My thoughts are spinning. They keep trailing back to the blade I know that's lying in my room. The blade that must be in the sharpener of Newt's drawing kit. The knives in the kitchen. Everything sharp in the house.

I try not to think about it all, but I fail.

It's been a few days since I hurt myself, yet I only feel worse. There's no one who can be proud of me, because no one knows. Newt is aware of it, but we never spoke in much detail. I hope he forgets I even showed him in the first place. I don't want him to care. I don't need pity.

Then, I feel the couch sink next to me; someone sat down, and by the scent that blows around, I can tell it's Sammy.

"Hey. You alright?"

A question I never know how to respond to.

I look up. My eyes meet hers. They're brown and beautiful and shining, but full of a sorrow I don't want her to feel.
"Yeah," I lie.

"I'm here for you, remember?" She says. I notice her hand is clasping open and closed. "Any plans for today?"

"No," I say, and I'm afraid she's going to find out about something soon. I don't want her to, so I act like I don't care. Maybe by that, she'll leave, even though I'd rather bury myself in her arms right now.

I watch as her smile fades a bit. My stomach twists. I don't want to hurt her.
"Want to make plans?" She suggests, her voice too soft. Too full with the pity I once again, don't want people to feel for me.

"No," I say.

"Alright." She pulled her knees up to her chest. "So did you already light the candles Newt gave you a week ago?"

I avert my eyes immediately. "No. We don't have a lighter."

We have a lighter. We have plenty. But I'm afraid I'll lose control.

"I'm sure there's one in the-"

"I'll light them up another time," I cut her off. It feels horrible, but I don't think I have another choice.

Her breathing hitches, and it takes longer to reply. "Okay. Well, do you- I don't know, want to do something? Bake? I'm sure there's a movie or-"

"Not really."

I don't want to roll up my sleeves to bake. I don't feel like wasting energy to hide anything right now.

"It's my turn to cook dinner. If you're very bored, you could cut the-"

I don't want to cut anything.

"No. I don't feel like it right now."

Again, I'm afraid I might lose control when I touch a knife.

In the corner of my eye, I see her look down. I close my eyes for a second, wishing I wasn't like this. I don't want to cut her off and turn snappy.

"You'd rather want me to leave you alone, don't you?"

The next words I say physically hurt my heart. Each little letter causes a crack. I'm surprised I sound so steady. "Yeah, Samira. I think I do."

I'm not sure why I used her real name. I always think of her as Sammy. Today, Sammy and I... today, Sammy wore... today, Sammy looked very beautiful... it's never Samira or Sam.

"Okay," it barely comes out as a whisper before she raises her voice. "Okay- uh. Why the full name, though?"

"Does it matter?" I ask, not sure about the answer.

She shrugs. "I don't know. Does it?"

"No, it doesn't," I say, still cold. "Would you please leave me alone now?"

"Yeah," her voice cracks from hurt. "Of course."

I'm left with more goosebumps. I stare out of the window, biting my lip until it draws blood. My mind is no longer wandering to the knives. Right now, I feel the same guilt as I always feel after I cut.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," I mumble, then disappear outside.