#bmc reader insert

                                                            -

             An hour after you left, Michael showed up with a plastic bag filled with Chinese takeout for three - eyes widening when he saw your absence. His smile fell as he looked towards the bag in his hand, frowning slightly as he began to delve into his thoughts. For what felt like minutes, the two boys just sat there in silence as Michael finally untied the bag to pass his friend his portion of their meal, frustration evident in the way he furrowed his brow and refused to look him in the eye.

             “They had a family thing,” Jeremy said. “Didn’t [y/n] text you?”

             “No,” Michael said, “they did not. I said I was coming with food and-”

             “It’s tradition,” Jeremy countered. “Y’know? It’s that little... sign-picture-thing. Some sort of family tradition their parents started when they were little.”

             Michael rolled his eyes at the sappy expression crossing his best friend’s face as he placed what had been your meal on the dresser, before collapsing back onto his bed - tilting his head back to maintain eye contact. “That’s cute and all, but what do I do with their orange chicken?”

             He shrugged, turning back to his computer to close out Spotify. “I dunno - we can go by their house later and see if they want it.”

             He heard his comforter shift and assumed that Michael rolled over onto his stomach. “But I have egg rolls for them,” he whined, voice muffled slightly by what Jeremy could only guess was Michael laying his face in his hands.

             A quick booting down of his computer. He shrugged again, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Just don’t eat them?”

             The moment of silence could have killed a man. “Jeremiah.”

             He spun to face him. “Michael.”

             They maintained eye contact for a moment, before Michael shifted so that he was now sitting up - pulling the plastic bag closer to him. “So did you two fuck yet?”

             A thousand broken words slipped past his lips as Jeremy struggled to say something - a question, a swear, something that didn’t make him look stupid. “Why would you ask that!?” he tried to ignore the way his voice raised an octave.

             Meanwhile, Michael seemed to have no problem with disregarding his panic. “So you haven’t.”

             “Uh. No? We’re just friends?”

             “You sure?” Michael asked, not even giving him the chance to answer as he looked away. “I don’t know, dude, you’ve been pining for a fuckin’ while now. Why don’t you just ask them out?”

             “I don’t like-” he paused, before shaking his head. If Michael knew, then he knew - there really wasn’t any point in denying it any further. “I don’t know, I like Christine still-”

             “You can like more than one person at a time, Jeremiah.”

             “I know, but...” “I don’t even know if they like me still.”

             “Dude. Bro. Homie. Broseidon. Buddy. They wanna fuck.”

             “Michael!” 

             “They’re at least interested in you,” he said with a mere shrug of indifference, “do you just not see how they look at you?”

             “I don’t-” Jeremy started, and then he stopped, the words he wanted to say sticky and catching in his throat like honey. “I don’t think-” He paused, shutting his eyes, “Michael, I don’t know why they’d still be into me. Like... they did the whole...” He tapped at his temple, “thing because of me.” He hesitated. That wasn’t entirely true, was it? “Or... they did it slightly because of me. I just - I don’t think they’d, uh, y’know... want anything to do with me like that.” 

             There was understanding in Michael’s eyes, lit up before he looked away to the carton in his hand. He dug through it with chopsticks, letting out a sigh, “Dude, I get that, but... they like you, dumbass.”

             Jeremy laughed it off. “Yeah, sure.”

             “I mean it!” Michael countered, before dropping the topic, “I’m gonna eat your food if you don’t.”

             “What-” Jeremy popped open his order, “fine, okay - but this conversation isn’t over, Michael.” 

             “Mhm. You’ll accept it later.”

             “That’s not what I meant!”

             “You really suck at hiding your feelings, y’know?”

             “Michael!”

                                                            -

             Two weeks later, and Jeremy wasn’t sure how to feel. 

             There were strings of these little... moments between the two of you. He realized how much time he was spending over at your house after Michael teased him over it, how often the two of you studied together and how flustered he’d get when you were close to him, how many times he found himself grabbing your favorite candy from gas stations just to make you smile. One Sunday night, he was sitting at the end of your bed with a pillow hugged to his chest, spending another night at your house while Michael was off spending time with his family (not that Jeremy wouldn’t have been there otherwise - he stayed over every now and then just because he wanted to. Movie nights were good. Dinner was good. Being around you was good). You sat at your desk, legs crossed awkwardly in your chair in a position that looked uncomfortable to him but you showed no signs of discomfort as you continued to draw. The two of you had been talking, and Jeremy had just sat there fascinated with watching you draw after years of not recognizing your progress.

             A question hit the air, heavy and loaded. “Would you have taken it?” You didn’t move to face him, the soft sound of your tablet pen tapping back against the surface as you scroll out and fumble giving away any nerves. “The... the SQUIP,” you went to clarify.

             But he understood, and he spoke quick: “no.” He shifted slightly, holding the pillow closer to himself, “not after what it did to you.”

             “But if you hadn’t known,” you said, pausing for a moment to gather your thoughts, “if... if it had been you, would you have done it?”

             “I mean... I don’t think-”

             “You can say yes, Jeremy,” you finally looked back at him. “I’m not gonna be mad or anything.”

             His shoulders slumped slightly, a bit relieved of the thought. “Okay, then... yeah. I mean, yeah - who wouldn’t?”

             You turned back to your work. “Yeah. Yeah, right? It sounds good. Like... you have a pill that’ll solve everything and tell you the right moves to make... who wouldn’t want that?”

             That’s when Jeremy realized you’d been doubting yourself. Blaming yourself for saying yes. “I think a lot of people would have taken it.” 

             “Yeah... I think so, too.” You stopped drawing after a moment, turning around fully to face him, “can I confess something?”

             He nodded slowly. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, sure?”

             “I don’t keep the Mountain Dew Red because I’m scared it’ll come back and destroy everything and leave me fucked,” you said in a rush of words, shutting your eyes for a moment. “Sorry. I just needed to get it off my chest but... I think it’s better this way.”

             “Hey, no,” Jeremy reached out, fingers brushing over your shoulder. “Michael and I would find more.” 

             You fumbled with your pen, it falling to the floor as you swore softly under your breath. Jeremy reached for it just as you did, foreheads clashing in cliche fashion as you immediately push back. A moment later, he offered your tablet pen back to you.

             He spoke after you took it. “Hey, uh, c’mere for a minute.”

             So you dropped your pen onto your desk and pulled your chair over to the bed. Uncharacteristically calm and soft, he took one of your hands in a motion less Jeremy and more... you... you weren’t sure. It wasn’t entirely Jeremy, that much was confirmed.

             “There was this stuff that mom used to way when I was a kid,” he said quietly, dragging his thumb over your knuckles. “It was this whole...thing about how the ‘loudest voice has to be yours’ when you’re doubting yourself and shit - I don’t know, it just kinda stuck with me and... I’m glad I’ve gotten to know you, because you’re... different? Like - you keep going, and, uh, you’re a big nerd who laughs at my stupid jokes and... I’m glad you’re you, I guess?” 

             You cracked a small smile as you pulled back from him. Before he can question whether he crossed a line, you answer, “I’m saving this. I can’t focus on art with your sappy ass saying shit like that.” You stood, tucking your chair under your desk as you sat on your bed. “Fuckin’ sweet dork,” you mumbled as you pulled Jeremy into a hug.

             He stiffened up for a moment, only to wrap his arms around you after a moment. He smiled into your shoulder, saying a muffled “Shut up” into it as you giggled.

             You pulled away with a smile. “Why don’t you make me, Jeremy?”

             One of his biggest regrets was not asking to kiss you right then and there.

                                                           -

            Days later, you were in his room for once, sitting on his bed beside him. You were tired, far more than he was, looking at math problems that were blurry to you as you stifled back another yawn. Jeremy had stretched out, awkwardly leaning against his headboard as he tried to stay away until you finally resigned for the night - shutting your notebook and tossing it towards your backpack with a noisy clamor. You leaned against him, mumbling words long forgotten into his shoulder - likely about hating numbers - only to whine when he sat forward a moment later. Soon enough, he returned to be your pillow once more, laughing softly as you curled into his side contently and making some joke about how you only wanted him around for this reason.

            “Nope,” you had hummed, “too bony. Bad pillow.” 

            He snorted a little, reaching up to tuck back a strand of hair out of place. “You seem happy.”

            “I am,” you hummed. “Since it’s you.”

            He reached up, gently tugging you closer to him in order to worm an arm around you. “You’re tired.”

            “Mhm.”

            “Sorry I kept you up.”

            “That’s okay,” you mumbled into his shoulder, shifting slightly to be closer to him. “Math is stupid.”

            “It’s not stupid,” he countered, “you just aren’t good at it.”

            “Thus making it stupid, Jeremiah.”

            Eventually, you went quiet. At first, Jeremy thought you’d fallen asleep, but you sat forward slightly, looking up at him and it was almost like there had been magnetism between you. You had leaned forward, and he gently reached up to guide your face to his, and the two of you kissed for a soft, quiet moment. Soon enough, you had drawn away and cuddled back up to him. He wasn’t sure if he fell asleep first, but he remembered how warm you felt against him and he remembered feeling nothing but warmth in his chest as he eventually dozed off.

            There were a few things that hit Jeremy when he woke up. The pain in his back from falling asleep half-sitting against the headboard of his bed, the weight on him that confused him for a moment for a millisecond before he felt your hot breath tickling his skin, face buried in his neck. Then the memory of the night before - of a clumsy kiss he’d been craving for so long, and the way you kissed back and maybe that was his imagination? He wasn’t sure, but the thought was enough to nearly make him jolt - but you were enough to keep him as still as he could be. He looked at how peaceful you looked, and he felt his heart swell at just how warm you were against him and the memory of your lips haunted him as he felt his skin grow hotter. If remembering kissing you was enough to make him completely flustered, anything more would probably kill him.

            Eventually, you woke up, groggy and sleep-ridden still at first as you sat forward and rubbed at your face. “Jeremy, I hate to break it to you-” You paused, yawning, “-but you aren’t a great pillow.”

            He chuckled at that, sitting forward. “Hey, uh... sorry to, uh, ask, but, uh, do... do you remember anything about last night...?”

            You stared at him, uncertain at first before you thought back on what had happened. You threw your notebook at your bag. And then... It came back to you, striking you hard and fast. “Oh.”

            “I- I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I just - I was tired and I wasn’t thinking and I shouldn’t have...” 

