Broken Hands

83. For Julian

Grayson's room door flinched open as he stepped inside, his movements heavy and drained. He pushed it shut with a quiet click and let out a sigh, kicking off his shoes with a lazy nudge. The day had dragged on endlessly, every second worse than the last. School had been relentless, piling work and expectations on his already burdened shoulders. It was clear—the world didn't give a damn about how he felt.

The room was still and silent, its emptiness cutting deeper than it ever had. Stray's absence was a gaping hole he couldn't fill. They had buried her days ago, laid her to rest in a quiet ceremony devoid of fanfare. He hadn't wanted a memorial, hadn't wanted to dwell on her absence any more than he already was. But no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, the pain stayed, eating him from the inside.

He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps, shrugging off his blazer and tossing it on the bed. His movements lacked energy, his limbs heavy as if carrying invisible weights. Opening his drawer with a small yank, he retrieved his pill bottle and carried it to the bathroom.

Standing in front of the mirror, Grayson twisted the cap off and tipped the bottle, letting the pills tumble into his palm—six of them. He didn't hesitate, didn't give himself time to think as he tilted his head back and swallowed them dry. He hoped, prayed, that sleep would find him quickly, even if it meant escaping the mounting pile of schoolwork he was supposed to tackle. Final exams loomed over him like a cloud, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

He shuffled back into his room, unfastening his tie as he approached the closet. Pulling it open, he rummaged through his clothes, his fingers skimming over fabrics he had once worn with ease but now seemed foreign. Anything that reminded him of Stray—jackets she used to tug on, hoodies she loved curling up beside—he avoided. He felt depressed by her absence.

As his hand brushed against something at the back of the closet, he paused. A box. He recognized it immediately, his breath catching as he pulled it out. It was large and worn, and as he opened it with hesitant fingers, the contents made his heart pound.

Two packs of cigarettes. Three lighters—one shaped like a pen, another like a key, and the last like a whistle.

He stared at them, frozen. A voice whispered in the back of his mind, tempting and persistent. Just one stick. It can't hurt, right?

His hands hovered over the box, his pulse loud in his ears. He wasn't sure how long he stood there, trapped in the moment, before the sound of footsteps in the hallway jolted him back to reality. He slammed the lid shut, shoving the box back into the closet with trembling hands just as the door flipped open.

Julian's head popped into view, his expression soft and uncertain. His eyes were rimmed with the same grief Grayson felt—Julian had cried his heart out for Stray. They all had.

"Hey," Julian greeted, stepping into the room. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant, like he didn't want to intrude.

"Hi," Grayson replied, his tone flat as he shut the closet door, masking his turmoil. He turned to Julian, unbuttoning his shirt slowly, his fingers working on autopilot.

"Are you busy?" Julian asked, his gaze flitting around the room as if searching for an excuse to leave if the answer was yes.

Grayson hesitated, swallowing the desperate urge to tell Julian he wanted to be alone. Instead, he shook his head. "Not really," he said simply, his voice void of emotion but laced with enough warmth to keep Julian from turning away.

Julian stepped closer, his presence both a comfort and a reminder of the void they all felt, "Was wondering if you wanted to watch some funny videos."