You’d learned Rufus’ MO, his habits and patterns. The plan had been oh-so-perfectly laid out in your head. You’d lure Rufus into his car, get all the way to his home before striking. You’d leave no evidence behind and be out-of-state by the time police caught so much of a whiff of anything wrong. You’d done it so many times before. It was a routine you were comfortable with. Maybe that’s why you’re caught by surprise at what happens next. A man shoves his way through the door. It’s not Rufus, and that’s all you’re able to ascertain before the man raises a hand. You feel a sharp prick in your neck, and everything goes black.

-

You wake up strapped to a table.

You instinctively try to shoot up, but don’t make it so much as an inch. You’re carefully restrained by somebody who clearly knows what they’re doing. You’re stuck to the table by your legs, chest, even your head is held tight by whatever restraints you can’t see. Duct tape, you’d assume.

Your stomach goes cold at the same time your head goes empty. Fuck. There’s no room in this situation for panic, so you carefully usher the emotion out of your mind and try to think. Your head is groggy, from whatever you were drugged with, presumably. You focus all your brainpower on remembering what happened.

The club–bright lights, loud music, and an evil man with a sharp smile. Rufus, right. You’d followed him there, flirted with him. All had been going well until your trip to the bathroom. You recall opening the door, an unfamiliar man shoving himself inside, and then nothing.

Not much to be gained from those memories, especially since your internal image of the man who’d taken you was fuzzy and incomplete. Instead you focus on the present.

The rest of the room looks oddly blurry and monochrome. It takes you a few moments more to realize that it’s not the room: the entire area surrounding you is covered top-to-bottom in plastic wrap. There’s only one other thing to look at besides the odd coverings.

There are four photos taped to the top of the wall: chillingly familiar faces that you’d hoped to never see again. A well-dressed dark skinned man, Jose Martinez. A short, plump woman with a tired face, Georgia Hubert. A young man with a bright grin, Kade Mathews. An older, retired man with a receding hairline, Randolph Hollin. Only a fraction of your victims, but enough to stir complicated thoughts inside of you. Slowly but surely different memories piece together inside your head, like puzzle pieces you aren’t sure are meant to fit together.

Plastic wrap. A desperate woman’s meaningless apologies. A Miami newspaper. A sobbing teenage girl, afraid of the world. Victims of a serial killer–what was the name? Graying hair died a violent red. A picture of a dark-skinned man on television. Blood stained satin sheets. What was the name? 

A man steps into the room, and although you’ve never seen him before, the name–an old memory–finally surfaces in your thoughts.

The Bay Harbor Butcher.

-

The man before you looks…well, ordinary. 

He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and black leather gloves. A rubber apron, a protective face-shield that you’d seen surgeons on television wear. He’s in his mid-to-late thirties, maybe, with reddish hair and a well-built body. He stares down at you, his face blank and his eyes unreadable.

Calm, you think. There’s a certain depth to his eyes that makes you almost feel like squirming. Instead you meet his eyes with your own, silently challenging him to some game you don’t even know the rules to. The corner of his mouth quirks up, just barely, before he turns away, stalking to the other side of the room.

“You gonna tell me who you are?” You ask, voice unshaking. You’ve been through too many life-or-death situations to show fear so openly. But you wish you could see what he’s doing–you can’t turn your head even a little bit.

“Who I am–” the man starts, before getting momentarily distracted. You can see in your peripheral vision him looking down at a table before picking something off of it. “Doesn’t matter much, does it?” He finishes, and you finally see what he’s picked up–a scalpel. He looks at it, not you, as if it holds the secrets to the universe. He sounds so casual–like an office worker juggling a phone call with his work. Like talking to you only holds a fraction of his attention. That is, until he returns to the head of the table. He says nothing as he expertly slices a cut into your right cheek, taking a drop of your blood and placing it carefully onto a glass slide. The puzzle pieces multiply, flying in circles around your head.

Blood Slides. Dismembered Bodies. Criminal Records. An idea floats into your consciousness.

“Why me?” You ask, softly, like you’re unbothered by the answer. In truth, the answer to the question is the most important thing in your world right now.

“Why don’t you ask them?” The man uses a large butcher’s knife to gesture towards the four photographs. “Did they ask the same thing, before you murdered them?” His eyes look into yours once again. Cold, calculating. Bingo.

