"No, no, no... please...not this shit again..." Billy's voice was a hoarse whisper as the piercing ring of his phone slashed through the silence, a simple call from a call center sparking an unfounded terror in his gut. It wasn't the dreaded call about his mom being threatened by his alcoholic violent father—it was nothing, just a stupid sales pitch. But the ringing alone was enough to rattle him, a fucking PTSD trigger that made his reality crumble on reflex.

He stormed through the corridors of the university, a prestigious ivory tower he only scraped into thanks to a scholarship he'd fought tooth and nail for. Here, he was an outsider among rich kids draped in designer gear, a stark contrast to his ragged existence shaped by graveyard shifts, his studies, and the chaos waiting at home.

Gasping for breath, he bolted up the stairs to the rooftop, his supposed refuge where no one could witness his unraveling. Each step thundered in sync with his racing heart, a relentless drumbeat of panic and rage. When he slammed the door behind him, its echo rang out, a perfect mimic of the chaos raging inside his head.

Up here, even the cool air did fuck-all to calm the storm inside him. Tears streaked his face, his breaths jagged as he leaned over the railing. His grip on the cold metal was so tight his knuckles whitened, each inhale a fight against the suffocating panic.

I can't fucking do this anymore, he thought, the words a leaden weight in his chest. I should just...jump.

Below, the campus lawns were scattered with students under the sun, heirs to fortunes, blissfully unaware of the hell he endured just to survive. The contrast made him sick. Here he was, a fucking mess, while they lived their cushioned lives, worrying about trivial shit, not whether they'd find their mom dead or alive when they got home...No, he couldn't jump... not if it meant to let his mother alone in the grasp of that monster. There was no way out.

Footsteps approached, and panic surged again. Hastily wiping his face in a futile attempt to erase the evidence of his breakdown, he turned to see his childhood friend, the one he had pushed away to protect two years ago, both from his nightmarish reality and because of a love he never dared confess, plagued by a deep-seated sense of unworthiness.

"Look at this shit," he said with a harsh laugh, trying to hide his agony. "The view up here is killer, huh?" His voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding through, betraying the turmoil beneath his casual façade.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, the pain of being so exposed was sharp, yet it mingled with an unexpected relief. He'd always regretted pushing him away, a necessary sacrifice that gnawed at him even as he faced his daily hells.

This was it, the moment of truth—either his friend walked away, disgusted or pitying, or maybe...

As they stood there, the weight of his desperation and the unsaid words heavy between them, Billy braced himself for whatever came next.