            And he slowly trailed off when he saw the way you were looking at him, voice caught in his throat as your gaze flickered from his eyes to his lips and then back. He heard you whisper something - “fuck it,” he was pretty sure - before you started going in for another kiss - and he leaned forward to meet you halfway, a hand sliding into your hair as you grow closer to him. The night before had been gentle, sleep-ridden and warm - and now the two of you are awake and clumsy and so wonderfully alive during this messy kiss. His teeth had clashed against yours, your forehead bumped against his, but you correct. A little less force, a little more gentleness, a changing of an angle - the tiny ways to make things better and less awkward.

            In a bold move you definitely didn’t expect, Jeremy’s hand falls to your hips, pulling you closer to him by your belt loops (a cruel reminder that you were asleep in jeans). His kisses grew slightly more frantic, more hungry, more needy - the tiniest little whimper slipping past his lips once you finally pull yourself back, breathing softly as you stared at him. His hand slipped back to your jaw, thumb grazing your jawline slowly and gentle.

            “Jeremy?” you whispered, staring at him, “wait, you-”

            “I... I know we were gonna try to be friends, but... I think I like you.”

            You stared at him, flustered as he tore his gaze away from yours - a pretty rosy hue decorating his skin, blotchy and creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. 

            “I, uh, I mean, I didn’t... I never planned on, uh... I just - I don’t - I, uh, I think you’re... a big nerd. You... you laugh with me and you, uh, you care about things - and you... you remember things about me - and, uh, other people do but... you’re just... you’re different.” He trailed a thumb across your skin. “You... feel like home. Even, uh, even if this... doesn’t really go anywhere, I - I’m glad that I know you and- I understand if you don’t, uh, don’t actually want this to go anywhere but-”

            And you laughed. At first his stomach dropped, anxiety taking over as he grew nervous over the thought of you rejecting him - but something about the way you laughed made his heart flutter, one hand steadying yourself on his shoulder while the other hid your face.

            “I... I don’t really know how to explain it better, but... can I, uh, can I kiss you again?”

jerm being a dad.... is good shit

but he’s also an anxious dad sometimes bc he doesn’t want anything bad to happen and i promise u he confided in his dad sometimes and his dad was v helpful

but anyway thats sort of irrelevant

it’s probably ur idea to take the kids to the park thats probs not too far from where guys live

ur kids are super excited and u guys pack a picnic

OK jerm would like... get on shit with them and crawl through the playgrounds if they are Small Kiddos just for safety

im 100% thinking abt that one draw w jazza video where mini jazza says his first word where u see jazza w his kid on the playground

honestly uhhh i feel jerm would record some of it or u would

           Okay. Okay. This was fine. Jeremy pressed himself back into the bed, shutting his eyes - you were probably just cold, and since he was there, you just - you must have gravitated his way. It made sense. It made complete sense, actually - you were definitely still somewhat sick, so being cold made sense for you. With you curled up close to him, he couldn’t move without the risk of waking you up. So he stayed still, eyes shut as he listened to the soft sound of your breathing, acutely aware of how warm you were beside him. Why was he so... tuned into that? You were asleep. You were alive. Yet it was almost as if that was a foreign concept as he observed how warm you were, flush against his side, and how peaceful you looked when he stole a glance towards you.

           So he laid back and shut his eyes, and tried to fall back asleep for a little longer and not think about the way that his arm had slightly draped over you-

           Luckily, that didn’t last long. He felt you stir awake, before the weight of you on his chest was gone and he was left yearning for that little bit of warmth. He listened to you stifle a yawn. 

           “Shit.” Your voice was quiet. “Hey, uh, Jer?” You reached out, gently shaking him. “C’mon, dude-”

           He feigned waking up as well as he could, and thankfully it seemed to fool you. “Mm?” He hummed as he looked up at you. You were bathed in the pretty sunlight of morning and that caught his attention more than it should.

           “Does your dad know you’re here?” You asked.

           He sat forward slowly, shifting into a more comfortable position. “I’m pretty sure he knows I’m Heere, [y/n]-”

           Immediately, you jabbed him with your elbow. “That was fucking terrible, Jeremy.”

           He smiled a little, the remnants of sleep having taken hold of him. He stifled a yawn, “no, uh, I didn’t - I didn’t really say anything-”

           “Then... you should go home.” You froze for a moment, looking toward your bedroom door, “fuck, my parents don’t know you’re here and, uh,” you looked back at him, “they’re... gonna question why I have a guy in my room.”

           He watched you crawl off of your bed, standing and stretching for a moment before heading towards your door. You held a finger up, slowly cracking your door open to peek out into the hallway, before quickly slipping through and shutting the door behind you. He stifled a yawn as he, too, climbed out of the bed with nothing but a fatigue in his bones and a weird light in his chest - and he paused as he caught sight of a Gameboy color sitting on your desk, the faded grape color having caught his eye in its contrast to your desk. He took a small step over, picking it up and pulling the game cartridge from it - and he smiled at the chubby, determined Pikachu that met him. You’d changed - that much was certain - but... there were little pieces of you still scattered about. While he never knew you to be a flower person (after all - he had caught a glimpse of dried sunflowers sitting on your desk, and a sticky note next to them to figure out where to put them that looked faded from light), or someone who... who used people, you were still you in lovely little ways that made him crack a smile and made him wonder just how many things weren’t you before? How many things exactly had been scripted out for you to follow? His stomach twisted at the thought. 

           Then he stumbled across your sketchbook, and did an act that he felt in his bones would be utter betrayal to you: he opened it. He hadn’t seen your art in so long, and his curiosity would have eaten him up if he hadn’t at least peeked at what you had been up to. Besides... you had to have improved, right? He knew that. He knew art was a huge part of your life and who you are, and he just-

           He recognized your art. Not in the sense of it hasn’t changed, because it had drastically changed from the shitty anime style with too-pointy features and stiff poses (not that he saw anything really wrong with that - you were young, you were practicing, and even if you hadn’t improved you were in love with what you were doing). He’d seen these sketches before, posted online from an artist he followed who had actually posted not too long ago an apology for their absence. The timing was too right, the details too exact. He snapped it shut quickly the moment he heard the doorknob jiggle, turning to face you immediately as he pushed it back onto the desk behind him.

           You stared at him upon opening the door, his panicked expression definitely giving him away. “Uh... you alright?”

           “Yes!” Jeremy had said it too quickly, too suddenly, and you raised a brow before he continued, “I’m, uh, I’m fine - are your parents-”

           “... Gone,” you said, leaving your door open as you walked towards him, “are you sure you’re alright?”

           “I just. I, uh. Please don’t be mad.” Jeremy stepped aside, looking back towards your sketchbook, “I, uh, peeked.”

           “You looked?” you said, more confused than angry - and he was thankful for that. “Okay?”

           “You aren’t mad?”

           “I mean... you didn’t, like, destroy anything, right?” You flipped open the sketchbook, only to pause as you realized which one he had looked into - because you had been keeping two sketchbooks, one for on-the-go that was smaller and fit into your bag and another that you often left at home unless you were going on a long trip or had any other excuse to carry it with you. The one that you used for the pieces you planned, or the ones you sketched with the intent of posting them online.

           “I, uh... why, uh, why didn’t you tell us?”

           “Us?” You raised a brow, shutting the book as you turned away from it. “Oh. Michael. Look, Jeremy, I... considered it, but... I dunno, there’s a reason I use an alias online-”

           He turned shades of red before you, averting his gaze as he understood  -mentally kicking himself for a stupid question. “That’s fine! I just - I’m, uh, surprised. You’ve... you’ve really improved, you know?”

           He had caught a glimpse of your smile as you ran your fingers down the textures cover of your sketchbook. “Drawing every day does that,” you admitted with a casual shrug, before shaking your head to dismiss any further thoughts and you looked back up at him, “c’mon. I’ll walk you home.”

          Jeremy swore he knew too much about you.

          The thought hadn’t occurred to him until one day during lunch, where you were sitting next to Michael and talking about dumb things that made you laugh - and he noticed how there was a small wrinkle in your nose when you laughed or smiled hard enough. But you laughed at the same jokes, and, fuck, was it possible to have missed someone’s laugh? 

          But there was Christine. He liked Christine. He knew he liked Christine. Besides - you seem so close to Rich, how are you two not dating? He was always so touchy with you, an arm around your waist casually and he knew so many facts about you.

          But then again, Jeremy also knew a lot about you. He knew your favorite candy hadn’t changed (Sour Patch Kids, specifically the watermelon ones), and that you loved the peach-mango slushies from Wawa (and the lemon bars, and the sourdough melts with pepperoni). He knew you loved art so much, and he loved watching you draw and the way you furrowed your brow in frustration while paying such close attention to every little action you took whil eerasing and redrawing different parts over and over. He knew you painted your nails black without a care, and he remembered the day you had offered to paint his nails and Michael’s too (and Michael had been the one to take you up on that offer, Jeremy too nervous and flustered to say yes - how would he even explain that to his dad?).

          Then there was the way you always joked alongside him. Michael was used to his lame puns and stupid jokes, usually elbowing him playfully at the first painfully bad pun before meeting the rest with a groan feigned with annoyance - but you? You laughed at him, and you made shitty puns back, and you made him smile. There was something so beautiful in your smile, and god - you were like sunshine to him. Even when you were tormented by the bullshit you’d gone through, you still had the kind of presence who lit up a room and you were still the kind of person whose presence he sort of hungrily drank in because you were so warm and loving and so, so damn nerdy that you felt like home. 

          And one day it was just you and him and Michael. Michael left the room, door left open as he meandered through the Heere household with expertise - and you lit up at something. And you nudged him, pointing over forwards the faded planet stickers still stuck to his bedroom door. And he smiled: you remembered them. He couldn’t believe that you would remember such a little detail like that, but... it made him feel important, in the weirdest way, and maybe he was greedy for chasing that feeling but it was so good that he was willing to accept another religion’s deadly sin if it meant he’d feel important.

          And he finds himself listening to Spotify on lazy afternoons after classes, and he hears you in some songs. So he sort of smiled at that after the first few times it had happened, and made a new playlist with your name as the title - with the intention of finding some image to throw into onto it later. Michael caught him adding music to it one day, and he sorta laughed at it before nudging him.

          “So where’s my playlist, Jer?”

          Jeremy laughed it off.

          And then it clicked in Michael’s mind as he looked at him, taking in the sight of the faint flush to the scrawny boy’s face as he went back to what he had been doing without much of a second thought and that stupid dreamy look in his eye that Michael had seen so many times before. “You like [y/n], don’t you?”

