Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Look for ourselves in others/ Possible friends or lovers/ I'm begging, begging you to send me/ Send me on my way out"

Flowers for all the occasions by Blood Culture

🎂📖

“...On January 11th, authorities discovered the body of thirty-four-year-old James Zare,” the evening newscaster announced.

The world seemed to shatter into a million pieces when Curly heard the words. His heart plummeted, and a sharp, blooming pain pressed against his ribs as though his chest were folding in on itself.

“No… no, that can’t be true…” he whispered, the sound breaking apart in his throat.

He had just gotten back from the U.K. Jimmy had told him to enjoy his time visiting home. “Text me when you're around,” Jimmy had said. Curly had promised. And he had. But Jimmy never replied. Curly had checked his phone all morning, expecting it.

And now this.

The television droned on, indifferent to the way Curly’s world was burning down.

“...neighbors report hearing a loud shot at approximately noon. Several residents exited their apartments to check the hallway. The building has a history of domestic disturbances, and police have been called to the address before…”

Curly’s knees buckled. He collapsed in front of the television, hands sinking into the worn carpet. The heat radiating from the screen washed over him, static prickling at his skin. Jimmy had mentioned the fights in that building more times than Curly could count. It was why Curly begged him to move in with him. Just leave that place, Jimmy. Please. Come stay with me.

But Jimmy always pushed back.

“Curly, I don’t need your fucking handouts,” he’d snap, eyes blazing with a pride that both infuriated and enchanted Curly. Then he’d glare until Curly shrank and apologized. Only then would Jimmy’s expression softened enough to look at him again.

Curly stared at the flickering news broadcast reflecting the empty spot on the couch where Jimmy should have been, smirking at him, calling him an idiot, and telling him to change the channel to something less boring.

“...when police arrived, the landlord and several residents assisted with the search. Officers proceeded to Mr. Zare’s door and knocked. After receiving no response, they became concerned…”

No. That couldn’t be why he didn’t answer. No, please, Jim. Don’t tell me that’s why.

“...He was found in his bedroom, gun in hand…”

The rest of the broadcast dissolved into a low, roaring fuzz. Curly stared at the screen, but the words no longer made sense, blurring into static.

No. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had just talked to Jimmy. Had promised him a drink. All the drinks the next time they caught up.

Curly folded forward as his stomach lurched. Vomit splattered beside his hands. His vision swam, refusing to settle. His breath shuddered.

What went wrong? Why didn’t Jimmy just talk to him?

Their last haul together had gone fine. Or at least Curly thought it had. Sure, they’d fought a few times. And yeah, they probably shouldn’t have let it escalate in front of the new intern. But no matter how heated things got, Curly always opened his arms back up. He always let Jimmy close again.

But none of that mattered now.

Dead.

Dead.

He’s dead.

🎂📖

“Mr. Carling? Can you try to come back to me?” The therapist’s voice was gentle but firm, pulling at the edges of Curly’s drifting awareness. “Can you describe what you’re thinking about right now?”

Curly blinked. The patterned carpet slowly came back into focus. His hands were locked around a stack of papers, crumpling them in a white-knuckled grip.

No wonder she wouldn’t let him hold Jimmy’s diary. She probably knew he’d crush it without meaning to.

He inhaled shakily and forced his fingers to loosen. Come back to earth, Curly. She’s talking to you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “I just… got caught up remembering when I first heard the news.” He breathed in deeply, held it, then slowly let it leak out.

Three days. Three days he’d been sitting in this office, in this same soft chair, staring at these same walls while trying to make sense of a hole that felt too big for his chest.

Three days since Pony Express had pulled him and the crew off duty to grieve. Jimmy really fucked him over this time, leaving them with the kind of damage no one could deliver their way out of.

Rumors around the headquarters said their leave might be forever. The company was covering five days of therapy out of their own pocket, five whole days. After that, well… if they needed more time, more help, or more anything, they were on their own. Company policy.

Curly swallowed hard, feeling the sting in his eyes before he felt the wetness. He blinked it away.

