I saw it.

I saw everything.

I wasn't supposed to be home yet—I'd finished work early, and when I walked in, I heard them arguing. I should've left. I should've gone upstairs or made some kind of noise to let them know I was there. But I didn't. I just stood there, out of sight, listening.

And then Dariel hit her.

Luciana is upstairs now. I heard the door shut behind her, heard her footsteps disappear down the hall. She hasn't come down since.

Dariel sits across from me at the kitchen table, a bottle of something strong in his grip. He drinks straight from it, not even bothering to grab a glass. His hand is shaking. His eyes are bloodshot.

I don't say anything. I just watch him. He doesn't have to know that I witnessed what he did.

The only sound is the dull clink of the bottle hitting the table every time he sets it down, only to pick it back up a second later. His leg bounces restlessly under the table. His fingers grip the bottle so tight I half expect it to shatter.

He's not crying. Not really. But his breathing is uneven, and he looks like he endured that stupid lumbar puncture or something.

I could ask him why he did it, if he even understands what he just did and what the consequences of this are. I could tell him I saw, that I know exactly what kind of person he is now.

Instead, I sit there, quiet, my fingers tracing patterns on the wood of the table. I don't need to say anything. I think the guilt of what he's done is already crushing him.

Dariel exhales, dragging a hand over his face before tilting the bottle back again. The gulp is audible in the quiet room. His throat moves as he swallows, then he grimaces like it burns on the way down. Maybe it does.

Another swig. A harsher grimace. His other hand trembles against the table.

"I'm a horrible person" he mutters, voice hoarse. The words are more for himself than for me.

I say nothing again.

"I fucked up, Minho—" His throat convulses, and then—out of a sudden—he stumbles to his feet, chair screeching against the floor as he nearly knocks it over. His whole body lurches forward, and before he can even make it to the sink, he bends over and vomits right there on the kitchen floor.

It's violent. A gut-wrenching, stomach-twisting kind of thing. His hands grip the counter, knuckles white, chest heaving like he can't breathe.

It's not the alcohol.

He hasn't had enough for it to be the alcohol.

This is something else.

Disgust.

Towards himself.

Never have I seen someone this disgusted, let alone with themselves.

He coughs, spitting the last of it out before his entire body just... weakens. His arms tremble as he braces himself against the counter, staring blankly at the mess on the floor.

I don't move. I still just sit there, fingers drumming against the table.

A part of me wonders what he's thinking. If he's replaying it in his head. The moment his hand moved before his brain could stop it. The second it connected with her cheek. The look on Luciana's face.

I wonder if it felt good for even a fraction of a second before the horror set in.

Dariel swallows hard, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His whole body shudders.

"...I fucked up," he mumbles again. His voice is barely above a whisper.

He exhales sharply, pressing a shaking hand to his forehead . For a second, I think he might be sick again.

Good.

He should be sick.

He should never forget what this feels like.

Dariel doesn't move for a long time. He just stands there, hunched over the counter, shoulders rising and falling with each unsteady breath.

There's a sick sort of curiosity in it. Watching him like this. Watching him break apart piece by piece. I should feel something—pity, sympathy, even the smallest flicker of concern—but all I feel is cold. For now.

Later... later, I'll think the whole situation through again. Something feels off. It's not only Dariel's fault that this happened.

Eventually, he forces himself to move. His steps are slow. He grabs some paper towels from the counter and kneels down, but his hands hesitate above the mess. His fingers twitch before curling into fists, his breath shuddering out of him. He can't even clean up his own fucking vomit.

I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs out under the table. My voice comes out almost lazy. "You should go to bed."

Dariel flinches. It's barely noticeable, just a slight twitch of his shoulders, but I see it. His eyes flick up to me for the first time since this started.

Without another word, he pushes himself up. He looks at the mess on the floor one last time before turning away, stumbling slightly as he walks out of the kitchen.

I look at the bottle he left on the table. It's only half-empty. He really hadn't drunk enough for the alcohol to do this to him. It was all him. His own body turning against him, rejecting him.

I reach for the bottle, running my fingers over the smooth glass. My grip tightens. Then, without really thinking about it, I lift it and take a swig.

It burns. I cough, grunting at the taste. I don't know why I did that. Maybe I just wanted to understand. Maybe I wanted to see if I could feel what he felt, even for a second.

But all I feel is the heat of the alcohol searing my throat and the empty space inside my chest.

This is it. This is the moment my friends keep talking about.

Wait for Dariel to mess up.

And that somehow makes me feel even sicker than how he felt. I don't want this for him. For her. He clearly feels really, really bad—I don't forgive him, but he's not cruel.

I set the bottle down and push myself up from the chair. When I'm done cleaning his vomit, I toss the rag into the sink, wash my hands, and turn off the light.

Upstairs, I pause outside his door. It's closed. Silent. Either Luciana or Dariel is in there, and the other one must be in Mom's room—she's staying at a friend for the night. 

I walk to my own room, shut the door behind me, and lie down on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

I replay it in my head. The sound of the slap. The way Luciana's body jerked slightly with the force of it. The way Dariel's face drained of color the moment he realized what he'd done.

I should be furious. I should be storming into his room, screaming at him, making him understand exactly how badly he fucked up.

I don't think anything I say could make him feel worse than he already does.

I hear a door open.

Soft footsteps follow—slow, uncertain. They stop right outside my room.

I stare at the ceiling, unmoving. My heart beats a little harder. There's a knock.

I sit up. "Yeah?"

"Can I come in?"

Dariel.

I don't answer right away. I debate telling him to go away, pretending I'm already asleep, letting him stand there for as long as he wants.

But I get up and open the door.

Dariel stands in the dim hallway, his shoulders slightly hunched, his face blank in a way that looks almost painful. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, and his eyes—still bloodshot—flick to mine before shifting away.

For a second, neither of us says anything.

Then, voice hoarse, he repeats, "Can I come in?"

I almost say no. But something in the way he's standing makes me step aside.

He walks in. I close the door behind him.

He doesn't sit. He just stands there in the middle of my room.

"What do you want?" I sit on my bed, acting clueless.

"I don't know."

That pisses me off. "Then why are you here?"

His fingers curl into fists before unclenching. "Because I had to be somewhere that wasn't in my room. Luciana and I... we got into an argument. She needs some time for herself."

Luciana's room.

I lean back against the wall. "So you came here?"

Dariel exhales through his nose. "Yeah."

Another silence.

His hands go back into his pockets. He sways slightly, shifting his weight between his feet. "I know you think I'm a piece of shit."

I don't answer.

He laughs under his breath, but there's no humor in it. Just exhaustion. "I think I'm a piece of shit, too."

I stare at him. At the tension in his shoulders. The way his body looks like it could fold in on itself at any second. I grab the extra blanket from my closet and throw it onto the floor. "You can sleep here. I don't care."

Dariel looks at the blanket, then at me.

"I'm not offering the bed," I add before he can argue.

He exhales again, this time almost in relief, and nods. He lowers himself onto the floor, pulling the blanket over him.

I turn off the light and get into bed.

For a while, the only sound is our breathing.

Then, just when I think he's asleep, "Minho?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

I stare at the ceiling. I don't know what he's thanking me for. Letting him in? Not telling him to fuck off?

I don't know.

But I swallow and say, "Yeah."

And that's it.