04.

HEAVY. My legs feel heavy. I twist my body, my ears ringing. All I can hear is that damned ringing, ringing, ringing and – and screaming.

I strain forward, my neck and head throbbing as I force myself up. My legs.

Where are they?

Hidden. Crushed.

I tug at them, but they won't move. I realise with a start that I can't feel them. I can't feel my legs. Yet at the same time, I feel the metal on them. I feel the steel dig into my calves, press down on my shins, trap my ankle. I don't feel the pain in them. Not really, but I know it's there.

Mostly, I feel the weight. I feel my heart pounding in my chest. I feel afraid.

I tug again, screaming in pain when my ankle tears painfully, trapped under the metal.

"JASMINE!"

Amber.

Amber is here.

I turn to see her. She doesn't look good.

No.

No.

Amber. No.

Not Amber.

I try to reach out for her, but my whole-body hurts. I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired. This isn't happening. This can't be happening to us.

This was the kind of thing that happened in movies and on the news. The kind of thing when you saw roses left on the sidewalk, tied to the pole, and brushed it off like it was nothing. This wasn't the kind of thing that happened to us.

Except now that I see Amber, lying in the wreckage, those roses become real. Those roses become mine.

Her face – her eyes. Her hair. It's not black anymore – it's matted with blood. It's darker than black. Her forehead is smeared with blood and it won't stop. It won't stop pouring from that gash in her skin.

I vaguely think to myself, that's going to leave a scar. But I know it won't. Not really. Because she won't make it out.

"Jasmine," she cries again. I try to take her hand, but my arm refuses to move and I scream in frustration, tears mixing with blood.

I hear sirens in the distant. Screams. Shouts. But all I can think is Amber.

"Jasmine. Am I dying?"

I open my mouth to reply.

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I lay in bed, my face buried into my pillow. Light slanted across my room, streaming through the cracks in my blinds, but I didn't want to get up.

I didn't want to do anything.

I felt tired. Impossibly tired. My entire body ached with exhaustion. I was vaguely aware that I'd had a nightmare. I always had nightmares. Each time my eyes shut, I was trapped beneath bent metal again, and I woke to my mouth tasting of blood and my cheeks wet with tears.

My heart pounded in my ears, blood rushing wildly through my head, sending me dizzy. My stomach stirred and I wondered if I'd vomit today.

That was always a fun way to start my mornings.

I swiped at my eyes, harshly wiping the remnant tears away before burying my face back into my pillow.

I wasn't sad. Not exactly. That was the thing about depression. Sometimes you weren't sad, you were just empty.

Sometimes you woke up filled with that unbearable urge to just lie in bed for a day, a week, a month. And sometimes you gave in, until you hadn't showered in a week and your hair was matted in the back. Until you felt even worse than you did at the start, and your room was a mess, and your body ached, and you had a dozen unread texts, and emails, and homework.

Because what was the point? What was the point of going to school? Of getting up? None of it mattered. Not really.

My mother would call it lazy.

Two weeks after the accident, my daily routine had been lying in bed and watching reality TV shows until dinner. Well, I was still in the hospital at that point, so it was more like watching reality TV until a doctor forced me not to, and that was usually around dinner.

Piper would come sometimes.

She'd sit next to me under the covers, my laptop resting on my knees. She'd try to talk to me but after a few failed attempts, she'd settle her head into my shoulder, take my hand into hers, and we'd spend six hours watching America's Next Top Model in silence.

I think it was those two weeks of binge-watching shows that made my mother decide I was depressed. Or, really, I guess it was the doctors who decided.

Two weeks of sitting in a bed, refusing to move.

I shoved my head deeper into my pillow, half-tempted to relive those two weeks again.

But school would start in an hour, and I would be late, and my homeroom teacher would call the office, who would call my mother, who would cry over me and send me to another awful therapist that her friend had recommended, but really didn't deserve the degree they supposedly had.

My mother had a talent for finding the worst therapists in town, not that there were many to begin with considering how tiny it was. I'd suffered through them all. The ones who didn't listen to you. The ones who talked about themselves half the time. The ones who said, who cares? A lot of people have it worse than you. Get over it.

I didn't want to worry my parents. To them, I was better. I had recovered. I was their miracle story that had survived after the little bump in the road that was last year's accident. But we'd made it over that bump and now it was far in the past – at least for them.