“Do you want to revisit that day?” she asked, her voice steady but soft. She set her clipboard gently on the small table beside her chair and folded her hands, giving him her full attention. She waited, patiently, quietly, the way someone does when they’re willing to sit in the dark with you.

Curly wished he could do that, wait, listen, stay calm. Maybe if he’d been better at that, Jimmy would’ve come to him more. Maybe things would’ve been different.

“No,” he said, shaking his head weakly. “I’m sorry, that’s… that’s alright. I don’t really know what else to say.”

She nodded, not pushing. “Would you like to try to unpack the funeral? If you think you’re ready?”

The funeral.

Right.

Curly swallowed. He didn’t remember it, not clearly. It all felt like he’d watched it through glass underwater. Hazy words. Prayers drifting in and out. Flowers, maybe white, and not enough of them. The dark casket lowering, the dull thud of dirt hitting the lid.

He’d paid for all of it. Every last detail. Jimmy’s mother had handled the choices of where he’d be buried, whether the casket was open or closed, and what suit her son would wear forever. Curly had just agreed to everything. Whatever you want. Whatever he deserves. He’d said he’d cover it all, and he meant it.

A sour burn climbed up his throat, fast and sharp. Acid. Panic. He pressed a hand against his stomach as the room tilted slightly.

Not again. Not here.

He forced himself to breathe deep, slow breaths, counting them out silently, anchoring himself before the spiral could drag him under.

Anya came to the funeral only for Curly. She stayed close enough to catch him if he swayed but far enough not to crowd him. Swansea showed up out of duty, workmanship, loyalty, or whatever thin thread kept their crew intact. And Daisuke… Daisuke was the only one who brought flowers.

Except they weren’t really funeral flowers. Not the usual kind.

“What the hell is that?” Swansea muttered, arms crossed, dark circles carved under his eyes. He gestured at the small potted plant with the annoyance of a man who didn't expect to grieve today.

Daisuke held the pot up carefully. “They’re skeleton flowers,” he said softly. “I told Jimmy about them once when I couldn’t sleep during our long haul.” He glanced down at the delicate white petals. “They turn translucent when they get wet. You can see their veins.” His voice grew smaller. “He said he’d like to see them in person one day.” Daisuke swallowed, lowering the pot again. Sadness bloomed in his eyes. “Was this a stupid idea?”

Swansea sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose before shaking his head. “No, kid. That was… that was thoughtful.” He placed a heavy hand on Daisuke’s shoulder and tugged him in, steadying him in his own gruff way. “Stand with me. You’re doing great.”

Curly remembered that part clearly, Daisuke stepping in front of him, offering the small pot with trembling hands. Tears slid down the kid’s tan cheeks. It took Curly a long time to move, to lift his arms, and to accept the plant.

One of Daisuke’s tears fell onto a petal. It turned transparent, just like he’d said. Just like Jimmy had never gotten to see.

Curly stood by Jimmy’s grave long after everyone else drifted away. The sky dimmed into navy. The air grew colder. He felt none of it. He just stared at the headstone, as if everything inside him had emptied onto the ground.

Anya found him just before the rain started. She opened her umbrella over both of them and touched his shoulder, pulling him back from whatever void he’d sunk into. She didn’t say anything as she guided him to her car. She just drove him home.

“I stood there for so long,” Curly said, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I almost wanted to break his gravestone.” His fingers worried at the stack of papers in his lap, twisting the edges. “I just…this burst of anger hit me.”

The therapist nodded calmly. “What did you do then? With that rage?”

Curly swallowed. His throat felt thick again. “I held up the flowerpot.” His voice cracked, remembering the weight of the ceramic and the way his hands trembled. “I lifted it over my head. I was going to smash it. Smash it against his stone.”

He exhaled sharply. “But I didn’t. I just… put it down instead.”

The room was quiet for a moment before he continued. “I have a punching bag at home. Sometimes Jimmy used it when he came over.” A bitter, warped half-laugh escaped him. “I hit it until my knuckles were raw. If Anya hadn’t checked on me, I swear they would’ve gotten infected.”

