RUSH

Ch. 6: Riptide

-Bennett-

It was probably wrong to feel like this.

I was being selfish again. Still, the familiar feeling of dread that always settled heavily within my chest re-emerged at the mere sight of the approaching residence, almost like clockwork. It was coming home, just as well.

There was something irrefutably nauseating about knowing that the uncomfortable feeling would only grow heavier from here on out, ever so suffocating... until tomorrow, when I finally left for class in the morning.

No number of deep breaths would fill my lungs, not until I walked back out that front door and closed it shut behind me.

I let out a ragged breath, struggling to gather my thoughts. It always felt like this... like the air was being ripped from my throat. It was a calm, unsettling fear that bore into every fiber of my being. It was an inescapable constant.

I stared out the window as Mason parked in front of my house, growing unmeasurably more restless at the realization that I'd underestimated how late they'd be up today. There was still light peeking from most of the windows, the house buzzing with life.

"Is this not your home?" Mason asked after a few minutes of silence, reaching over to glare at the number painted beside the porch. "108, right?"

I glared out the window.

"Bennett?"

"...yeah," I admitted in defeat, slowly reaching over to unbuckle my seatbelt. I faked a smile, then, suddenly realizing how ungrateful I was coming across. "Thank you for the ride," I managed to say before hesitantly reaching for the door handle.

It would be alright. It had to be.

Deep down, I knew I could probably get away with a simple greeting before heading up to my room. So then... why?

Why did it feel like this?

I still hadn't opened the door when Mason's hand settled on my shoulder; I realized, with a weak chuckle, that I wasn't even trying to move. I tightened my grip on the handle, cursing under my breath. Not now.

This wasn't the time.

"What's wrong?" Mason asked, shaking me softly until I turned towards him, avoiding his gaze. Still, Mason tilted his head to meet my eyes. "You okay?"

I turned to frown at his wide hand, surprised by how warm it felt despite the layer of clothing between us. "What?"

"You heard me."

I let out a dry, hesitant laugh. If there was even a fragment of my being that felt comfortable sharing how I felt, I'd sooner rip out its throat and vanish it from my consciousness than risk Mason's judgment.

"I know we just met, but—"

"Thank you," I murmured, not really wanting to hear the polite words that would ensue. Not from him. Not now.

There was no point; I already knew I wouldn't take him up on his offer for a "shoulder to lean on". Perhaps I was merely projecting my own selfishness onto him, but I often found myself expressing the same sentiment out of blind obligation.

I'm here for you.

You can vent to me. I care.

I do. Of course, I do. You know I do.