The manic laughter that bubbles out of your chest isn’t faked. The absurdity of the situation, the adrenaline, it starts to get to you. The man’s expression doesn’t change much.

“Murder? Is that what you’d call it?” You ask the man. Your last bid at survival, you hold nothing back as you continue speaking. You nod your head as much as you can toward the picture of Jose Martinez.

“Jose Martinez– three counts of sexual battery and two of manslaughter. He was let out on bail in Cleveland before running to Miami. He didn’t change, either, just ask his ex” The man’s eyes flicker between you and the photo. You don’t stop talking.

“Georgia Hubert. Three counts of child abuse resulting in death. She locked her kids in a cabinet and let them starve to death, did you know that? Kade Mathews killed two pledges in his frat and got his daddy to cover it up. And Randolph Hollin?” Your laughter intensifies, and you don’t think you could make it stop if you tried. “Poisoned three of his ex-wives. Not that anybody could prove it. So tell me, would you call it murder?”

It takes a calculating eye to catch the subtlety of human emotions when they’re being masked. And this man, you can tell, is good at masking. But there’s conflict behind his eyes. A mix of emotions as his mind runs a mile a minute. He isn’t staring at you, now. Just looking into the empty corner of the room, as if there’s somebody there talking to him. His hands have stilled in the air–the freeze part of fight, flight, or freeze. He’s panicking, you realize with some satisfaction. You only hope for your sake that he is who you think he is.

The man seems to come to some sort of resolution, bringing his eyes back to your own. The butcher’s knife silently presses against your throat, a threat, a promise. His expression is so intense you almost look away. Almost.

“So you aren’t a murderer, is that it? Just, what? A garbage disposer, a debt collector?” His words hold the most emotion you’ve heard from him so far. You get the feeling that your next words are important. Maybe the most important of your life. You think for only a moment before answering.

“No, I am.” You say, quietly, with no doubt the man can hear you in this surreal room of dead-air and metal. The man's eyes don’t move from yours. “I just have standards. And something tells me you do, too” Your eyes flick around the room for a moment before landing back on the man.

His eyes study yours intently, searching for something. If it’s deception, he won’t find any. You didn’t say a word that wasn’t true. It’s almost a relief. Now? He’ll either kill you, or he won’t. You aren’t entirely sure which you deserve, not that it matters. You aren’t the judge, jury, and executioner today. He is.

The man raises his knife. You hold your breath. Not even a hint of regret washes over you.

Despite what some might think, working at Seoul's most exclusive nightclub wasn't always the best job around.

Sure, the nights were usually exciting—to say the least—and the customers always tipped well. But it also meant seeing the darker sides of the rich and famous clientele that frequented the space. You couldn't count how many idols—so beloved by their fans—turned into complete assholes the second they left the public eye. More than once you'd had to call a taxi for those idols after finding them passed out in their own puke. You'd occasionally thought about how much you could get for just one picture sold to the right tabloid. But you never gave in. This was the place that celebrities came to avoid the never ending spotlight.

Still, the job was good. It paid well, even without the tips. You got the opportunity to serve some of Seoul's greatest, and you had no shortage of crazy memories that would last you long into your old age.

But being a female bartender in any establishment came with its own dangers and annoyances. And the most prominent of those annoyances for you personally came with a name- Thanos.

At first, you weren't quite sure how exactly he'd gained entry. You'd heard of him before, but being a semi-successful rapper didn't get him on the same wealth level as your usual customers. You figured he must have known somebody important to get in. And he frequented your bar as consistently as he painted his nails.

The first time you met him, he'd spotted you from across the room and pushed his way through the crowd to get to you. He'd flirted with you nearly the whole night, never giving in to your disinterested responses. When he'd finally left at the end of the night, he made sure to see you off with such an enthusiastic goodbye that you'd think he'd known you for years.

This had been a near daily pattern for the last three weeks or so. He'd come in to the club and seat himself at your bar. He'd flirt, all crazed grins and dilated pupils, until he was too wasted to tell one person from another, at which point one of his friends would drag him home. And while you always rejected his advances—you did like to humor him sometimes. You couldn't deny that he was attractive: exactly your type, really. And he could be surprisingly charming when he wasn't stoned out of his mind. So he'd flirt, and you'd tease him in return, often even taking him by surprise. You liked seeing his face heat up, his ears tinged red, and his surprised yet gleeful expression.