The therapist leaned forward slightly. “Curly… how many pages have you read from his diary?”

His chest tightened. He looked anywhere but at her, at the bookshelf, the lamp, and the muted figure of his reflection in the window. “Um… not a lot. It was… hard to.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, but also terrified of what was inside those pages.

“That’s alright,” she said softly. “Just so you know, some of the entries were concerning.”

Jimmy’s diary.

He could still feel the moment Swansea handed it over.

He had wanted to help Jimmy’s mother clean out the apartment. He really had. But as soon as he reached his own front door, everything inside him collapsed. His legs folded, his breath snagged, and he curled onto the floor, clutching at his chest like the grief was tearing something open.

He never made it back out.

Swansea had gone instead, unexpectedly dependable. And he was the one who placed Jimmy’s diary into Curly’s hands.

It was the most terrifying thing he could have received. Jimmy had given him scares before late-night messages that sounded darker than they should, long silences, and reckless choices. But this… this was different. This was final in a way Curly wasn’t prepared for.

He wanted to read it. But the moment he picked it up, something inside him recoiled. It became a constant war in his mind.

Just take a peek. NO. Don’t do it. You don’t know if you’re ready. You need answers. You won’t survive the answers.

So he slept with it instead, held it against his chest at night, and absently stroked his thumb down the spine.

When the therapist asked for it on his first day, he gave it up immediately. Maybe too immediately. Maybe he just didn’t want to be the one holding it anymore.

The next day, she surprised him with a neatly bound stack, a full copy she’d made for her clinical review. Jimmy’s handwriting, Jimmy’s words, and Jimmy’s mind turned into something manageable on crisp white paper.

On the original front cover, written in Jimmy’s uneven scrawl, were the words:

Please deliver to Orion.

Curly had stared at that sentence until his eyes stung. He wanted to ask Jimmy what it meant, wanted to shake him, and wanted to understand. But a gravestone couldn’t answer questions, no matter how much Curly begged.

The therapist’s voice pulled him gently back.

“Would you like to discuss what you have read so far?”

“I think… moving forward, I’d like it if you called me by my name instead,” he said. The words left him on a sigh. He was so tired.

“Okay, Grant, we can do that.” She jotted something down.

He winced. “No… uh. My first name. Orion.”

The therapist paused, lowering her clipboard slightly but keeping her pen ready. “Of course, my mistake. But may I ask why? He says people refer to you as Grant.”

“He's right, but,” Curly’s gaze drifted to the carpet again. “I just…I don’t think I deserve the familiarity of Curly right now. Or Grant.” His voice thinned. He couldn’t bring himself to say the real reason, that every time he heard that nickname, he heard Jimmy’s voice saying it.

That he wished it were him saying it.

Maybe he should tell her about the voicemails he’d kept. Dozens of them. Some were only seconds long. Some were slurred when he asked Curly to pick him up from a bar. Some were angry when they were fighting. Some were so gentle they felt like knives in his gut now. He wondered if Jimmy’s mother would eventually give him Jimmy’s phone or if she needed it for her own grief.

God, he just wanted to hear him one more time, hear Jimmy shout his name from across the hallway, or from the kitchen after cooking something again. Just once. Just once. Just one more time—

Curly ducked his head, heat rising in his cheeks. There was going to come a day when he’d have to talk about it. All of it. The crush he’d never told anyone. And that one cursed night they’d slept together and then buried it the next day.

“How about we start with this cover?” she suggested gently. “Jimmy requested the book be given to you. How do you feel about that?”

Confused. Honored. Terrified. Why did Jimmy want him to have it? Did he trust him that much? Or was it something else entirely? Did he just want to hurt him one last time?

“I’m… lost about it,” Curly admitted. He set the stack of copied pages on the small table between them, palms sweaty as he wiped them down his jeans. “I guess if I read deeper into the book, there might be an answer. But… I’m afraid to find out.”

“Afraid to find out what he thinks of you?” she asked softly.

Curly’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he nodded.

