3 a.m.

He looks in the mirror, his eyes tired and heavy. The alarm clock’s reflection reads 3 a.m. as he wipes his brow. The sweat makes his skin shiny in the dim light. His eyes look hollow, as if he were already dead. His skin is pale, much more so than normal. He looks thin, gaunt almost. His white t-shirt has holes in the neckline. He rips off the shirt and picks up the phone.

“Cass, listen to me,” he mutters, “I need you.”

“No, you don’t. Go back to sleep.” Her words echo in the empty bathroom.

Then, the dial tone. He shakes his head and puts the phone down. He takes a drink. It burns as he swallows. He picks up the phone again.

“Cass, please. I need you.

The phone goes unanswered.

He thinks about throwing it against the wall, but changes his mind. He looks at his reflection again. He looks sick. His stomach churns. He frowns at his own reflection. His scar is still there, as is her name, right above his heart.

“What now?” he whispers to himself.

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