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The past is behind us.
That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he says every night; in his head, a desperate, useless reprieve from every other ceaseless thought; aloud, softly, into a pillow stained with tears as he aches for what could have been— what had been, before he fucked everything up.
That’s what they tell him, his wonderful, endlessly understanding friends; that he was trying to help, that he was just doing his best (but what does it matter if his best wasn’t good enough), that yes, he hurt them but he had them and they would help each other.
That’s what he hears on his worst nights, the words echoing in his mind, alien yet all too familiar, a cracking, hazy phrase in the depths of his memories, a justification of all that had been done to him, a terrible assertion that the end justifies the means.
But how could the means be justified if there’s no end? How can they act like things are finally coming together when there’s so many horrible things still happening? So many questions left unanswered?
How can he ever help them if he can’t get out of his own head?
He takes a deep, shaky breath. Stop thinking. Stop chasing yourself into the dark and just be.
The air is cold. It bites at his lungs with the same sharp edge as the shadows, but at least it doesn’t whisper to him. He knows he shouldn’t be out here, that he should be with Linh right now; he owes it to her, after all this. He loves her, his sister, his friend, his only constant in this tumultuous world, (and that’s exactly why he shouldn’t be running from her, he knows) and that’s exactly why he’s in the garden they used to stay. Alone.
The moon is high, only visible in a thin crescent that cuts through the night sky, a sliver of light against the dark expanse. Most of the flowers are dying at this point. Their wilting, fleshy petals look like ghosts in the starlight, tattered remains of the jubilant forms they possess in summer (but they will rise again, and they do not despair now).
He closes his eyes. Why did he even come here? Because he didn’t know where else to go?
But he did, he does, and he keeps thinking in circles.
Back to the neverseen, back to his parents, back to Keefe—
Keefe. The boy in the crown, the boy who laughed and spoke and lived with such light. The boy who he feels so strongly, so deeply for, who he could never tell. Not that there’s anything to tell. Tam himself can’t even tell what it is he feels for Keefe—trust, because despite all his mistakes and his flaws he tries so hard to help everyone; love, because of his kindness and his jokes and optimism (however forced it may be; perhaps he loves him more because he cares so much about his friends); hatred, because they’re so similar, because they’re both so reckless and stupidly independent (and maybe, just maybe, he hates him because if he loves him, even a little, that means he has to love himself too).
But it doesn’t matter now. He can’t tell him whatever he feels because he’s in a coma because of him. Because he did what the neverseen told him to. Because he was scared.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
He smiled, resigned. “It’s okay.”
That was the worst of it, really. To have him be so forgiving. He doesn’t know why he was surprised—he knew, days before, weeks before, that Keefe would never condemn him for it. That he understood.
If he didn’t get it, it would be so much easier. He wouldn’t have that terrible, achingly sincere (sad) smile on his face when it happened, and he wouldn’t have gone through the neverseen so that he could understand.
Tam buries his head in his hands. It’s not like he killed him.
Unless—
A sob wracks his body. He’s pretty sure he started crying a while ago, but it hadn’t really set in until now.
No. No, no no no. He can’t do this. He can’t—
But what if you did kill him? What if he never wakes up because of you?
But he will wake up, he has to he has to he has to—
All you ever do is hurt people. You know they’ll never forgive you if he dies. You know you won’t forgive yourself if he dies.
We know what happens then.
He can’t tell if it’s his own mind or the shadows at this point. Probably both, given how inextricable they’ve become.
He clutches his light-leaping crystal tightly in his hand. It’s okay. It’s fine, it’ll be alright—
But he’s so, so fucking tired of this.
None of this has actually helped him. He just thinks and hates and regrets and then does it all over again—even the brief time he’s been here to escape from it all has just been a senseless, repetitive jumble of pain.
Again, and again, and again.
It’s not healthy. It’s tearing him apart. And soon enough, he’s afraid there’s only going to be shadows left.
Which he can’t let happen. He can’t do that to his friends. He can’t do that to himself.
So he holds the crystal out in front of him, its facets refracting the cold moon into something beautifully warm, and lets the light take him.