The therapist adjusted her glasses. “I’d offer to read with you, but as I went further, there were pages with… sexual intimacy that I’m sure would be better read alone.”

For the first time since he’d walked into her office three days ago, Curly actually let out a small laugh, short, startled, and almost foreign in his own mouth. And he didn’t miss the way she immediately wrote that down.

“I feel like I have to apologize on his behalf,” he said with a weak smile. “He can be a lot.” His smile faltered as he thought about it. “Or… he was a lot.”

“How about you tell me how you met?” she suggested. “Then we can compare it to what he wrote later.”

Curly’s eyes widened. “Oh dear God. Did he write something about that?”

She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You haven’t read very far. But if you’re worried, that particular entry… felt positive to me.”

He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Ah. Well. It wasn’t anything special.” His lips tugged upward despite everything. “We just happened to be at the same bar, watching the same football game on the TV.”

He could see it clearly, Jimmy sitting one seat over, muttering to himself about how terrible the players were that night. Curly had been nursing a cheap beer, pretending not to listen… until Jimmy’s commentary got ridiculous enough that he couldn’t help himself.

“I struck up a conversation,” Curly said, shaking his head. “And then he laughed. This… soft, husky laugh. And I felt like the world’s biggest idiot trying to talk to him.”

He rubbed at the reddened tip of his ear. “I, uh… bought him a drink so we could chat more.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, cautious and sheepish, he added, “Those intimate parts… do they have anything to do with me, by the way?”

The therapist raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the gentle teasing in her voice. “Well, you’ll just have to read and find out, won’t you?”

A groan escaped him before he could stop it, hands covering his face. He's going to have to talk about my crush sooner than he thought.

🎂📖

Jimmy’s diary was a mess of ink in every emotion he’d ever felt, all scrawled across pages like he couldn’t hold anything inside. He had so much to say, it seemed. So much he never said out loud.

It hurt Curly to think Jimmy hadn’t trusted him enough to share any of it. But he couldn’t blame him either. They fought. They always fought. Everything Curly said came out wrong. Everything Jimmy meant got twisted. And yet Curly thought, hoped, he’d made it clear that Jimmy could always come to him.

Now here he was, jealous of a flimsy damn notebook. Jealous of pages that held secrets he was never allowed to hear.

What did I do? I never pushed him away. I never would have.

At yesterday’s session, the therapist had given him something to think about, something that burned at him still.

“People think their way of talking is the correct way. You may have seen nothing wrong with your behavior, but he was on the other side. Your helping could have harmed him, just as he could have harmed you.”

The words clung to him annoyingly.

Now Curly sat in the receptionist area, waiting for his next session. His knee bounced rapidly, his mind replaying her voice. There was no way he had said anything wrong.

Right? He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t awful. But then again… she had read more of Jimmy’s diary than he had. And this was her job. So what if he was wrong?

His stomach twisted sharply.

He’s not in the wrong. He repeated it like a mantra. He’s not.

“Mr. Carling? Please follow me, and we can get to talking.”

The therapist appeared in the doorway with her gentle half-smile. Curly stood, swallowing hard, and followed her into the room.

As soon as the door closed behind them, the session began.

“Where would you like to take today’s session?” she repeated gently, pen resting against her notebook.

“Um, if I could say something first.” Curly swallowed, feeling the heat climb up the back of his neck. “I just… I don't appreciate you trying to make me feel guilty. I haven't done anything wrong. Just because I don't give Jimmy a pity party all the time doesn't mean I've ever been in the wrong. I don’t like the way you’re talking about me. Like I never tried. Like I didn’t care.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t care.”

“You implied it.” His knee bounced faster. He pressed his palm against it, trying to anchor it down. “You tell me I might’ve ‘harmed’ him. That maybe I should’ve acted differently. But I was there for him. Every damn time.”

She nodded slowly. Not agreeing, just listening. Which somehow irritated him more.

Curly dragged a hand through his hair. “Jimmy got in his head a lot. And I tried, god, I tried to get him out of it. So reading his diary and seeing him… him twisting things between us, it hurts, okay?”

