You know you're better than this...

Chapter 12: I'm fine. Relapse. I'm fine. Spiral.

Writer's note: this is gonna be all Jamie's POV. another sad chapter I'm sorry guys. I think because I've known people who've gone through so much shit and just what I've been through, the way he feels is all written from experience and genuine inner pain that I need to let out, whether it's my own or someone else's. If you can relate, heal my love, it's possible. we'll all cry together. love you all sm, i hope you're all okay tho xxxx

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Jamie's POV

I used to think I'd be fine without her.

That was the lie I clung to, lying on my bed with my head pounding — not from a headache, but from the noise. The constant noise in my head that never stopped, no matter where I was or how quiet the room got. I kept telling myself, "I'm fine." Breathe in. Breathe out. "I'm good."

I remember seeing Harriet talking to some guy that day. Maybe he was just a classmate. Maybe he was nothing. But my brain wouldn't let it go. Was he funny? Was he better? I laughed — bitter and small. I kept thinking, of course he was better. Better looking, better to be around. He probably didn't make people exhausted just by being in the same room.

I told myself I was worthless. I told myself I was ugly. That I didn't deserve—

I cut the thought off. I had to. I'd gone down that path too many times already.

Still, it didn't stop the storm. I sat up, grabbed at my hair, desperate to pull the thoughts out by the root. My hands curled into fists against my scalp before I let go and smacked the side of my head once. Not hard. Just enough to try to shut it up.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

I remember yelling. One word — sharp and loud — echoing through the room. Just enough to rattle me. But not loud enough for anyone to come running. I had that down to a science by then.

And then I heard it — a soft knock on the door.

Everything inside me snapped back into place. Like a mask I'd been rehearsing for years.

"Come in," I said. Calm. Too calm.

Harriet walked in, smiling like nothing was wrong. She sat beside me on the bed, completely unaware that five minutes earlier, I was trying to drown myself in my own thoughts.

"Hey," she said.

I said it back. We talked — or rather, she talked. I nodded in the right places. But I couldn't hear a single word. My mind was elsewhere. Somewhere darker.

And then I heard myself say, "Why are you here?" Sharp. Cold.

Her face dropped. "I thought we were going to—"

"Going to what?" I snapped. "Go away. Leave."

I didn't mean it. But I said it anyway.

She stood, looking confused, hurt. And when I saw her move toward the door, it hit me like a punch to the ribs. She was leaving. Because I told her to. Because I pushed her.

"No! Harriet, no! Don't leave me. Please..."

She froze.

"What?"

"I didn't mean it. I didn't fucking mean it."

She didn't respond. The silence hurt more than anything she could've said.

And then I asked the stupidest thing I could've asked: "Who was that guy you were talking to today?"

She blinked. "What guy?"