          “What? No!” he immediately said, spinning his chair and pushing away as he looked at Michael. Then the guilt set in quick, regret pooling deep in his stomach with a nasty poison to it all. That’s when he first started to sort-of realize that you were more than a friend in his mind. But he finished your playlist that night anyway (at least - finished enough, even if he would add more tasty jams for you to enjoy at a later date) and he sent it to you. 

          The heart emojis you sent back made him smile.

          The sticky summer heat enveloped you as you took a slow, cautious step onto the front porch. Even at night, you felt as if you’d completely melt if you stayed outside for too long. But you needed this moment to yourself, to breathe and stand outside in the quiet. To pretend that Michael wasn’t snoring inside. Besides - it’d just be a few minutes. You sank down onto the porch swing that was definitely relatively new considering Michael absolutely didn’t have this a few years ago. You’d remember if he did. It swayed underneath your weight, and you shut your eyes for a moment and breathe. And it was just you. 

          Then the door creaked open, and you opened your eyes to see Jeremy standing halfway in the doorway, leaning out to look at you. At first he acted as if he were going to speak - but he stepped out, shutting the door behind him as he approached you.

          He stopped at the edge of the swing, curling his fingers around the chain at his end. He stood there nervously, fiddling with the metal absentmindedly before he finally took in a deep breath to calm his nerves.“Are you okay?” He asked, voice quiet and laced with the dwindling remnants of sleep. 

          You nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.” And you were. Tired, sure, but you were okay and you’d trade anything to just be okay forever.

          Jeremy sat down next to you, absentmindedly rocking the swing back and forth. “Are you sure?”

          “Yeah,” you nodded, “I just forgot how loudly Michael snores.”

          He raised a brow at that. “How did you forget?”

          You shrugged. “It’s been a while-”

          “Yeah,” he said, “but - what’s your secret, [y/n]?” He smiled at you, “I’d do anything to forget that.”

          You couldn’t help but crack a smile in return. But you didn’t respond, instead looking back out.

          So Jeremy spoke again. “Can... Can I ask you something?”

          “You just did,” you said without a second thought, before looking to him, “but yeah, sure.”

          “You, uh, you don’t have to answer or anything, since, I, uh, I know how bad it was but...” He paused for a beat, taking in another breath to calm himself. “What was it like?”

          You understood. “It’s like...” You started, pressing your lips together as you searched for the words. “It’s just a constant voice in the back of your head. Like - y’know how it feels to second guess yourself sometimes?” He nodded. You continued, “it’s - it’s sorta like that, but instead of being hard on yourself for that, you have something else making the decision to give you shit for it every fucking moment.” You wrapped your fingers around your other wrist, acutely aware of the electrical scars that now reside there, “I don’t want to go back to that.”

          “I’m sorry-” He started. Then he went wide-eyed, “wait, fuck, you did this for me, right?”

          “Not entirely,” you shrugged. “I mean... Rich said it’d make me cool. That people would like me, and... then, after I took it, it said it’d help make you like me.” You paused, “ugh, god, that sounds so fucking stupid when I think about it.” 

          “It’s not,” he said, a little too quickly, “I mean - I think it makes sense, since... I dunno, we all want to be liked, I guess?”

          You blurted out your thoughts, “it wanted to... to get to you, too.” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth for a moment. “Sorry, it - it just said you were, uh, the perfect candidate.” You forced a bitter laugh past your lips, “I wonder what the criteria for that is.” But you turned gentle, voice soft. “I, uh, I said no. You didn’t deserve... that. You deserve to be yourself, Jeremy.”

          For the longest time, he was quiet. But he finally looked over at you for a moment, “what if it had been me?”

          “What?”

          “What if... y’know... it had been me instead of you?”

          “I... I don’t know.” You pressed your lips together into a thin, tight line as you mulled the thought over. “I don’t think we’d be sitting here right now.” Nervously, you scratched at the back of your neck. “And I think you’d be a huge dick, to be honest.”

          “What!?” He turned back to you, “why?”

          Your laugh was light, airy, forced. “Just a feeling.” A smile ghosted over your lips as you looked away. “You still like Christine, right?”

          That caught him off guard. “Uh - yeah, I mean - I do, but - it’s, uh, it’s complicated.” He frowned.

          “Oh,” you smiled, genuine this time, and turned back to him. “Another crush? That’s... actually really valid.”

         “What about you?” He asked, and he ignored the hope that rose and quaked in fear inside of his chest.

         You merely shrugged. “I don’t know. I... haven’t really thought about how I feel in a while. But... I think I like someone.” You paused to laugh the thought off, “god, I feel like a kid saying it like that, but...”

         And then you paused again. 

         “Oh my god.” You looked at Jeremy, “we’re seniors.”

       The first thing that happened was a blur of motions: you trying to rip out your IV as you panicked, and a nurse who just opened the door grabbed you by the wrist to stop you before you did any true damage. Then came a thousand questions from a thousand people, all trying to pinpoint the when and why and how and what happened that you could barely remember at that moment. When your breathing picked up and panic set in, the room was cleared save for a single person taking vitals. When he left, you were alone. The room felt cold. The room was silent-

       Wait.

       The room was silent.

       Oh, god, the room was silent.

       It was gone. Your thoughts were your own again, yet it still felt as if a piece of you had been snapped off. Broken off. Crumbled away over time, yet - yet... how long had you been out? Hours? A day? You couldn’t completely recall. You remembered someone asking you the date, the time, the anything, but... it slipped your mind far too quickly as a thousand other questions followed suit. You squinted at the whiteboard on the wall across from you, stamped into the corner, and red dry-erase marker spelling out the date.

       Barely two days. That was good. You were... you were fine. You were okay. This was okay. Two days was okay. Two days was much less than what Rich dealt with-

       Oh. Fuck, Rich - had he woken up? He must still be in the hospital - was - were you in the same one? Fuck, you felt foggier than ever. Like the pieces wouldn’t connect, yet lined up perfectly. Every little bit of pressure merely popped the piece apart again, and it left nothing but frustration to fill the space between. You’d have to see him as soon as you could.

       The first person who came to see you (not quite counting your parents) was Christine Canigula with a pretty bouquet of sunflowers in her arms. Her purse bounced against her hip with every step around the room (mainly due to her trying to find a nice place to set the flowers down), and she finally gently sat at the end of your bed and talked to you happily about everything that had gone on within the past few days. She opened her bag, fishing out a small little bag of assorted goodies that she placed in your hands.

       “I thought you could use something nice,” she smiled, “I hope you get out of here soon.” When you couldn’t muster up anything past a weak smile, she continued, “Rich actually asked about you, when I saw him earlier.” 

       You looked up. “He did?” You asked, voice quiet and broken.

       “Yeah!” She chirped, “he woke up the other day, actually,” she drummed her fingers against her leg, “

       The second was Michael. Michael, who had a ball of emotions choking him as he searched for the right thing to say to you. Worried and angry and upset and... relieved. All of it evaporated as you told him everything. Every detail, every action explained - and he realized what lied beyond the glimpse you’d given him while you looked as if you were trying to escape his house. He sat on the edge of your bed in stunned silence, just staring at the floor as you felt guilt creep into your stomach. 

       “Michael?” You finally said, voice quiet. “I’m... I’m sorry.” You paused, “for everything. You - you don’t have to forgive me, but...”

       “You used me.” He said. You could hear the underlying anger dripping from those three words alone. 

       “I know.” You swallowed your emotions. “I’m... I know it was awful and I should have fought more to not do that, but...” 

       He finally looked back at you. “So,uh... how much of that was real, then?” 

       You opened your mouth to answer, only to stop for a moment, looking away. “I... I don’t really know,” you said, voice cracking and giving you away entirely. “Shit.” 

       “I mean-” He said, “you were - it was weird, [y/n]. One minute you’d be one way, and then... you were, y’know, you. It was like things never changed.” 

       That hit you hard. “Michael?” You choked out his name, before continuing, “please don’t tell Jeremy.”

       “What?” He stared at you, “[y/n], he deserves to know-”

       “No! I mean - he does,” you clarified, “I just - I need to tell him this myself.” 

       He bit his tongue for a moment. “I, uh, I think I’m gonna have to tell him some things before he loses his shit, [y/n]. He was fuckin’ freaked when the ambulance drove off.” 

       After a moment of stunned quiet, you mustered up a quick nod. “Right. Just - don’t tell him everything, alright?”

       The conversation had died there. After a few more minutes of silence, Michael stood and made his way to leave - rattling off the usual “get well soon” message that you expected.

       “Michael?” You called out, and he stopped. “Thank you for coming to see me. I... I appreciate it.” 

       His smile had faded, and he nodded a little. “Yeah...” He looked back at you, and he looked so soft and genuine that time. “Later, [y/n].”

       The next day, Jeremy was shoved into your room without much of a chance to gather his bearings. True to his word, Michael had explained a few things while leaving Jeremy pretty in the dark on what had happened. The hardest thing was looking at Jeremy and telling him the rest of your story. That you had wasted six hundred dollars on a stupid, shitty pill that you thought would help you. A pill that you thought would help you essentially get Jeremy to reciprocate the feelings that you bit back and hid underneath everything. You lied through your teeth that you had just wanted him and Michael back. You couldn’t just... admit that you had a crush on him, could you?

       He reached out and laid a hand on your own. “Michael told me.” 

       Shit. Fuck. Nope. You nearly hit the button for a nurse in that moment to try and see if you could get him out. What the fuck, Michael? “He told you...?”

       “Look,” he said, “I’m flattered, [y/n], I just... I like someone else. I mean, you’re - you’re cool and all, but-” 

       “I get it, Jeremy.” You said. “I... I understand.” You paused for a moment, “but... I did miss you and Michael, y’know.”

       “Why’d we stop hanging out?” Jeremy asked.

       Something inside of you hurt at that question. “I don’t know.” And that was true, to say the least. You had your suspicions, sure, but at the end of the day, the why rested without an answer. 

       He stared at you. “Wait...” He trailed off, before looking away. “Oh.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “shit.” He looked back at you, “hey, uh, I’m - I’m sorry for dropping you like that- I just-” 

       “I get it.” Which was sort-of the truth, at least. “You don’t have to apologize, Jeremy.”

       “... Okay,” he said after a moment, “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in school,” he stood, “feel better soon-” 

       And then he was gone.

       Three months later, and you were still haunted by a voice in your head every so often. You started therapy shortly after you were released from the hospital, the mystery of what happened to you remaining as such. You started medication soon after, your depression having grown worse post-SQUIP (and your father had been glad for you getting help, since he’d admitted it hurt him to watch you suffer for so long while being unsure of what to actually do to help you). You attended group therapy outside of Metuchen.

