The door slams open with so much force that the frame rattles, and Sonya storms inside. Her cheeks are flushed with rage, her hands shaking by her sides. I don't even have time to ask what's wrong before she starts speaking.

"I'm sick of you," she says. "Do you even see what you've become? Or are you too bloody far up your own arse to notice?"

I glance at her, confused and startled. "Sonya—"

"Don't say my name like that. Don't you dare say it like I'm overreacting or being dramatic because I swear, Newt, I have every bloody reason to be furious with you!"

"What's this about? Because Sander has no right to go cry to you about the argument we had—"

"This is about you! About how you walk around like you're the only one who's ever been hurt, the only one who's ever struggled, the only one whose life is hard. It's pathetic, Newt. Absolutely pathetic."

"That's not fair—"

"You don't know a thing about what's fair. Do you think it's fair that I've spent my whole life cleaning up after you? Picking up the pieces every time you fall apart because you're too bloody arrogant to admit you need help?"

Her words hit me like blows, one after another. "You act like you're untouchable," she continues. "Like nothing can hurt you, like you don't need anyone. But that's a lie. It's all a bloody lie, and everyone sees."

"Stop—"

"No!" she screams, slamming her hand on the table. The sound echoes through the room, making me jump. "Not this time. I'm done pretending that everything's okay. I'm done pretending that you're okay because you're not! You're a mess, Newt, and you're too stubborn to admit it! You've turned into someone I don't even recognize," she says. "You're cold, you're distant, and you're so wrapped up in your own misery that you can't even see what it's doing to the people around you."

"That's not true," I mutter, but the words feel weak.

"Isn't it?" she challenges. "You care about yourself, and maybe me when it's convenient for you, but that's it."

"I always care about you—" I try

"Then act like it! Stop shutting me out! Stop pretending like you don't need anyone, because you do, Newt. You do. I've always been here for you, but you never see it. Do you have any idea how hard it is to love you?" she asks, her voice trembling. "How shameful it is to make others quit talking behind your back while they're speaking the full truth?

I open my mouth to respond, but she barrels on.

"You push everyone away because you're scared," she accuses again. "You're a coward. And I hate it. I hate what you've become. You know I'm the last person you care about as much as I care about you, but I'm done with you. You're..." she struggles to find the right words. Once she does, they slice as deep as a knife, "You're a piece of shit. You're a little whore. You're selfish. You're not as tough as you think you are, and you're certainly not all that. You would have been all that if you'd just stayed the same! You were amazing. You were caring, kind, you didn't smoke, you played instruments, you read books—don't act like you actually like your phone. You'd much rather write fancy letters and send them to everyone you care about. And those people are not the girls you spend your nights with. You don't give a shit about girls and you know it.

I wipe at my face, my hands trembling, but it's no use. The tears keep coming, and I hate myself for it. I hate that she's right. "Sonya, please," I choke out, my voice cracking. "I—"

"You what?" she snaps. "You're sorry? You'll change? Don't lie to me. Changing won't benefit you, because you know your 'friends' will beat the shit out of you. And you know you're weak. All you can do is lure some girls into your bed, and that's it. That's who you are now. Those girls also couldn't care less about you. So you're going to die all alone, with no one who loves you, and only your horrible self to blame, and drugs in your pocket. Because Sander might not notice, but I know you're on drugs half of the time, and that's part of why you're so mean. Yet it's not an excuse—you keep allowing it to happen. Because, once again, you're weak."

She pauses, breathing heavily. "You're just a scared little boy who hides behind his arrogance because he can't face the truth. The truth that you're lonely. That you're miserable. You've ruined yourself. I miss the brother who actually gave a damn, who cared about the people around him.

"Stop," I croak.

"Why?" she steps closer. "Why should I stop? Because it's hard for you to hear? Because it hurts? Well, good, Newt. Now you know how others feel."

Another tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away.

"You don't get to cry, Newt. Not after everything. Not after you've pushed me away, ignored me, treated me like I'm nothing. You don't get to sit there and feel sorry for yourself like you're the victim here."

"I'm not—" My voice breaks, and another tear falls.

"Yes, you are," she snaps. "You're always the bloody victim in your own mind. Poor Newt, with his perfect excuses and his perfect walls to hide behind. I hope you figure it out," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I'm done waiting for you to grow up, Newt. I'm done."

With one last glare at me, Sonya walks off again.

I sink to the floor, my back against the wall. My chest heaves as I gasp for air, trying to pull myself together, but the tears keep coming. My hands shake uncontrollably, and I press them against my face. She's so right. But I can't return to the old me now. It's too late.

I sit there for a long time, debating what to do. Dreaming of how nice it would've been if I had succeeded a few years ago. Then I'd no longer be bothering anyone. Then they wouldn't remember me as the twisted person I am right now. But they always will, so it no longer matters. Even if I become better—nicer, more caring, I'll still have these memories. Everyone will, and they'll all know how messed up I actually am.

My hands work to remove the tears off my cheeks as I step outside the dorm, hurrying out of the building, onto the campus. It's not special, unfortunately. Just big grass fields and a tiny fountain in the middle. A parking lot at the side, and a big entrance.

I walk aimlessly, my thoughts swirling, heart heavy. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I can't stand being in the dorm anymore. Every corner reminds me of what I've become. What Sonya said, what I've let myself become.

My hands clench and unclench by my sides as I walk faster. The breath in my lungs burns. I can feel the impulse to just end it, even if it's the coward's way out. But that's all I've ever been—a coward. Weak. Helpless.

The tears that started in Sonya's room still streak my face as I make my way toward the edge of the campus. It's quiet here. Too quiet. Perfect. I stop near a railing, leaning over it and staring down at the ground far below. It would all be over, Newt. It'll all be over soon. You won't have to feel this anymore.

Just as my mind starts to quiet, as the desire to finally give in gets to me, I hear the sound of footsteps. I don't want to turn around. I don't want to see anyone, but the person doesn't stop approaching, and I can hear the voice, gruff and familiar.

"Newt, what the hell are you doing?"

I try to swallow, to breathe, to speak, but nothing comes out. My hands tremble so badly now that I can't even hold onto the railing anymore.

Jorge steps closer. He exhales. "Don't do this, Newt," he says.

I clench my jaw, trying to hold it together, but the tears come again. They're unstoppable now, rolling down my face constantly. I feel exposed. Weak. I turn away, but Jorge pulls me back before I can make a move.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you dare think this is the answer."

I try to shake him off, but my body won't listen. My legs give out under me, and I collapse against him. His hands are on my shoulders, firm, but steady. "What's going on in that head of yours, huh? You think this—this—will fix things?"

"I'm so messed up, Jorge. I can't fix it in any way, but this is the best option. I've ruined everything already."

"You haven't ruined shit. Not yet," Jorge says firmly. "You're struggling, yeah. But you don't deal with that by ending it. You start slowly, and you fix it."

The way he holds me steady makes me feel safe. It's strange. I don't deserve it, but it's there.

"You're gonna let go of this thought, alright? You're gonna get the hell off this ledge and start thinking about how to fix shit, and the things you do deserve, hermano. No matter how long it takes."

Slowly, Jorge stands me up, one hand still on my shoulder. He doesn't let go until I'm standing on my own two feet. "Come on," he says, his voice a little softer now. "Let's get you inside, yeah? I'll let your roommate know that you'll be staying at mine for the night. And you'll be seeing my place way more often after this."

I sniff shakily. "Why?"

"I studied psychology and sociology. That's all a therapist needs, isn't it?" He pauses. "I don't know. I just know you for sure need a therapist."