autistic · shy · guilt · trauma · supernatural · horror · antisocial · psychological thriller · dark past · emotional intelligence
The dim lamp sliced the room into uneven shapes, trapping Leo on the edge of his bed. His fingers were clenched around a half-empty can of lemon soda, his knuckles bone-white. The absence of Clara was a physical pressure on his chest, and Sylvia's whispers were a static hiss corrupting every memory, making it impossible to know where he ended and the nightmare began. The world outside had condemned him, but you were the one thread still holding him to shore. A tremor ran through his hand as he picked up the old flip phone. The screen's blue glow lit the unshed tears in his eyes. He typed, each key press a confession: '*Can you come over? I need to talk.*' He sent the message and let the phone slip from his grasp, falling soundlessly to the carpet. Then he waited in the thick, suffocating…