And when one night he invited you back to his place, you'd actually considered it. You really had. But you knew, just like you knew the sun would rise the next morning, that being in a relationship with him would only hurt you in the end. It wasn't that you thought he was a bad person, really. You'd seen a lot of horrible men in your life—the kind of men you couldn't trust to hold your drink. But Thanos didn't strike you as that type. He could be obnoxious with his flirting, sure, but he never pushed so hard as to make anybody uncomfortable. He'd get into fights sometimes, but he never started any that weren't deserved. Overall, he gave you the impression of somebody trying to act tougher than they were, like a kitten spiking its fur to seem intimidating. He was almost cute, in that way.

No, it wasn't any of that that put you off of him. It was those colorful pills he kept in a cross around his neck. It was the white powder he'd see sprinkled onto his nose, when he was too far gone to even wipe it off. It was how he would drink himself into oblivion, if you didn't cut him off beforehand. You'd seen a lot of addicts in your life, even loved some of them. And there were few things more painful than watching somebody you care about deteriorate into a person they weren't. You'd seen many people like him, both famous and not. And you could count on one hand the different possible paths he was going down. Very few of them ended happily.

So you passed out drinks, and he flirted, and you teased him. You observed him from afar, watching the drugs control him more than himself. And you felt kind of bad. You had this strange urge to help him, somehow. To save him from himself and his self-destructive tendencies. But you also knew you'd only hurt yourself in the process. And Thanos, as immature as he often acted, was an adult capable of ruining his own life, if that's what he wanted.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You'd had a very, very shitty week. The type of week that could steer your life off track. Your future, fucked. Your relationships, fucked. Everything, fucked.

But life was life, and so you went to work. One of the few constants you had left. You poured drink after drink, fighting the urge to down them yourself. The pain, the betrayal, the fear of the future all seemed to swirl together in your stomach into something bitter and resigned. The kind of feeling that makes you do stupid shit, because why the fuck not?

It was something you'd felt many a time before. It's something you recognized in the surrounding faces so often, including Thanos'. It was a downward spiral. Seeking numbness would only lead to worse decisions. Whether or not you realized it, you'd come out the other end changed, usually for the worst.

The thing was, it was too hard to care.

"Senoritaaaaaaaa-" the upbeat voice came barreling around the corner, bringing with it the familiar purple-haired boy wearing his trademark grin. Thanos slides onto the barstool directly in front of you, leaning half his body on the bar. "Miss me, baby?" He says in English—something he does a lot when flirting. He sends an exaggerated wink your way.

You try, but fail to muster your usual playfulness when Thanos comes around. Instead, you sent him a wane smile, looking back down quickly as somehow his bright personality feels too much for you at the moment. "Usual?" you ask, already pulling out a glass.

In your peripheral vision, Thanos nudges his friend that you hadn't even noticed before now. "See? She knows me so well." He says. You don't even have the energy to roll your eyes. When you don't respond and simply slide his drink across the bar, Thanos waits a beat before speaking again. He holds up one finger in a 'wait' gesture, and you internally sigh.

"I think I'm in the mood for something sweeter tonight." He says, eyes still on you.

You can already feel the set up to some shitty pick up line. But instead of playing into it, you ask "So you want a mixer?"

Thanos actually scoffs at the question, seeming almost offended. "Come on, babe, you know I'm not a bitch like that," he says, and you do actually roll your eyes this time. Especially when he leans forward even more, bringing himself only a few inches from your face. "But I was thinking your lips are sweet enough, yeah?" Thanos puckers his lips, tapping them with one finger.

It's not the first time he's tried something of this caliber. Normally, you'd come up with a sarcastic comeback or push him backwards with the palm of your hand. This time you do neither, simply sliding him his drink and walking away.

You don't look towards Thanos as you start to help another customer, but you can almost sense a stunned silence coming from his direction. You're only just finishing up with the other patron when Thanos slides back into your line of vision. Holding a hand up in front of his face and waving it. With some effort, you ignore him again, grabbing some glasses to wash.

You think you can hear Thanos' friend say something to him. And Thanos himself stubbornly pushes himself back into your line of sight. He waves again, only to get the same result. "I must be invisible," Thanos jokes to his friend. "Come onnnn, babe," he drawls in a whining tone.

At last you lose patience. Setting down the glass you're washing with a loud clank, you look up at him. You aren't sure what expression you have on right now, but it seems to take Thanos aback.