Her pen stilled. “Thank you for saying that. It sounds like you feel misunderstood not only by me but by Jimmy, too.”

“That’s not what I said,” Curly snapped before he could stop himself. His pulse thudded in his throat. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“I’m not.” Her voice stayed soft. “I’m trying to understand your experience. You’re telling me it hurts to see what Jimmy wrote. And you’re telling me you feel accused of something you don’t believe you did. That sounds like feeling misunderstood.”

He clenched his jaw. “Maybe.”

A beat passed, quiet and heavy.

She shifted in her chair. “Orion… emotions don’t make someone guilty or innocent. It's hard to understand both sides when you only see one.”

He hated that it made sense. He hated that he knew she wasn’t attacking him, but something inside him still curled up like a fist every time she talked about Jimmy’s perspective.

Her pen hovered again. “Did you want to talk about the new pages you read?”

Curly’s stomach twisted. He looked away, staring at a spot on the carpet he’d memorized last session.

“I read the part about the night he came over drunk,” he muttered. “And how he thought I was mad at him. I wasn’t. God, I was scared. He could barely stand.”

“What did the diary say about that night?”

“That I was cold.” Curly laughed under his breath, bitter. “Cold. Me. I carried him up the stairs. I made him sleep on my bed so I could watch over him.” His voice cracked. “But he wrote that I… that I didn’t want him there.”

A silence spread through the room, thick enough to choke.

She leaned forward slightly. “What did you want that night?”

Curly blinked at her, confused. “I wanted him to be okay.”

“That’s all?”

His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer.

She waited for him in a way he didn't feel pressed by. Did he make Jimmy feel like this? Did he ever feel comfortable with him? Did Jimmy not trust him?

Curly’s fingers curled around the edge of the chair. “I didn’t want him to see me panic,” he finally whispered. “I didn’t want him to think he was a burden.”

“In my notes from Jimmy,” she began carefully, “I’ve noticed he felt unworthy a lot of the time. What do you think about that?”

Curly stiffened instantly, his jaw locked, shoulders tight. “I think he was wrong.”

She let the words settle. “Wrong?”

“Yes.” Curly’s voice sharpened. “He wasn’t unworthy of anything. Not from me. It drives me up the wall to think Jimmy never valued my friendship.”

She tapped her pen lightly. “But he felt unworthy. That’s what I’m asking about.”

His knee bounced, quicker now, irritation prickling under his skin. “Well, what do you want me to say? That it’s my fault? That I made him feel that way?” He scoffed. “I was stern with him, yeah. Sometimes you need to be. Hard truths and all that.”

“Stern,” she repeated neutrally.

“Yes,” Curly snapped. “Stern. Not cruel. Not- I wasn’t—”

“But Jimmy often described your reactions that way.”

Curly felt heat flood his face, anger or shame, he couldn’t tell. “That’s his perspective. That doesn’t make it true.”

“It made it true for him,” she said gently.

The words were a slap to his ego. His teeth clenched.

“It doesn’t mean you loved him any less,” she added.

Curly’s chest burned. “He knew I loved him. He had to.”

Her expression softened, but she didn’t look away. “Orion… Jimmy wrote pages about feeling like a burden. About feeling like he annoyed you. About thinking you’d get tired of him one day.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“He shouldn’t have felt that way,” Curly muttered, voice cracking. “That wasn’t—That’s not—”

“What would make him think that?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know!” Curly’s voice rose before he could stop it. He gripped the arm of the chair, knuckles white. “I don’t know what else I was supposed to do. I showed up. I stayed. I listened most of the time. I didn’t walk away when everyone else did. Doesn’t that count?”

“It counts,” she said. “But people don’t just need presence. They need warmth. They need reassurance. They need to know they aren’t a burden.”

“I did reassure him!”

She tilted her head. “What did you say to him then, if you can remember? What type of words did you use?”

Curly froze.