       You had Rich. Rich, who picked you up on Thursday nights to drive you to group and back again. Rich, who knew how you felt and hid his guilt for pulling you into this shitty world of trauma and pain that’d haunt you for who knows how long. Rich, who slung his arm around your waist casually when the two of you were hanging out and was touchy with you in a way that made you feel safe and secure. You had Rich at your side, the friend that you honestly had never expected to have but were glad for at the end of the day. While you wished he didn’t feel the pain that you did, it was almost... nice to know that someone else understood.

       At two in the morning, one mid-February day, he called you.

       “Another nightmare?”

       “Yeah... you?”

       “Yeah.” A pause. “You wanna talk about it?”

       “Yep,” he dragged the word out. “Uh - do you...?”

       “You go first, Rich.”

      His phone must have been on speaker, because you heard the sound of him shifting in bed - blanket swooshing as he probably turned over onto his side. “Same old shit.” He began, “I, uh, was in Jake’s house, and... it was on fire. My, uh... It was there.” He paused for a moment, “y’know. Saying the same shit.” You didn’t have to see Rich to know he was touching his neck, fingers running along the scars there. “What about you?”

      Your phone was lying beside your head. Shutting your eyes, you took a breath before exhaling slowly. “It was, uh, actually... good for once. I mean - it started good. I was... I was with Jeremy. I... think we were dating? I don’t know - we were holding hands and I had let go and walked ahead only to notice he was standing still, and - it... it’s weird, Rich, but - I swear there was some kind of stupid circuit pattern that, like, trailed down his neck - and... and his smile, Rich-” You paused, taking a shaky breath, “and then I heard it.” Another long pause. “Then I woke up.”

      You heard Rich suck in a breath. For the longest time, there was silence on the other end. Despite not hearing any chimes to indicate it, you thought that maybe he had hung up. But then he spoke, voice quiet and broken, “why did you say yes?”

      “What?”

      “To - to buying it, [y/n].”

      You stared up at your ceiling. Soon enough, you kicked off your blankets as you grew too hot for comfort, shifting against to try and find some sort of comfortable position. “You sold it pretty well, I guess.” You started, before biting your lip for a moment, “I thought it could help me.”

      “... With?”

      You changed the topic. “Why’d you take it?”

      No response.

      “Rich?”

      “Gretch is gonna fucking suck tomorrow.” 

      “... Yeah.”

      “You wanna skip?”

      No, you wanted to say. But you shrugged. “Yeah. Where are we doing?”

      “Fuck, I don’t know - Wawa?”

      “Sure.”

      Rich’s truck was like a second home to you, between the times the two of you skipped classes and every drive to and from therapy. The two of you skipped class too often - sometimes morning classes, sometimes afternoon, it always depended on how the two of you were doing. Sometimes you’d sit in the Wawa parking lot, eating breakfast or lunch, enjoying the rebellious freedom that came with skipping class. The guilt would stay in the backseat, a constant reminder of your fuck-ups, but... you were glad to have a moment to breathe.

      Rich’s hand found yours that morning. He squeezed it. For a minute, there were just two broken teens sitting together, holding hands, trying to feel less broken together. 

         Over a week later, you texted Rich after hearing it - or, at least, you thought you did. He told you to call Michael - closer to you, and carrier of the Mountain Dew Red at you and Rich’s mutual request. Your finger lingered over Michael’s contact information when a thought struck you, hard and heavy. Why call him? Why not let it come back and fix what it had done? You felt broken enough - how much more damage could it do to you? Besides... now you knew how to take care of it. Maybe that knowledge would be enough to help you gain some sort of control over it.

        An hour later, Rich texted you saying Michael hadn’t heard from you. Another hour passed. He told you he was coming over. You couldn’t respond, staring at your phone blankly as tears began to well up. Thirty minutes later, rocks hit your window. Five minutes later, Rich was sitting on the end of your bed as you curled back up, the bottle sitting on the bed between the two of you. He looked tired, running a hand nervously through his hair as he didn’t meet your eyes.

        “I know.” He said, breaking the silence. “Just - don’t fucking do it, okay?”

        You broke your gaze away from the bottle. “What?”

        “I... I’ve thought about it too,” he said, quieter this time. “But... I think...” He paused, “it’s just a bad idea, alright?”

        “It can’t-”

        “It can.” He stressed, before grabbing the bottle with one hand and your hand in the other. He pressed the bottle into your hand, curling your fingers around it in a cliche action. “Just - fucking drink it, [y/n]. I’m tired.”

        “You can stay here tonight.”

        “Nah,” he stood. “I... need to get home soon. Just... drink it, alright?”

        He didn’t leave you until you finally obliged.

        The chill in the air that came with early March was no match for the chill you felt whenever you were around Michael. But Michael had the soda, and Rich lived farther away from you, so he became your lifeline whenever you felt the prickly feeling that came with every nightmare of it and he, thankfully without much complaint, would show up on your front lawn. You sat next to him in silence, an half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew Red sitting in your lap as Michael quietly looked up at the stars. The feeling in your stomach almost seemed to weigh you down, keeping you in place until Michael decided he’d had enough, until he gave up on sitting with you.

        But he didn’t. He just sat there in silence, wearing his signature red hoodie in an attempt to keep himself warm. His breath colored the air with a puff of white as he exhaled. It was too cold for this shit, and yet... he sat with you. 

        “What was it like?” He began at one point, slowly looking over to you. “Y’know... the...” He paused, before tapping his temple, as if you hadn’t understood before. But you understood the why there. 

        “Like I was a puppet,” you said, echoing back something you’d said before in therapy. Almost completely subconsciously, you tugged at your sleeve. “I... I could disobey, but... it would get mad, and - and I didn’t like that, so I just... I did what it told me to. Sometimes, it would...” The ghost of a shock silenced you, and your breath hitched for a second as you try to regain some control over yourself.

        When Michael’s hand landed on your forearm, you flinched immediately. But before he could fully tear his hand away from you (having only just pulled it away slightly), you immediately shifted closer to him. Almost as if he understood, he opened himself to you, and - after hesitating for too many moments - you nearly collapsed into his arms, wrapping your own around his torso and burying your face in his neck. At first you had just wanted the comfort. The warmth of another person. But your breath went shaky, and before Michael could say or do anything else, he heard you choke back a sob before you clutched at the fabric of his hoodie. Every soft, broken apology sent pain rippling through him. He’d been so pissed with you before, and now...

       Now it was as if Michael was a child again, having seen the aftermath of hurricanes through Florida on the news. Or like the car accident he once witnessed, only staring before one of his moms tore him away from the sight, picking him up with ease and keeping his face turned away. He understood, all within that moment. He knew you were hurting, and in turn, he felt that pain too. He had hurt. He was in so much damn pain when he found out you’d originally just been using him, and now... he understood that maybe (or, perhaps, definitely, but a definite wasn’t quite there yet in his book) nothing had been your idea. Part of him wanted to look away from you, to give you some kind of privacy, and yet... you clung to him. You kept your face buried in his neck, hot tears wetting his skin, and you shook in his arms as you kept stammering out apology after apology for things that did and didn’t involve him. 

       That was when Michael decided that forgiveness was back on the table. Neither of you were ready to have that talk, but... the fact of the matter was that he let that option exist again. Every glimpse of you that had come flooding back to him when he visited you in the hospital seemed to haunt his memory once more. The real you. The you he hadn’t seen in so long. And, if he were honest, the you that he genuinely had begun to miss when your presence disappeared all that time ago.

       He was ready to try again, if you were there to meet him halfway.

       The following Wednesday came with a disgusting feeling of dread the moment that thunder clapped during your last class. You’d left your umbrella at home - clear skies, your weather app had lied - and chances were you were going to miss your bus when meeting with the guidance counselor quickly after school (because, of course, shit never worked out in your favor). So you clenched your jaw and pulled your bag close to you, taking off as the rain pounded against the pavement. You almost slipped, you could barely see through the rain, and you were already soaked to the bone by the time you were a fourth of the way home. When you heard a car coming down the street, you thought nothing of it until it slowed down, pulling over towards the side of the road and steadily crawling alongside you.

       Well, fuck, if you were about to die, at least you wouldn’t deal with-

       The car honked. When you turned, you immediately recognized the P.T. Cruiser and the two boys inside of it. Immediately, the passenger side window rolled down. “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping-” 

       “Michael-” You started to say, only to stop as you weigh your options. Get in the car and face Michael and Jeremy - or keep waking home in the rain. You barely even considered the latter as you pulled open the back door, throwing your bag in and immediately slipping into the warm car.

       The backseat was comfortable. It had always been comfortable, actually - that much was certain. Even when you were shivering endlessly, sopping-wet backpack lying in the floorboard between your legs as you rub your arms in some attempt to get warm, you felt strangely at home sitting in the back of Michael’s car. The sticker was still on the head-rest of the driver’s side. Jeremy kept looking back at you every so often as Michael made his way towards your house. The moment he turned onto your street, you went for your keys.

       And, of fucking course, you must have forgotten them that morning. So you ended up in Michael’s house, sitting on his bed in some of his spare clothes while your clothes are being oh-so-lovingly laundered by the ever-so-gracious Michael Mell. You toyed with the fabric of tee-shirt you were wearing, some indie band logo printed across the chest - something that felt so Michael, when you thought about it. Of course he’d have some obscure merch. You sat there with one of your class binders in your lap, working on homework when you finally get to geometry. As if to make the day even worse, you realized you were missing your calculator.

       “Shit,” you said, “fuck-” You looked up to Michael and Jeremy, “can I, uh, borrow a calculator? I think I left mine at school-”

       Jeremy stared at you for a split second before immediately going for his own bag. He stammered through a sentence, before he finally pulled out a familiar purple case and held it out to you. “I, uh, was going to give it to you tomorrow - I meant to give it back earlier but I, uh, forgot-”

       You took it gingerly from him, before kind-of smiling in return. “It’s fine,” you said, “thank you-” and then you cut yourself off with a sneeze, your arm flying to cover your mouth. 

       Michael chuckled a little as he laid back, stretching himself along the foot of his bed. “If you needed a ride, you should have just asked, ya goof,” he smiled at you.

       You nudged him with your foot. “Come on, Mell,” you said, “I thought I’d be fine.”

       “You’re lucky Jeremy saw you, y’know,” he said, “I didn’t notice you crossing the street earlier, so...”

