I won't drag you down with me

13. Conflicted

A few nights before Christmas, I went to common room, paralyzed by the familiar state of panic that had took over my body. Panic attacks are no fun, I'll tell you that. I felt like I couldn't breathe, couldn't talk, and I was going to pass out at any moment. In therapy, I had learned that that wasn't going to happen, which had made it a lot easier for me to endure, but the crippling feeling was still there, preventing me from sleeping. 

The one person I hoped I wouldn't see was there, though. Two nights earlier, I would have wanted to see him. But not when I was like that. Not when I couldn't even think straight. 

I contemplated going back to my room, but my legs decided to walk forward before consulting my brain first. And, before I knew it, I was a few feet away from him. He was sitting on the couch, his head between his hands, leaning forward. 

Damn it, I thought to myself. This isn't the right time for neither of us. 

I sat on the couch, but he didn't budge. He was awake, although lost somewhere in his own mind. I only then realized that, all that time he had been trying to help me, he was battling his own demons as well, and I had never been there for him like he had been for me. My heartbeat seemed to slow down; my hands stopped shaking and the fog in my mind cleared up. 

I wanted to help him so badly. It pained me to see him struggle, because I knew he hated being seen as vulnerable. I hated that he thought he always had to hide his pain, and put on a smile because "that's what men do". Societal expectations took a toll on its own members and made their lives so much harder to get through. 

I reached out a hand and gently rested it on his shoulder. Aiden winced and looked at me; when he realized who I was, his shoulders relaxed and he exhaled. 

"Reese", he breathed, as if looking for confirmation that it really was me. His eyes looked heart-crushingly haunted. He was pale, his skin cold, his hair messy and his lips had red patches of blood on them. He had been biting his lips a lot. I did that, too, when I was very anxious.

It was disturbing to see him like that. It was like he put on this façade during the day and then, when everyone went to sleep and couldn't see it, he'd let it fall before putting in on again and again every morning. 

He tried wearing it again, that night. He tried to smile, and recompose. But I didn't want him to; I wanted him to feel comfortable around me, to feel like he didn't have to hide his pain with me, because I understood. He physically couldn't, that night, so his attempt failed. 

"What's wrong?", I asked in a soft tone. 

He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "I am", he whispered."I'm fucked up"

I took a shaky breath. That was a lot to take in. Especially from him. 

"Don't say that", I muttered, shaking my head. 

He looked at me, then at my lips, then at me again. "You really want to know what's wrong?"

The fact that he was asking me - and that he was doing that with the most serious look on his face - made me rethink ever asking the damn question in the first place. I wasn't sure I wanted to know anymore. But I still nodded. 

He took a deep breath and intertwined his hands behind his neck. "You have no idea how badly I want to relapse. If there were drugs in this room right now, I would have probably already been high", he admitted. I could hear the shame in his voice. I hated it. "Fuck rehab. I don't want to feel this way for the rest of my life. I just want it all to disappear for two fucking hours and be able to fall asleep"

As his every word sank deeper into my brain, I felt like a knife was cutting me in half. He meant every single thing he had said, and that's what scared me the most: he was being brutally honest.