They weren't the ones who saw Amber's frightened eyes in their dreams – who heard her screams every night, felt her hand turn limp and cold, blood staining both our skin as I cried, and cried, and cried. They weren't the ones who felt nauseous every time they saw the colour red, or heard an engine rev, or crossed the road.

I groaned, shoving my face deeper into my pillow until the air was smothered from my lungs. I really didn't want to go to school today.

But I couldn't worry my parents. Not after I'd made it this far.

So, I released a heavy sigh, gathered every ounce of motivation within me, and rolled out of bed.

Sometimes, it was the little things that were the hardest. Brushing your teeth. Washing your face. Doing your hair. But once I got through them, I was back in my routine of making my mother happy. Being the perfect daughter.

I tugged on my usual sweatpants and t-shirt, pulling on some sneakers, before slinging my backpack over my shoulder and leaving the house.

I was already late. I didn't have time for breakfast.

I grabbed my bike, smoothly hopping onto it and pushing down the footpath. The sun was smothered by grey clouds, the air sticky from last night's rain. I frowned, my ankle throbbing in response to the weather.

School was a twenty-minute bike ride from home, which meant I had to leave early every day to make it on time, otherwise my mother would start forcing me to let her drive me to school again.

I shivered from the thought of getting into a car and driving at thirty miles per hour in a hunk of metal that could wrap around a pole like plastic in no time. I could still feel the dig of metal into my skin. The rip in my ankle when I tried to pull it free.

Shoving the thought from my mind, I pushed my bike faster, hoping to get this day over and done with. The days tended to blend into each other until I blinked and suddenly an entire month had passed by and I remembered only flashes.

But it was to be expected. I didn't do much anymore. I didn't go to parties or go on dates. I didn't hang out much with anyone except Piper.

I used to have friends, until they got sick of me. I was a burden. I was the person who didn't reply to texts for weeks at a time. I was the one who brought the party down because my lungs decided to stop working properly. I was the one people had to censor themselves around. Don't joke about that, didn't you hear about Jasmine?

So, I didn't have friends anymore.

Not since last year.

Since Amber.

Really, it was a miracle Piper still put up with me.

The roads were mostly empty at this time, but today, the roar of an engine sounded from beside me. I turned to see a blue minivan rolling down the roads. A very familiar blue minivan.

The passenger window was rolled open and I turned just in time to meet the honey brown eyes of Jace.

He leaned against the window, his elbow propped up on it and his chin resting on his palm. His dark hair flopped over his forehead, like he'd just rolled out of bed.

I blinked and he seemed to see me at the same time, his brows raising in recognition. His mouth opened, like he was about to call out to me, before the car had sped past and continued on the path to school.

I paused, my bike wheeling to a stop as I watched the car shrink, rolling down the road until it was blocked from my view by buildings and hilled pavement.

I was sure that was Jace. Jace Wilson, the new boy. The boy I had as a client at the local physio centre. The boy with a limp and a permanent frown who was supposed to be in my chemistry class today.

But school didn't start for a long time. By car, he'd probably be there in five minutes flat.

So, why was he going so early?

I shook my head, pushing on my bike again and continuing my way to school. He was new. He probably had to meet with the teachers or the principal beforehand. Or maybe he was on his way to get breakfast before class.

Why was I so interested in him?

I sighed, running a hand over my weary face. I was so tired. That's what it was.

Every step sent a shot of pain through my throbbing ankle. The thought of my bed waiting for me at home was extremely appealing and I fought the urge to turn around and bury myself in my duvet for the rest of the week.

By the time I got to school, my ankle was too tender to walk properly. I locked my bike at the entrance and limped my way through the main entrance and down the halls.

As I reached my locker, Piper's long, black hair came into view. She looked up from her phone, grinning and stepping forward cheerfully.

"Morning, Jas," she grinned.

I mustered up the best smile I could despite the exhaustion that had sunk into my bones. "Morning, Piper."

I pulled my locker open with a loud creak, placing my bike helmet inside and pulling out my books for first period. Biology. It would take all my willpower not to fall asleep by lunch.

"Do you think the new boy will be in our biology class?"

I blinked, turning to see Piper smiling conspiratorially at me. I sent her a shrug, tearing my eyes away.

"Not sure," I said. "He didn't mention anything about bio."