       Jeremy flushed at the comment. Your gaze flickered from him back to Michael, “I thought you were driving, Michael.”

       “I was!” 

       “Aren’t you supposed to pay attention?”

       “I was!” He said again, sitting up, “you weren’t even crossing in front of me!” 

       “Thank god for that,” you said.

       “Wh- I wouldn’t hit you!”

       “That’s what they all say, Michael.” You smiled a little, “no, dude, I totally wouldn’t kill my wife, who would do that? Not me. I wouldn’t kill my wife-”

       “[y/n]!” Michael poked you in the leg, “come on - I don’t think I’d be that obvious-”

       “Are you seriously trying to say you’d be able to get away with that?” You said, only to notice how silent Jeremy had gone. When you looked back to him, you noticed that he had just sat there, watching you and Michael playfully bicker over his totally not real plans to murder someone. When your eyes meet his, he blinked, awkwardly smiling as he looked away and towards his phone. You barely get a glimpse of the time before you realized that your parents should be home.

       So Michael drove you (and Jeremy) home at long last, leaving you to thank him a thousand times on the way there and as you got out of the car. You barely had time to wave back at him before you crossed your front lawn to get to shelter, rain pelting you the entire time as you head inside with plans to tackle your homework.

       The next morning, you felt like shit. At three in the morning, you woke up with the grossest feeling taking hold of you and forcing you out of bed and to the bathroom. With a disgusting taste left in your mouth, you sank back, your senses completely muffled as you realized what had happened. Fever. Fuck. You pressed your back against the rim of the bathtub, and you breathed. Shit. Shit shit shit shit- you didn’t need to get sick. You skipped enough class as it was - this was only going to make shit worse.

       You didn’t realize you passed out shortly after until your dad stumbled across you. He woke you up gently, before helping you to your feet and helping your sluggish form back to your bedroom after pressing a cold hand against your forehead. Shaking his head, he walked you to your bed, leaving the room and returning with a cup of water to leave on your nightstand. He told you that he would be at work, but that your mom would drop by during her lunch break to check on you and hopefully bring some medicine. You barely processed it before you fell back asleep.

      The next time you woke up was around lunchtime. You still felt hazy and hot with fever, but the sound of your phone going off was enough to capture your attention. Michael. He had asked where you were, and you barely have enough energy to type out what you thought was just a simple “fever” - thankfully, auto-correct caught you - before you turned back over with the intent of going back to sleep. Barely ten minutes pass before your mom came in with a plastic bag in her hands, rattling off the contents of it before she felt your forehead. She told you to get some more rest. You happily obliged. 

      The next day, after a night of bland soup and forcing down your meds with ice cold water, you see a newly formed group chat with you, Michael, and Jeremy, poised proudly at the top of your messages. 

Michael: u guys need anything or

      You stared at the message. You guys? You barely have time to try and question it further when a text bubble popped up.

Jeremy: i’m good

You: what

You: you ok, jer?

Jeremy: no im sick

You: what

You: how???

Jeremy: you

Michael: jeremys being a little bitch

Michael: hes always like this when he’s sick

Michael: you need anything, [y/n]??

You: idk some good soup would be rad

You: my dad brought some gross shit last night and it sucked

You: parents got medicine. 

You: send me love.

You: and tissues

Jeremy: please let me sleep

You: sorry jer

Michael: kk

      Later that afternoon, the doorbell rang. You forced yourself out of bed, managing to get the front door open only to see a little plastic bag sitting right outside of it. You looked up to see Michael standing outside of his car, and you could only assume that he rushed back to his car to avoid exposure. He waved at you, only budging from his spot when you wave back at him. 

      Bless Michael Mell and the soup he brought you. You’d have to thank his mom. Or maybe both of them - they were both goddesses in your eyes. You only knew that Michael couldn’t cook for shit. 

      At midnight, you woke up again, a dull hunger restless in your stomach. You had left some soup for later, and you were fully ready to heat the rest of it up and devour it. You shoved the Tupperware bowl into the microwave, punching in a number before you swayed into the counter, leaning against it to keep yourself standing as the microwave buzzed. Strangely enough... it almost felt internal after a minute.

      Then you heard it. Your own name being cooed in a voice that sent shivers and a ghost of a shock through you. Glitching in and out. You panicked. You bolted, dashing to your room to find your phone. Your hands were shaking as you went to unlock it, fucking it up the first two times before finally getting it the last. You didn’t think. You went for the first number you saw. 

       The moment someone picked up,  you spoke. “Michael,” you said, voice caught in your throat, “shit - dude- it’s - it’s back-” You took a breath, trying to calm yourself before continuing, “just - I need the Mountain Dew Red. Please-”

      You heard a distant, groggy “...what?” on the other hand as a hand fell over your own, causing you to slowly lower the phone as it appeared before you.

      It stood tall as ever, eyes gentle, manipulating your senses as you swore you felt warmth from it’s hand over your’s. “We can fix this.” It said, voice quiet. Soft. Gentle. “We can start over and make everything right.” 

      “I...” You whimpered, attempting to take a step back. Instinctively, you dropped your phone and shut your eyes and covered your ears in an attempt to drown everything out. “No.” The word spilled past your lips once, twice, too many times as tears rolled down your cheeks.

      Fingers grazed your cheek almost lovingly. “Just let me fix this, [y/n].” It said softly, almost kind, and you felt your stomach drop. “You can reboot me - just - another dose of regular Mountain Dew-”

      “No,” you shook your head, “I’m - you’d-”       

      “I’ll fix this. I promise-”

      The sound of frantic knocking at your front door was enough to force you to your feet as you rushed to answer before anyone else could wake up. “Michael-”

      Jeremy stood there, soaking wet and panting like crazy as he clutched a bottle of salvation within his right hand. He straightened up a bit, holding it out to you. “Sorry - Michael, uh, gave me a few bottles as back-up so I ran-” He said. 

      He shut up the moment you flung your arms around him, burying your face in his chest, completely ignoring the soda he carried in favor of comfort. Just for a second. That’s all you had needed. He stiffened up underneath you as you clung to him, only for you to pull away almost immediately after.

      After you took the bottle and unscrewed the cap, downing the drink with nothing with a minor headache following in it’s wake, Jeremy could only stare at you. “You... You really heard it, huh?”

      You winced, breath hitching as you swayed slightly. Jeremy’s hands found your shoulders, steadying you as you looked back up at him. “I-” You started, only to stop immediately, “thank you- I’m- I’m sorry you had to run here.” You paused, “I... didn’t know it was raining, or I wouldn’t have-”

      “It’s fine,” he said, letting go of you as he took a small step back. “I’m - I’m gonna head back home-”

      Thunder clapped. Lightning flashed in the distance. You reached out and caught him by the wrist, “stay here.” You said, “it’s - it’s late, and... and I don’t want you walking home in the rain.”

      He almost debated with you, but another growl of thunder was enough to debunk whatever argument he was formulating as he followed you inside. You locked your front door back, retreated back to your room to find some clean clothes that would hopefully fit him (thank fuck for all your baggy shit, still hidden away in your closet), and handed him a towel. The microwave chirped for what you could assume was the thousandth time, and you rushed to stop it - only to have to punch in more time. You could hear the shower running from the room over. The hum of the microwave, the smell of spices tinting the air... and you felt alive. You were there. Breathing. Heart pumping. Mind... going, at least - even if there were moments of betrayal there. You were still there, and it was strange to think about that sometimes.

      The water shut off abruptly, and you pulled yourself from your thoughts as you stopped the microwave just a second before it was meant to go off. As you seated yourself at the kitchen table, Jeremy emerged and made his way over to you. He pulled out the chair nearest to you, and slowly sank into it.

      “You feeling better?” You asked, looking up at him.       

      “I, uh, I should be asking you that.” 

      “You were sick too, Jeremy,” you said, “why’d you run here?”

      “You sounded scared,” he shrugged, “besides - I’m better-” Immediately he was cut off by a cacophony of coughs, as he turned away from you. “I’m fine. What about-” He finally looked back at you, still embarrassed of the shades of red he’d turned, “what about you?”

      You suppressed a smile. “I’m... decent.” You shrugged, “I’ve... never really seen it before tonight.” 

      “You haven’t?”

      “Nope.” You paused, “I dunno. Maybe being sick like... weakened me or something.” After another pause, you noticed Jeremy shiver. “You can take my room, Jer. It’s warmer - I’ll just - I’ll take the couch-”

     “It’s fine, [y/n] - I’ll just - I’ll sleep on the floor-”

     “You are not sleeping on the floor, Jeremiah,” you feigned offense, “you are a guest! You’ll take my room and I’ll sleep on the floor-”

     “You’re still sick too, y’know,” he retorted, “just - I’ll take one side of the bed if you want-”

     “Fine.” You frowned as you stood, “if you insist.” 

     After leaving the bowl in the sink, filled with water in the classic “it has to soak” manner, you lead Jeremy to your bedroom. You snagged your phone from the floor, plugging it back into charge as you took one side of your bed - making sure to stay as close to the edge as possible while Jeremy took the other. The room was almost silent, the sound of Jeremy breathing quiet enough to merely tint the air.

     Right as you started to fall asleep, you turned onto your back. “Jeremy?” You said, stifled by a yawn. When he hummed in acknowledgement, you continued, “thanks for coming here.”

            At first, it didn’t respond. It stared at you, lips pressed into a thin line as it gave you a once-over. After letting out a small hum of approval at your ensemble, it shook it’s head. “I’ve run the numbers and that will result in your failure, [y/n]. It’s best to stick with the original plan,” and then it paused for a moment, “I’m beginning to detect that you don’t trust me.”

            “I do!” You responded quickly, before you nervously pushed past the intangible figure to look in your mirror. Combing your fingers through your hair, you let the question weigh in your mind before you finally looked back to your SQUIP. “Is... Is there any way to get rid of you?” 

            “No.” The response was sharp, quick to shoot down any and every idea you’d been formulating. 

            “Oh. So...” You trailed off, before crossing your room and fishing through your dresser to find a pair of socks, “I’m stuck with you, then.”

            “Stuck implies you no longer want me here, [y/n].”

            “It’s not that I don’t want you here...” You mused aloud, before snagging a pair of shoes and sitting on your bed. “It’s just... I don’t think I want you around when I’m, like, thirty.”

            “Plenty of world leaders would kill to have a SQUIP, [y/n]. Consider yourself lucky.”