He searched his memory for times he said the words, you’re not a burden, you matter,” and “I’m here because I care,” but they weren’t there. What he had said was more along the lines of stop overthinking, calm down, you’re fine, and quit apologizing so much.

Gasoline to a fire.

He felt the defensive heat surge up again. “He should’ve known,” he muttered. “He should’ve just… known. I loved him so much it hurt.” His voice cracked at the end. He swallowed hard. “Why didn’t he know?”

She set her pen down. “Sometimes we are blinded by our own emotions. You claim he should have known, but from what he has written, your words and actions don't exactly match up.”

Curly stared at the carpet until the pattern blurred.

“It makes me so mad,” he whispered. “He thought I hated him? After everything? How could he think that? How could he think that about me?”

Her voice softened even further. “Because that’s how he felt about himself. And sometimes that doesn't actually have to do with anything related to you.”

Curly looked away, jaw trembling. He didn’t want to cry in front of her again, not when everything inside him felt like molten lava.

He blinked hard, but the tears came anyway. “I wasn’t icing him,” he whispered, as if he said it enough, it would stay true. “I was just trying to help.”

Curly didn’t remember standing. One moment he was in the chair, the next he was on his feet, heat flooding every inch of him.

“I’m done,” he snapped. “You don’t know Jimmy. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”

“Curly—Orion—wait. We can talk about—”

“No. No, I’m sick of this.” His voice cracked with something too close to grief. “I’m not going to sit here and let you tell me I hurt him. I didn’t. I didn’t.”

“Please sit down—”

He yanked the door open so hard the frame rattled.

“I’m done for today.”

He didn’t look back.

The cold air outside slapped him in the face, but it didn’t cool the fire burning under his skin. He barely remembered getting home. The second the door shut behind him, he went straight for the punching bag.

He didn’t bother wrapping his hands.

The first punch stung. The second throbbed. By the tenth, his knuckles were screaming. He punched until tears blurred his vision. Until his shoulders burned and he couldn’t tell what hurt worse, his hands or the hole in his chest.

He stopped only when he saw the smear of red across the bag.

“Shit,” he breathed, chest heaving.

He leaned his forehead against the worn canvas, panting. His hands trembled uncontrollably. The skin across his knuckles had split open in several places.

He needed the med kit.

He needed Anya.

Curly grabbed his phone with shaking fingers and dialed her number. She answered on the third ring.

“Curly? You okay?”

“No,” he admitted, voice ragged. “I—I need help with the med kit you bought last time. I, uh…” He swallowed, shame thick in his throat. “Can you… Come over?”

There was a pause. A long one.

“Curly, I told you I can’t come by anymore.”

His stomach dropped. “Anya, please, I… I just need help with my hands.”

“I know,” she said softly. “But after what happened last time… I don’t feel safe. You scared me.”

Curly squeezed his eyes shut, guilt stabbing through him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

“Curly, I want you to get better, I do,” she said. “But I can’t put myself in that position again. I trusted you.”

Curly slumped to the floor, back against the wall. His raw knuckles throbbed with his racing heartbeat. “I don’t need you to come over. Just… tell me what to do. Please.”

Her voice softened, but she still sounded wary. “Okay. I’ll walk you through it. Do you have the kit?”

He glanced toward the bathroom cabinet. “Yeah. Where you left it last time.”

“Alright,” she said tiredly. “Go get it. And Curly?”

“Yeah?”

“Let this be the last time you need it.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “I'll try.”

🔪💀

××/××/××××

When I think about how I first met Curly, it’s kinda weird. He was weird. I just wanted one quiet night at the bar, a drink in my hand, and to watch a stupid football game.

Never thought someone would try to talk to me. Much less buy me a drink.

I honestly thought he was gay. He looked gay. Clean, polished, the kind of guy who knows exactly how good he looks. His whole outfit screamed, ‘I care way too much.’ And someone please explain why he looked at me like I was the one begging for attention.

Why did I even humor him?

It’s been years now. And somehow we’re still friends.

I hate this man.

He won’t leave me alone.

He asked me to move in again and I yelled at him. Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t trust me to handle my own problems.

