Luciana returns from Colombia two weeks later.

Her eyes are less dull. Something about her energy is different. She looks more comfortable—more cheerful. Her usual hesitant smile has turned into something real. The trip did her good.

In the meanwhile, everything fell apart here. My fight with Dariel. Dad walking in on us. Dad hitting us. Dariel hitting Dad. My seizure. The hospital.

All three of us haven't said a word about it the past two weeks. Mom doesn't know. Luciana doesn't know. They don't have to.

Now we're eating dinner. Luciana is talking to Mom while she holds Dariel's hand below the table. I repeatedly stab my fork into my food, put it in my mouth, and remain silent.

"Actually," Luciana begins out of nowhere, her chance of voice catching my attention, "Dariel and I have news."

I straighten. This sounds like there's a baby on its way or something. Like he proposed somehow. Like they're about to have the perfect life—

"We found an apartment," Dariel announces. "We're hiring it. Tomorrow, they'll give us the key."

My fork nearly slides out of my hand.

Mom gasps, clapping her hands in excitement.

"Apartment?" I repeat. "Like, you're going to live together?"

The happiness bursts off them as they nod.

A lump forms in my throat. I try to lie about it being wonderful and how happy I am for them, but the words are stuck. It feels like the walls are closing in, perhaps even laughing at me.

Dariel will be gone. He won't be bothering me with stupid reminders of doing homework, going to work, and getting out of bed. Luciana won't come over as often.

I'll be alone all the time. With Mom. With Dad.

But worst of all—they're going to move in together. The thought makes me dizzy. Moving in means being close to each other twenty-four seven. Moving in means subconsciously clinging to each other. Moving in leaves no room for air.

"You... you can't!" I stand up suddenly, my movements uncontrollable.

Dariel's face falls in pure shock. "What do you mean?"

"You—" I point a shaky finger at him. "You can't! You will... you'll..." I trail off. You'll hit her again.

I glance at Mom. I can't do this. If Mom finds out Dariel hit Luciana, her thoughts on their relationship will never be the same again. If Dariel and Luciana realize I know that he hit her, everything will be ruined.

"Minho, sit down," Mom says harshly. "What's the matter with you?"

"I..." my words catch in my throat again.

"You what?" Luciana wonders softly.

"I... don't want to be alone," I lie. It's far from what I'm worried about, but all I can think of to excuse myself.

"Oh." Her brows scrunch with concern. "Well, you can come over anytime. We have an extra bedroom. And our usual dinner nights don't have to stop here. I get that this is something we all need to get used to, but I can assure you won't be alone."

I swallow hard, trying to fight the knot in my throat. Luciana's words sound kind, but they don't settle the storm.

I glance at Dariel, who's still looking at me, his expression unreadable. His lips are tight. I can't tell if he's hurt or just confused. Maybe a mix of both. I don't know if I care right now. I'm still too caught up in everything that just exploded in my chest.

"Thanks," I manage. It's a weak attempt to sound okay. "But it's not the same."

I turn my gaze to the floor, watching the wood beneath my feet. I don't want to look at any of them anymore. I don't want to see the pity in their eyes. The happiness.

"I'm just gonna... go to my room," I mutter, backing away from the table, pushing the chair out in a hasty motion.

"Minho, wait," Luciana calls after mez

I don't look back. I can't. The weight of everything—the fight with Dariel, the fear, the guilt, the epilepsy—it's too much. It's suffocating me. And the thought of Dariel moving out, of them living together, of me being alone with just Dad and the possibility of him hurting me again, it's too much. I can't handle it right now.

Everyone will hurt everyone if they move in together.

I reach my room, slamming the door behind me, and collapse onto the bed, curling up into a tight ball. The room feels too quiet. It feels like there's no escape from my thoughts.

The fear and anger keep clawing at me. I wish I could just make it stop. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel like I'm not drowning in all the things I can't say.

Minutes pass. I don't know how long I've been lying there when I hear a knock at the door.

It opens slowly. Dariel's silhouette fills the doorway. He doesn't say anything at first. I can hear the hesitation in his steps. He doesn't come any closer, doesn't sit down.

"You're really not gonna talk to me?" he says, his voice low and tired. There's no anger in it, no accusation—just something that sounds like regret.

"I don't want to talk to you," I mutter, my voice muffled by the pillow I bury my face into.

Dariel sighs heavily. He sits down at the edge of the bed, but he doesn't touch me.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he says after a while. "I messed up. And I hate that you're pissed at me. But I don't know how to fix it."

"You can't move in with her," I respond. "You can't. I don't—" I choke on my words. I don't know how to explain this. How to make him understand what's happening inside me. "You'll hurt her again."

There's a long silence after that. I can't see his face, but I can hear the way he's breathing. He's surprised. He didn't know I know.

"I never meant to hurt her, Minho," Dariel says quietly. "I swear. I don't want to hurt her. I don't want to hurt anyone."

I want to believe him. I really do. But the fear is still there, clawing at me. I can't forget what I saw.

"You'll hurt her again," I repeat.

"I'll do everything I can to make sure I don't. For her. For you. For me."

I don't know if I believe him. I don't know if I'll ever believe him again.