            You merely shrugged at the sentiment before your phone chimed with a text from Michael, almost as if on cue to end this awkward moment between you and the voice in your head. Quickly, you finished getting ready and shoved your keys and phone into your pocket, and you raced out to Michael’s car. Jeremy was already in the passenger seat, forcing you to retire into the back - which, you immediately sprawled out and absolutely enjoyed the space as Michael took off, launching into a list of the contenders for the evening. Scream, Halloween, A Nightmare On Elm Street, specifically the remake of Friday The 13th (and, for a moment, you heard Jeremy exhale sharply at the title), Final Destination...

            “And Terrifier-” Michael began, eyes cutting towards Jeremy for a split second. 

            Immediately, Jeremy smacked Michael’s arm. “Dude, I told you I’m not watching Terrifier-” He shifted, “fuck that clown.” 

            You looked between the two of them. “What’s Terrifier?” 

            Michael’s beaming at your question. “Jer. We have to. They don’t-”

            “No!” He retorted, “fuck you, I’m sparing them, then-”

            “C’mon, Jeremy,” Michael teased further, “it’s just one kill-”

            “HE SAWS HER IN HALF, MICHAEL.” Jeremy’s voice went up an octave, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “that’s horrifying-”

            You rose a brow in response. “What’s so bad about that-”

            Jeremy turned to face you, “okay.” He shut his eyes for a moment, composing himself, before he opened them once more, “there’s this girl that gets kidnapped, right? She gets... suspended spread eagle, and cut down the middle.”

            “Okay, but-”

            “She’s upside down.” When you winced at the mental image, Jeremy looked back at Michael, “see? Any normal person would find that disgusting-”

           “Alright,” Michael conceded, “no Terrifier. Got it.”

           If there was one thing that became apparent extremely quickly, it was that the Friday The 13th remake was fucking awful. Without Michael’s constant quips (plenty having to do with Mr.Supernatural being in the movie), you weren’t sure how you survived - especially during a sex scene until the poetic line of “you have perfect nipple placement, baby” was spoken and immediately the three of you are choking on laughter - Michael more than happy to mock it. And thank fuck for that, because you’d been uncomfortable watching the scene up until that line - to say nothing of how awkwardly silent Jeremy had gone. The moment the movie was over, Michael began to queue up Netflix with the promise of watching something actually good. The opening moments of Scream had been enough to prove that.

          From beside you, Michael lowered his voice, looking at you and Jeremy, “what’s your favorite scary movie?” 

          You playfully nudged him with your elbow, “fuck, dude, that wasn’t even a good impression-”

          “I think it was great, actually,” Michael looked to Jeremy, “don’t you agree?”

          Looking between the two of you, Jeremy debated for a moment before finally giving his answer, “I, uh, kinda have to side with [y/n]-”

          “Unbelievable. Betrayal.” Michael leaned back into the couch, looking back to the movie, “I let you come into my house, eat my snacks-”

          “-That I helped buy,” Jeremy cut in.

          “That my dear friend Jeremiah helped buy,” Michael smirked a little, “and this is how I’m repaid.”

          “C’mon, Mikey,” you nudged him once more, “Jeremy’s not gonna lie about your shitty impression.”

          “He would if I was Christine.”

          “That’s because Christine’s talented,” Jeremy looked away, “it wouldn’t have sucked if she did it.”

          For a moment, you faltered. “Yeah,” you halfheartedly said, and pretended not to catch Michael’s concerned glance at your sudden change in behavior, “he’s got a point.”

          The moment Michael went to say anything, your phone began to ding relentlessly. With the intention of turning it to silent, you pulled it from your jacket pocket only to freeze the moment you caught a glimpse of the screen. Tweet after tweet, text after text, all of it came in rapid-fire, whether they were directly to you or not. You pulled yourself off of the couch, ignoring Michael’s call after you as you head upstairs to open up your Twitter.

          Rich set a fire. Jake’s house was burned down. Rich was in the hospital, and so was Jake.

          A hand landed on your shoulder, and you almost jumped as you turned to face Michael. He stared at you for a moment, giving you a once-over before finally speaking, “you okay?”

          You shrugged it off, stumbling as you took a step back, “yeah-”

          Michael’s gaze goes soft as he picked up on the fear that was racing through your blood and shining on your face. “That’s bullshit, [y/n],” he said, “look, I won’t push you to talk, but-”

          Swallowing your nerves, you forced yourself to stand tall and get your emotions under control. “Can you drive me home?”

          He glanced back to the door, where Jeremy had been coming up the steps, “uh, yeah- just let me grab my phone-”

          And then he left you alone with Jeremy as he retreated downstairs. Biting his bottom lip nervously, he tore his eyes away from you, before finally appearing to gather some courage to speak to you. “Is everything okay?”

          You nodded quickly, “yeah, just...” You trailed off, looking down at the floor, “something came up.”

          “What?”

          Immediately, you panicked. Something about saying Rich Goranski is in the hospital and I’m worried felt too heavy to drop at the moment. So you just stayed silent as Michael came back upstairs with his phone.

          The moment you were back in the sanctuary of your room, you found your phone once more. Flipping through tweets, you felt your stomach drop further. He burned the house down because he knew he was gay and couldn’t handle that, that he was dead, that he was high and drunk, that Jake had broken both of his legs while escaping the fire, and you saw a few tweets from some pissed people about how they’d been slightly burned while escaping the fire. But Rich received the worst of it. 

          “But-” You mused aloud, “how did he - why would he-” 

          “Rich lacked the proper coping mechanism. His SQUIP was most likely disabled due to the alcohol he consumed that night,” your SQUIP stepped into existence in front of you, and you lowered your phone as you looked up at it, “and with everything else he’s been dealing with...”

          Your blood ran cold at the implication. “You don’t mean he-”

          “Perhaps it was just an accident.”

          You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, completely disheveled from your worries. “I should go see him.”

          “He won’t be awake.” Your SQUIP crossed it’s arms as it looked down at you, “besides... he most likely won’t be having visitors yet.”

          “I don’t care-”

          “[y/n]. You need to rest first. You can visit Rich tomorrow...” You finally gave into what it was saying, sitting down on your bed for a moment, “besides.” You looked up, “you did well tonight. You deserve a break.”

         “I... what?”

         “I let you control the conversation. Instead of giving you the correct things to say, I decided to watch. You performed amiably. Congratulations.” Your SQUIP smiled at you, “you’re learning. Of course, we still have more work to do, but it’s progress.”

         “Oh.” You stood, stripping off your jacket, “thank you, then.” You paused for a moment, “I don’t think I’m going to be able to sleep.”

         “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Don’t forget,” it said, and you turned to look at it, “you have me.”

         Over the next few days, you’d been relentlessly going to the hospital - borrowing your parents’ cars whenever you could. After several days of trying, you were finally able to get in to see Rich, and your heart sank in your chest when you finally saw him. He wasn’t awake, as your SQUIP had said, but he was alive and that was enough for you in that moment. He was broken and bruised, sure, but the fact his heart monitor provided a steady beat to break the silence in the room was almost like music. You stood at his bedside, looking down on him as he slept. You hugged your arms close to your body - what would have happened to you if you had gone to the party? Would you be here, alongside or instead of Rich? Would you have been able to stop him from... whatever he had been trying to do?

         “Rich,” you finally say aloud, and your tears choke you, “fuck - Rich, I’m sorry-”

         “You have nothing to apologize for,” your SQUIP’s touch grazed your shoulder, “this wasn’t your fault. There was nothing we could have done.”

         “I should have been there, I could have stopped him-”

         “It was for the best that you were with Michael and Jeremy, [y/n].”

         For a moment, you’re quiet and afraid. But you finally asked the question that had begun to weigh down on you: “is this going to happen to me?”

         “Of course not. Now... let’s get back to work,” your SQUIP said, “it’s important you don’t dwell on this for too long. Let’s visit Jake while we’re here.”

         Going along with it’s idea, you’d easily found Jake’s room after a few minutes of searching. The TV had been on with some cooking show displayed, and you were more than glad to see Jake awake and as well as he could be for someone with two broken legs. When you cautiously walked in, he brightened up immediately - and for a moment, you had assumed it was because you weren’t a nurse coming to check on him.

         “[y/n]!” He called out as you walked in, “how are you?”

         Caught off guard by the question, you stammered for a moment, “I’m - uh, I’m fine,” you said, “how are you?”

         “Great!” He said, “I mean - the whole broken legs thing is, y’know, not that great, but I’m glad to see you.”

         “You... you are?”

         “Yeah!” He said, “Rich always talks about you, y’know.” The moment you flushed, Jake chuckled, “he said you’re a lot cooler than you seem.”

         “Oh.” You looked away for a moment, “that’s sweet of him-”

         “Do you still do the art stuff?” He asked, and immediately you looked back at him.

         “How did you know that I-”

         He cut you off, “there was this project back in freshman year that you did with Michael Mell, and, uh, Jeremy-something. You did the art for it, right?”

         Nodding, you slowly remembered the piece you’d been repressing due to how rushed it had been. “Right. Yeah, I still do art stuff,” you smiled at him, “do you know when you’re getting out?”

         “Nah,” he sunk into the bed, “shouldn’t be long, though. We should hang out!”

         “Oh. Uh. Don’t you hang out with Chloe and Brooke...?”

         “Yeah,” he admitted, “but you came to visit me, so... we should still hang.”

         You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Sure,” you said, fiddling with your hair, “that’d be great, Jake.”

         Jake reached out for you, and immediately pulled you into an awkward hug. “Fuck, dude, Rich was right about you.”

         “About me being cool, or...?”

         “He said you’re really fuckin’ nice, since you helped him out with something.” He shrugged, “are you two... not friends?”

         “I, uh - we are, sorta-”

         “Good.” He said, “Rich is a good dude to his friends, y’know.”

         “What about your house?” You asked.

         Jake’s smile fell, “I mean... I think it was an accident. Since, y’know, Rich wouldn’t just burn my house down, right?”

         You nodded. “Right.” Stepping back away from the bed, you smiled once more, “I hope you get out of here soon, Jake.”

         On your way out of the hospital, you stood in the gift shop for far too long, occupied with your own thoughts. So Rich had been talking about you - and, whatever he said aside from you being nice, helpful, and cooler than you seem, it had been enough to make Jake Dillinger think the two of you were friends. You almost smiled at the idea, but the underlying feeling that Rich would wake up and immediately ditch you lingered within the pit of your stomach. Shaking your head, you dismissed the thought as you headed out to your car. You had things to do. 

          After all, you shouldn’t dwell.