"What?" Piper asked, bouncing on her toes. "Are you saying he mentioned other subjects?"

I sighed, slamming my locker shut and turning to face her. "He might have mentioned that he's got chemistry with Mr Phillips."

"What?" Piper repeated, her eyes growing wide. "Why didn't you mention this on Saturday?"

I hummed, shrugging nonchalantly. "Slipped my mind?"

She paused, her eyes softening and excitement fading. Her hand lifted, resting on my shoulder and she sent me a small smile. "I bet Mr Phillips will scare him off in the first ten minutes."

I quirked a brow at her, a grin tugging at the corner of my lips. "First five, and you're on."

She laughed loudly, rolling her eyes, before her face settled into a tight frown. She released a sigh.

"There's a lot of rumours about him," she said.

I frowned, turning to her. "Already?"

"About why he moved here," she said distantly. "His limp."

I knew where her mind was wandering. A year ago. The rumours about my limp. Except, most of the rumours were true.

Because most of the school had witnessed it.

"I reckon he's secretly a bad boy," Piper said suddenly. I blinked, turning to see her mischievous grin, and I knew she was joking around to cheer me up – to erase my bad memories. "Maybe a gang leader. Got it from a bad fight and had to move into witness protection."

I scoffed in disbelief, nudging her roughly with my shoulder. "Yeah, that's totally believable."

"Well, what do you think?" she grumbled jokingly.

I would be lying if I hadn't thought about it. I'd crafted dozens of theories during my night-time depression sessions, lying in bed unable to sleep without my mind wandering to every regret and mistake I'd made in life.

And eventually, those thoughts drifted to Jace.

After Jenna had told me that Jace went through things similar to me, I hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. Had he been in an accident too? Did he wake up every morning with tears dotting his lashes and bile burning his throat? Or did he stay up every night too, staring into the darkness, unable to stop thinking?

I'd spent way too much time thinking about it.

I sent Piper a half shrug. "I don't know. Maybe he just rolled it while playing basketball or something."

"Jasmine," she said, suddenly serious. "That is such a boring guess. Use your imagination a little!"

"Alright, alright," I chuckled, rolling my eyes at her. I hummed, trying to think of something better than a gang leader with a limp. "Maybe he rolled it while playing football."

"Jasmine!" I laughed, as Piper shoved me with her hand, pouting at me. "I came up with such a good theory, and football is the best you can come up with?"

"You inherited all the creativity, Pipe."

"We're not related, Jasmine."

"You never know."

She rolled her eyes again, a smile tugging at her lips, probably remembering better times – times before the accident when things were easy between us and laughter was a common occurrence. I could barely remember how that felt. How anything felt.

Then, her gaze fell past my shoulder. Her brows shot up and she nodded her head, just barely, in that direction.

"Look," she muttered, quietly. "It's him."

I craned my neck, glancing over my shoulder to see him. Jace Wilson.

He had his crutches again, clumsily staggering out of the guidance counsellor's office. He struggled to keep the door open as he limped out into the hallway, his eyes darting insecurely around the hallway.

Suddenly, as if sensing me, they shot up, meeting mine.

I blinked, vaguely aware that I should be embarrassed that I'd been caught staring. Feeling the same way, a tinge crept up his neck, and he snapped his head around, breaking eye contact as he limped down the hallway.

"I feel kind of sorry for him," Piper murmured from beside me.

I turned to see she had been watching him too. I swallowed, nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, Mrs Lauren can be a painful way to start the day," I joked uneasily.

Mrs Lauren was the school's guidance counsellor. She was the type of teacher who insisted on being called by her first name and constantly joked about being 'one of the kids'. She tried her best, but the school didn't exactly give her the best resources to deal with teenage angst.

I'd attended weekly sessions with her for the first few months after the accident, and most of it was just painfully smiling through her 'hip' jokes. She killed a lot of teenage slang for me.

But it had answered one question for me.

Jace had gone to school early to see the guidance counsellor.

And I had a feeling that he definitely hadn'tgotten his limp from playing basketball.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Merry Christmas! I hope you all have an amazing Christmas and a safe holiday season! My present to you guys is a double update, so enjoy! hehe

We're starting to learn a little more about Jace... I'd love to hear all your theories and predictions! Let me know! Thank you for reading, voting and commenting as always!