NEMOPHILIST || ej.

【 I 】

Keep going.

Y/N forced herself to continue running, her boots pounding the frozen ground as the wind clawed at her skin. Every breath was like a knife in her lungs, the cold air burning her throat, but she couldn’t stop. Not with the sound of movement trailing just behind her—too close for comfort.

Just keep running.

The woods were pitch black, the only light coming from the slivers of moonlight breaking through the trees. It was like something out of her nightmares. Of course, you’d end up running through the woods in the middle of the night. Y/N mentally berated herself for not planning this better. She hadn’t thought about where to go, just that she needed to run.

Now, here she was—half frozen, exhausted, and completely lost. Her muscles screamed for her to stop, to rest, but she couldn’t afford that luxury. Not with him so close behind.

The crunch of leaves and the snap of twigs underfoot echoed louder in her ears, amplifying her fear. She didn’t dare glance back. The very thought of seeing him—seeing it—was enough to make her blood run cold.

Just a little farther. You can do this. Don’t think about your legs giving out or how close he is. Just... keep... running.

—

“Y/N.”

Her therapist’s voice snapped her back to reality, and Y/N blinked, her gaze shifting away from the framed photo of a calm beach on Bianca’s desk. She often found herself staring at it during sessions, wishing she could disappear into that peaceful scene. Outpatient therapy felt more like a chore than a lifeline—a weekly reminder that something was wrong with her. Every time she talked about her life, about the chaos in her mind, she felt like she was being examined under a microscope. Today was no different.

“You’ve been in our program for three months with little to no improvement.” Bianca’s tone was detached, her voice carrying that clinical professionalism that Y/N had grown to resent. The therapist’s thin-wired glasses sat perched on the edge of her nose, stormy blue eyes peering at Y/N over the frames. Her gaze was flat—almost bored—and Y/N hated it.

God, she’s so over this. Why am I even here?

Y/N glanced down at her lap, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her skirt. “I know,” she muttered, barely loud enough to be heard. Talking to Bianca always felt like talking to a brick wall. The woman didn’t care. She was just checking boxes, going through the motions. Y/N couldn’t remember the last time she felt like she was actually being helped.

Bianca scribbled something on her clipboard, and Y/N couldn’t help but wonder what she was writing. Did those notes even matter? Or were they just for show? She was half-tempted to ask but decided against it. What was the point?

“Let’s start with the dreams you’ve been having,” Bianca suggested, pushing the clipboard aside as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. Her curly black hair was tied up in a tight bun, save for one rogue strand that hung loose, defying the rest. Y/N found herself fixating on that strand, irritated by its imperfection.

Focus, Y/N.

She sighed, finally dragging her attention back to the matter at hand. The dreams. The running.