        Over a week later, there’s this uneasy feeling that’s stuck with you from the first moment you saw Rich in that hospital bed. Uncertainty? Fear? You weren’t sure - but it dwelled within the pit of your stomach, making you doubt every move no matter whether you or your SQUIP made it. You’d just gotten home from hanging out with Michael and Jeremy at the mall, your backpack swung from your shoulder to the foot of your bed, and you nearly collapse as you sit down. Slowly, you sank your head into your hands, warm against your face before you finally let go and fall back onto your bed. When you uncovered your face, your SQUIP had materialized before you.

        It leaned over you. “Is there a problem? You should be happy since you spent time with Jeremy-”

        “I am, I just-” You paused for a moment, “I just don’t feel like I’m.. me anymore.”

        “You are you, [y/n].”

        You nodded slowly in agreement, before propping yourself up on your elbows. “Right, but... I feel like you’re taking control of everything and I’m - I’m just... fake.”

        It raised a brow at the mere idea. “You’re far from artificial.”

        Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you couldn’t help but feel... off. “But you don’t let me control things-”

        With a heavy sigh, your SQUIP shook it’s head before pacing around your room. “That’s because we’re still in phase B of our plan. Once we get to phase C, you’ll have more control-”

        “And when will that be?”

        It looked back at you, slowing to a stop. “Once we pin down Jeremy’s feelings for you, you can be more yourself.”

        After a moment, you sank back against your bed, shutting your eyes for a moment. “I hope you’re right.”

        “Of course I’m right. After all, relationships are like this...”

        You opened your eyes again. “What?”

        “Faking it until you get it? Revealing yourself when you have them? It’s very common, [y/n].”

        When it said that, you couldn’t help but feel skeptical. But when you tried to remember your last relationship (or, rather, a weak attempt at one), it felt so distant that you were unsure of how it had went. Yet you nod along nonetheless. The feeling of of dread stayed with you.

        And it continued to stay attached to you like a shadow over the next few days. Even when you found yourself sitting on Michael’s bed, a pillow hugged against your chest as he and Jeremy were ecstatically talking about one of Michael’s latest finds from the guy at Spencer’s. You’d zoned out for the time being, thoughts more preoccupied with what was to come. How much longer would it be until you had control over yourself again?

        But your SQUIP’s voice jarred you from your thoughts. “We need to go.”

        As Michael pulled out a bottle of red soda, a slightly faded plastic label reading MOUNTAIN DEW RED crinkling as he did, you held back a frown at your SQUIP. “[y/n],” Michael said with a smile, holding it out, “you want one?”

        “Hell yeah, dude-” You had began as you reached for it, barely getting it within your grasp before a shock rang through your hand, a small hiss of pain emitting from you as the bottle hit the floor. “Shit, sorry, Michael-”

        But a flash of pain cut you off before you could try to explain anything away. Your voice was distant as you heard yourself speak, bullshitting some excuse as you lost control of your body - it moving on it’s own despite your desperate attempts to take back what was yours. You managed to take control back the moment you got outside, knees weak and the following shock was enough to send you crashing onto your knees.

        “What the fuck?!” You snapped, speaking aloud as another shock ran through you. “FUCK-”

        “I told you we need to leave.”

        “I didn’t want to-”

        “[y/n], we-”

        “No!” You snapped once more, “no - this is still my life - I want to-” Your speech devolved as you struggled to word your thoughts, “it was just a soda!” Another shock ran through you. “What the fuck- come on - I just- it was just-”

        And then it all made sense. The panic. The sudden change. How close had you been? How fucking close had you been? When you tried to get back up and turn yourself around, you found yourself fighting for control all over again as your body turned away from Michael’s house, every step forcing you farther and farther from salvation.

         “[y/n]!” Michael’s voice rang clear out across his front lawn, and before you could try to do anything, he was running up to you - catching you by the wrist. “Hey - what the fuck, dude? Are you okay? What just happened-”

         But he stopped, staring at you. You, completely terrified and shaking and fighting for control of your own fucking body. You were, to put it simply, a mess. Disheveled, hands twitchy, breathing labored as you forced yourself to stay planted where you were. You broke through, “get the Mountain Dew Red” slipping past your lips in a hiss before another shock of pain sparks through you, and you’re pulling yourself away from Michael once more. 

         A door slammed. Before you could go anywhere, Michael’s footsteps pound against the pavement as he tackled you to the ground. Your body fought against him. He managed to grab you by the wrists, pinning you down, his knees at your abdomen as you continued to thrash against your will against him.

         “[y/n]-” Michael began, before his nails dug into your skin, “what the literal fuck is going on?”

        Tears streamed down your cheeks as you fought for your voice. “I-” You managed to force past your lips, “I - I took this - pill,” your voice strained, and you kept fighting for control, “I thought Jeremy would like me but - but I fucked - I fucked up, Michael-” You were straight up about to breakdown, voice wavering with every forced syllable, “I’m so sorry, I just - I can’t-”

        “[y/n].” It’s voice cut clearly through your mind, almost afraid for a second. “I promise - I’ll do better for you. We’ll scrap this plan and make a new one. You just have to let me try again. I promise-” 

        The door slammed once more, and Jeremy is rushing over, questioning everything along the way.

        It turned nasty. “You’ll never be the same, [y/n],” it hissed, “think about it - if you keep me, you’ll be normal - you’ll never have to hurt again. If you get rid of me, you’ll never be accepted - you’ll be an outcast all over again, and Jeremy and Michael are guaranteed to hate you-” 

        The last things you remembered were the faintly fruity taste on your lips, a thousand questions flying around you, and an intense pain that seemed to completely split you in two as a scream tore it’s way out of you.

          That had been the beginning of the end. After that day, Jeremy had slowly stopped talking to you almost completely. Michael had tried to patch things up, to keep things going, and then he just stopped abruptly. To make things worse, you had broken down at school a few weeks after everything went silent, because you’d been alone. You wiped at your face roughly with the sleeve of your hoodie, and left the bathroom. Barely seconds after you had turned the corner to head to class, you ran straight into him - headphones on and head down - only for his gaze to find yours the moment you stumbled back. He opened his mouth to speak, and you stumbled through a rough, shitty apology before you pushed past him and onward to your class. And then you avoided him purposefully, not wanting to address that little moment of weakness you had.

          And now you were sitting in front of him, eyes red and tears streaming down your cheeks as you struggled to find your voice. Your back pressed into cold metal, the lockers clanging behind you as you pulled away and tried to say something, anything to explain yourself. But Michael just stared at you, uncertain about what to say to you. Your legs were like stone, almost as if something was keeping you from darting away, from finding a safer place to land and cry and get over the tears forced from your body.

          “[y/n]?” Michael finally said, still staring at you. The lights overhead gleamed off his glasses and headphones as he pulled them down and around his neck, music loud enough for you to hear. He gave you a quick once-over, his attention now fully on you. “You okay?”

          You went to nod only for another sob to overtake you instead. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” you admitted after a moment, voice shaking and broken. And it was sort-of true.

          “Are you sure?” He said, “hey, I, uh, I know I sorta stopped talking to you and that was kinda shitty but... I’m still here if you need someone to talk to, alright?” After a moment, he tacked on another thought, “do you need a ride home?”

         Immediately, you didn’t want to say yes. It didn’t feel right to. But you’re already nodding before you can debate anything further. “Yeah,” you said slowly at first, reaching up and wiping at your eyes. Realization hit you quick. Your bag. “Shit.”

         “What’s wrong?”

         “I, uh, kinda left my bag in the auditorium.” You hesitated to step away - you didn’t really want to go back and make an excuse to leave, to let anyone see you with puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Michael... can you-”

         “On it,” he gave you a small, two-finger salute, “I’ll be back in a sec!”

         As Michael took off down the hallway, you felt a pit develop in your stomach while he disappeared around the corner. Nothing felt right. You looked around for a moment, acutely aware of how silent everything had gone. When your SQUIP materialized in front of you, you avoided its gaze as you wrapped your arms tighter around yourself for a moment. The world felt a little colder, a little dimmer, and everything was off. The sound of Michael’s approaching footsteps minutes later played the steady beat for your incoming guilt-induced breakdown, and yet the boy smiled at you - as if nothing was wrong. Maybe that was because it looked like nothing was wrong. The strap of your bag was tossed over his shoulder, bouncing against his own backpack, and yet he looked at you like you were still friends.

        “Thanks,” you finally said as you reached for your bag.

        Michael stepped back, “I’ve got it,” he said with a smile, “don’t worry.”

       You let your arm fall back to your side, only to then shove your hands into your pockets. “Thanks,” you said, avoiding eye contact for a moment.

       The walk to Michael’s car was mostly quiet, with concerned glances thrown your way every now and then - that, when you caught then, were met with insecure smiles at the situation he’d been pulled into. Which.... frankly, threw you off a bit. Michael had always been the one who was better with all this feelings shit - you and Jeremy had the unhealthy habit of bottling everything up. And now Michael walked in step with you, still warm as ever - and still wearing that damn red hoodie you swore he showered in, but it still made you smile because of course Michael still took good care of it. When you hesitated for half a step upon seeing his P.T. Cruiser, he looked back at you before you shot him an uneasy smile and continued towards the passenger side. One of his moms must have given it to him - whether for his birthday or as a gift for passing his driver’s test, you weren’t sure. But the seats were still well-worn, a Pac-Man sticker stuck on the head-rest of the driver’s seat that Michael had stuck there when bored out of his mind. It was worn with age, like you’d expect it to be, but you suppressed a small smile at the fact it was still there.

      If the walk to Michael’s car had been quiet (with the occasional snippit of Michael saying something about how he still feels bad about what happened between the three of you, or about how he’s kinda sorry about the walk to the back of the parking lot) then the ride to your house was dead silent. Music flooded through the car speakers, Michael’s phone resting in your lap due to him pushing it in your direction and telling you to play whatever you want, and his attention was fully on the road - the sound of his phone’s GPS spitting out directions every so often to guide him. You watched out the window, a small sense of dread resting in your stomach the entire way, and for some reason... you felt sick.

      When the car started to roll to a stop, Michael reached up and turned the music down. “Hey, uh, you still have my number, right?”

      You blinked at him for a moment, before pulling out your phone. “I, uh, think so?” You opened your contacts, flipping through them, “I don’t think I deleted it or anything-”

      “Good,” he smiled at you, “if you ever wanna hang out, I’m, uh, pretty free since Jeremy’s busy with this whole.. play... thing.” He paused for a moment, only to follow it up quickly with “I mean if you aren’t doing anything, since - I dunno, you aren’t apart of the cast so-”

      “Okay,” you cut him off, “yeah, sure - I’m only painting the set for it, so... I’ll probably try to do that during lunch.”

