This isn't weird.

Talk

Ben woke up with a camera inches away from his face. He let out a startled yelp and scrambled back into his headboard. "Dude, what the fuck?" he shouted. "Why the fuck are you in my room? This is the one fucking place we agreed—"

"Talk." Indigo stared at him with an expression so intense, so serious, that Ben's rage evaporated into uneasy bewilderment.

"Talk about what?" he asked.

"Tell me why you said those things to Millie."

"Jesus Christ, Indigo." Ben shoved the camera away from his face. "I just woke up. I don't wanna talk about that."

"I don't care. Talk."

"God damn it, I don't know, dude! I'm just—I'm tired of being on her fucking hook, okay? Getting my feelings jerked around—getting my hopes up and my heart broken over and over—I'm sick of it."

"Is that really what's happening, Ben?"

"Yes!"

Indigo's unnerving stare didn't waver. "Did she really tell you that she loves you?"

Ben growled an aggravated sigh and ran his hand over his face and through his hair. "Fucking convenient time to tell me, right before she skips fucking town for the better part of a year."

"Because her sister just tried to violently kill herself."

For a moment Ben was completely dumbfounded. "That's what happened?" he breathed with quiet horror.

"Yes. Which you would already know if you didn't make her personal crisis about yourself."

There was a beat of uncomfortable silence before Ben whispered, "Fuck."

"Fuck, indeed."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Ben said sharply, and swung his legs over the edge of his bed to stand. He winced and stumbled as he put his weight onto his injured foot. Grabbing the edge of his nightstand, he steadied himself, knocking over the lamp in the process. He gave up on maintaining any semblance of dignity and hopped awkwardly out into the hall with as much speed as he could muster. Indigo followed close behind. Ben made it as far as the living room before losing his balance and tumbling down onto the carpet. "Fuck," he grumbled once again, pushing himself up on his hands and knees.

Something caught his eye—a speck of bright red poking out from the carpet fibers. Without really thinking about it, he reached over curiously and picked it up. The tiniest red plastic peg, barely a centimeter in length, rested in his palm. He stared at it for several long seconds without breathing, then looked up at Indigo, his face stricken. "What's wrong with me?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out, Ben." Indigo lowered his camera, his cold, composed expression finally softening into one of genuine concern. "I'm worried about you."

"I didn't used to be like this, Indigo." Ben sat back, pulling his knees to his chest and hiding his face between them. The little peg was still clutched tightly in his fist. "I can't stop fucking up at every fucking turn. I feel like I've lost all goddamn control over myself. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't understand what's happening."

Indigo turned off his camera and sat on the floor next to him. "I have a theory."