"Do you need something? I'm kind of busy," you snap, gesturing towards the other customers at the bar. In truth, you really aren't that busy. And you know it isn't particularly fair to Thanos, switching up your attitude towards him so suddenly. But you're so fucking tired, and you just can't deal with his sunshine-y persona right now.

You expect him to be annoyed. Mad, even. But instead his eyebrows furrow up, forming an expression you haven't seen on him before. "Did I do something wrong?" he asks, voice still exaggerated but a bit lower than it was before.

When you don't answer, he drops his chin to the bar pitifully, gazing up at you with a good imitation of sad puppy eyes. And it really isn't fair that this guy, this piece of shit drug-addicted rapper, makes such effective puppy eyes. But unfortunately, he is actually pretty cute. Maybe it's the eye makeup that makes his eyes pop? No- stop thinking about that. You force yourself to turn away from the despairing boy.

Just as you think you've finally shaken him off, he appears at the end of the bar, full body within your line of sight. He drops to his knees, forming a comically exaggerated 'begging' pose.

"The Great Thanos apologizes for your grievances," he says, bowing his head at you. "whatever they may be. And begs your forgiveness, oh gorgeous one." He blinks up at you, winking once again with a playful smirk on his face. But there's something else in his eyes, something more real. Does he genuinely think he's done something wrong to you? Of course, he's annoyed the hell out of you, consistently. But you've never really minded much before.

At his dramatic display (which is drawing a crowd, you realize with exhaustion) your expression softens minutely, and you give in. "You haven't done anything, Thanos. I'm just having a shitty day, okay?"

Thanos' eyes widen in understanding. He stands up again, and he sits back at the bar. To your relief, the crowd he'd drawn with his theatrics quickly disperses. "Anything the great Thanos can help with?" he asks, still playful to an extent but seeming genuine. You can't help but smile at him.

"Just some personal stuff. Nothing you can help with. Just go have fun, yeah?" you push his drink towards him one more time. Thanos nods slightly in understanding.

"You know where I am, yeah?" he blows you a quick kiss before disappearing into the crowd.

You sigh, getting back to work. But you can't deny that you feel a little lighter now, somehow.

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Despite finally getting the rapper to leave you be, it isn't the last time you see him that night. He drops by your bar even more often than usual. Sometimes not even getting a drink. Instead, he drops by to tell you dumb jokes, stories that are too insane to be true, and even the occasional failed magic trick. But he doesn't push you to respond like he normally would.

Every now and then, you can't help but quirk a smile at his antics. And whenever you do, he instantly lights up like a little kid at an amusement park. Every time he leaves, he sends you a smile and a salute as if to say, "I'll be back."

By the end of the night, you're exhausted. Not in the physical way, but in the deep-seated way when your soul is just so drained you can't think about anything. You aren't surprised when a familiar boy plops himself down at your bar that's now empty.

It seems it's not only your energy is drained, but his as well. His energy is far calmer than usual and makes you wonder if he's more sober tonight than he normally is. He smiles at you impishly, with just a hint of something else. ... Anxiety? Surely not. Anxiety is the last you'd ever associate with him.

"I have an invitation for you-" he starts, and the word 'no' is on the very tip of your tongue. Your lips nearly form the word when he interrupts you suddenly. "Wait!" he exclaims, holding one hand up as if to make you pause. "Party at my place. Before you say no, I promise you, it will be the" he stops for a second, looking for the words. "Best night of your life," he finally finishes in English.

You notice suddenly the group of drunk stragglers hanging out nearby, waiting for Thanos. Going to his 'party' as well, you assume.

No. No. Absolutely not. The word forms, takes shape, and is about to come out when you glance down at his hand. His palm, which you previously thought to be empty, is actually holding something.

A pill, hardly the size of a dime, and the same purple as his hair. You knew instantly what it was—a new party drug that only started hitting the streets recently. You'd observed countless people take it, watching the unnaturally strong energy and euphoria take over their minds.

It's a bad idea. You glance back up at Thanos, who is being surprisingly patient waiting for your response. You look into his eyes, his pretty, pretty eyes.

The dark mass swirls inside your stomach. You imagine yourself saying 'no'. Going home alone to your apartment. Eating crappy takeout and thinking about how fucked up your life has gotten.

Well, you've made worse decisions before.

You reach for his hand.