      “I, uh,” he began, nodding towards your jacket, “I like your pin. Have you ever played the old shit?” When you shook your head, he was filled with excitement. “Dude. You have to come over then. I’ve got the classic Zelda stuff if you wanna play.”

      Running a hand through your hair, you just sort-of nodded in response as you opened the car door, swinging your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for the ride, Michael.”

      You closed the car door, taking a few steps back as he pulled off and drove away, before you turned and head up to your house - pausing to notice your parent’s cars were missing. Right. Letting your bag fall down to your elbow, you began to fish through it to find your keys tucked away in the bottom of your bag, and you nearly sent the contents of your bag spilling when you went to pull it back to your shoulder. But with lightning reflexes that weren’t your own, you managed to snap into action and pull it shut before anything could spill - and when you looked up, your SQUIP was standing before you.

      Huh. “... Thank you?” You zipped your bag back up, letting yourself into your house.

      “You should stick to hanging out with Michael,” your SQUIP said, watching you head into your bedroom

      Dropping your backpack onto your bed, you shrugged at the idea as you began to search for your homework. “I mean, sure, he’s still a cool guy-”

      “Michael is close to Jeremy,” it said, as if the fact wasn’t obvious, “therefore, if you get closer to Michael, you’ll get closer to Jeremy.”

      You stopped. “Isn’t that using Michael?”

      “You were friends with him before. It’s rekindling your friendship that just so happens to mean you’ll rekindle something with Jeremy.” It said, “you aren’t manipulating him.”

      You shook your head, setting one binder down and searching for another. “I don’t really like this,” you said, “I don’t want do hurt Michael or anything-”

      “Why would you be hurting him by being friends with him?”

      Thinking it over, you finally nod a little. “... I guess you’re right,” you looked down at the textbook in your hands. “It just feels wrong-”

      “Don’t feel, [y/n],” it stepped beside you, turning your head to meet it’s steely gaze. “Just listen. I’m here to help you.”

      Reluctantly, you nod. “... Right.”

      So you did. The next day, Rich fell into step beside you - inviting you to stop acting like a loner and to sit with him and Jake and the rest of his friends. You debated taking him up on the offer for a moment, only to spot Michael sitting alone in a corner of the cafeteria. You declined immediately, not looking back as you crossed the room to join Michael. That became your routine - sliding into a seat near Michael, talking about video games and whatnot, and occasionally letting the topic slip to Jeremy as Michael had the habit of occasionally venting about the boy.

       “I mean,” he started one day, pointing a fork in your direction, “you remember how he is. He’s just... so in love with her,” he shook his head, “and, I mean, yeah, it’s Christine, but he could, y’know... not abandon me every day.”

      You nodded, “I’m sure he’s just blinded by his crush, Michael.”

      He nodded, stabbing into his burrito bowl, “I know...” He trailed off, looking away for a moment, “I just... he’s excited about this and - and that’s great! He’s actually sort-of talking to Christine!” He smiled back at you, “every time he talks about her, he gets that stupid look on his face. He practically has heart eyes, [y/n].” He paused for half a beat, “but... y’know, I can’t blame him. He keeps talking about how she’s been helping him with his lines, and that she’s so passionate about theatre...”

      You couldn’t help but smile a little at that. From your limited interactions with Christine, she seemed to be a complete sweetheart. No wonder Jeremy liked her.

      “In time, he’ll like you more.” It nudged it’s way in between your thoughts, “as long as you do what I tell you to. I’ve got a plan-”

      Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you busied yourself with your lunch. “Sure, buddy.”

      The stern silence that responded to your tone spoke volumes. But like a knife through butter, Michael’s voice washed away the slight tension you’d begun to feel: “hey, do you still draw?”

      You perked up at the question, turning your full attention back to Michael, answering with a far-too chipper “yes!” You immediately forced yourself to calm down, “yeah, I, uh, I still do. My art’s changed a lot, though,” you kind-of smiled, “I have a, uh, pretty decent following online now. I’m just glad I get to do what I love.”

      Snagging his phone from his pocket, Michael went silent for a moment as he opened up his tumblr app. “There’s this artist that Jeremy and I discovered - they seem really fucking cool, dude, and they seem like someone you’d like-”

      And then you were met with your own artwork, tagged with your online alias, and you had to resist the urge to immediately spill that he’d found you online after you remade your account. You could feel your SQUIP’s fingers gripping your shoulder, and you bit your tongue as you nodded, giving some half-hearted answer about how they seem cool, sure, before wondering why it had stopped you from saying anything.

      You didn’t address it until later. Halfway through your homework, you looked up and pushed yourself away from your desk. “Hey.” You spoke aloud. 

      Within seconds, your SQUIP proceeded to materialize in front of you. “You’re speaking aloud-”

      “I know,” you said with a hand wave, “my parents are still out. What was up with that earlier?”

      “You shouldn’t go around saying things-”

      “But it’s Michael,” you refuted, “I trust him. Besides - wouldn’t telling him that get me closer to Jeremy?”

      It’s cold gaze made you shrink under pressure. “I have a plan. [y/n]. If you want to get Jeremy, you have to obey.”

      “What about what I want?” You forced yourself to stand your ground, staring at the figure before you, “what if I want to do things differently?”

      “You bought me for a reason.” It crossed its arms, watching you, “this is what you want, though. That’s why I’m here: to help you get what you want. And what you want is Jeremy. I’m going to help you get Jeremy, but I can’t do that if you don’t trust me, [y/n].”

      Pressing your lips together, you mustered up a weak nod. Right. “Sorry,” you finally said, “I just - I’m scared it’s not going to work.”

       “It will.” 

        When Michael invited you over the next day, you were more than happy to take him up on the offer. He began to reason it as well, Jeremy’s at play practice, before he ended up dropping the facade and admitting he still kind-of missed you and that it’d been a while since he’d kicked your ass at video games (and, fuck, the glimmer in his eyes when he said that was enough to make you agree, and you realized in that moment just how much you actually missed Michael). So he drove you to his house, letting you take complete control of the music, and then he left you in the basement to find any games you’d be interested in while he grabbed some snacks from the kitchen.

       While the two of you played, you talked idly when the situation would allow it. About anything. About everything. About trips Michael had taken with his moms, about his and Jeremy’s brand new Halloween tradition of watching horror movies - usually the shittier ones - and gorging on candy, about how your parents always seemed so busy (and almost immediately Michael offered up his house for whenever you didn’t want to be alone, and you melted a little at the offer). The entire time, the room felt too quiet, even among the conversation and the music of each game. At first, you thought it was because Jeremy was missing. Things didn’t feel right without him. But it hit you, right as you were laughing at something Michael said.

       “Hey!” Michael brightened up at his idea, “you should join us.” When you looked over, slightly confused, he continued, “the, uh, Halloween thing? You should join our marathon.” 

       You faltered for a moment, looking down at your controller. Your voice isn’t your own as you speak, saying some sort of confirmation that felt too distant for it to be you. The guilt built within you, as you pushed yourself to hide the feeling while turning your attention back to the game, back to beating Michael this round. But the thought lingered.

you’re always doing something different when he finds you. one he found you staring numbly at a cup of tea that’d gone cold (that was before five minutes was established, actually), another time you had opened your laptop and had started up an episode of the office (with full intent on watching it, until he managed to convince you to come back to bed). this time, you’re sewing. you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, trying to thread a needle in the dim lamplight. 

“babe?” he croaks out, and he realizes just how tired he sounds. when you finally look up at him, having successfully threaded the needle, he gives you a soft smile. “you wanna talk?”

at first, you merely shrug. you knot the end of the thread, you fiddle with the fabric (a shirt - his shirt, he notices) that had bunches into your lap, searching for whatever you’d discovered needed mending before. when you find it, you get to work. “i’m fine, rich,” you finally say, and he realizes how quiet you are.

he’s not convinced. you didn’t think he would be. he just stands there for a little longer, grappling with the robe he’d brought - had he brought that for you? finally, he lets out a soft sigh, looking back towards the bedroom door for half a second before he looks back at you, “are you sure?”

when you go to answer, you poke yourself slightly hard. “shit!” you hiss, and you pull your hand back - not bleeding, which was good. more painful than anything else. 

before you can even say anything else, rich is in front of you, on his knees now, and he’s taking your hand in his own, looking over it. he traces his thumb over your index finger as he examines it, before he looks back up at you, “are you okay?”

for a moment, you aren’t sure which way you mean. “it doesn’t really hurt,” you say, “i’m fine, richie.”

any other day and he would have melted. but he holds your hand, and he looks into your eyes. “[y/n].” 

okay. “fuck, i just-” you start, before pausing, “i thought about him again.”

his eyes widen. “shit - babe, i- are you okay? did something happen?”

you shake your head slowly. rich’s hand is warm against your own. “i dunno, it’s - it’s stupid, rich.”

“hey,” he gently warns you at the self-deprecating language. “do you want to see dr.rhodes soon?”

“i have an appointment next week,” you admit, your other hand now idly fiddling with the fabric in your lap. “i think i’ll be fine until then, rich. thank you for worrying, though,” you force a small smile, but in a moment, it breaks. you give in to the wavering storm inside of you, and you tear up and immediately pull your gaze away from rich. “shit,” you murmur, reaching up to wipe at your tears.

“[y/n]?” he says your name gently. he pulls the shirt out of your lap, setting it and the needle that’d been dangling from it aside for both your safety and his own. as you break down, he holds you. he’s gentle, and he’s warm, and he’s so fucking good to you that for a moment you’re torn between full-on breaking down or fighting back whilst using this little bit of security as an anchor.

“im just - im fucking tired, rich,” you finally say, “im- i just wish i was normal. i really wish i was normal and - and not about to have a fucking panic attack at every little reminder-”

he pulls you closer. “it’s - babe.” he holds you slightly tighter. “you went through trauma, [y/n]. it’s normal to be hurt.” he can feel your hot tears on his neck. “it’s okay.” and he repeats that too many times to count, as you full-on start sobbing, wrapping your arms tightly around him. you fucking fall off of the couch in the process, but rich pulls you closer and presses a soft kiss against the side of your head.

and you cry for a bit. and you pick yourself back up as rich holds you a little longer, before he helps you to your feet and brings you back to bed. you curl up in his arms. he presses another kiss against your skin, soft and gentle and careful - as if you might break in this moment if he’s not. 

and you sleep. and it’s okay.