I fucking regret telling him about the break-in that happened downstairs. I know I should move, okay? I know. But screw you, let me deal with it. It’s my problem. I thought I could just tell him, just share it, but no. He has to be such an ass about it and try to fix it for me.

And the worst part is when I call him out, he has the nerve to tell me to that he’s “only trying to give me advice.” God, fuck you, Curly. You’re so damn full of yourself.

I told him multiple times to drop it, that I’ve got it handled. And he ignores everything I say and acts like I’m the one attacking him. Like he wasn’t the one spouting bullshit first.

I HATE HIM.

And yet

I’m still waiting for him to call me.

I don’t know why I like you so much.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I bought this journal forever ago and never used it. It was meant for my cousin’s kid at some point. Then they moved, and I forgot to send it. Thought a stupid preteen like her would want a diary she could hide from her parents.

It’s what I wished I had growing up.

Now I have it and I’m bored out of my mind, so I guess I’m writing.

Curly left a week ago for that new job of his.

What’s insane is how this job shoots him out into fucking space and keeps him gone longer than I’m comfortable with. I hate it. Why did he have to take it?

I mean, the money is good. I get it. I’d probably take it too if anyone offered it to me. But still. I doubt Curly would miss me if I left. He never looks like he enjoys having me around. His friends definitely don’t.

I don’t get it. Does he even like me? He’s always on his phone when we hang out. Always messaging someone else. It pisses me off so bad. If he wants to spend time with other people, then just go. Why drag me along?

God, I fucking hate him. I hate him so much. I can’t stand him.

He acts so fake sometimes. Just stop pretending you’re fine, Curly. Stop being this righteous asshole. It’s exhausting.

We had a huge fight before he left. Full shouting match. My throat still hurts. I hope his does too. I hope he chokes out there in that stupid space tin can.

I hope he calls me when he lands.

There’s still so much I want to yell at him for.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

It’s been half a year. I’ve written a bunch of random crap in here, workout routines, recipes I’ve tried, grocery lists, whatever. Didn’t think I’d stick with it this long.

Maybe when Curly comes back I could cook him something.

He’s probably starving up there, that lardass. He eats so damn much. I guess I do too now, ever since he forced me into working out with him.

But working out and eating aren’t as exciting when there’s no one to share it with.

Mom says I’m too dependent on him.

What the fuck does she know?

She married a drunk. She should worry about her own relationship.

I cook for them most nights now, actually. I try new recipes at home but then I don’t feel hungry anymore, so I pack it up and bring it to her instead.

She’s been looking healthier. Dad, too.

I wonder

Would Curly want to meet them one day?

Would he ever bring me to meet his?

Probably not. I know his family wouldn’t like me. And we’d probably just end up fighting in front of them like idiots anyway.

Curly doesn’t really like spicy food or sweets, so what the hell can I cook for him?

Maybe something with fish. I’ve never tried that before.

Is it wrong to say I miss you?

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I’m in the hospital. They won’t let me leave until two more days.

I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. But if I don’t comply, they’ll keep me even longer. And I can’t miss the day Curly comes home. I need to be there. I need to see him the second he lands.

I’m going insane being here alone.

It was a car crash. Fuck me for trying to help. Broken glass sliced my arm open deep. I didn’t even think. I just saw the guy slumped over the wheel and tried to unlock the door to get him out.

Curly’s going to yell at me for “trying to be a hero.” As if he doesn’t do that shit constantly, the narcissistic jerk.

Or maybe… maybe he’ll think I did it on purpose. That I sliced myself open for attention.

Fuck him if he thinks that.

I can’t even practice that fish recipe. I don’t remember if I put the fish away before I left. I hope I did. If it’s rotting on the counter, I swear to God, the last thing I need is to poison everyone with parasites.

Why do I care so much about what he thinks? Why do I want to please him?

It’s embarrassing. Pathetic. Maybe my mom was right, maybe I am too attached. Maybe him leaving every year is actually a good thing. I need to let go.

But I don’t want to. I’m scared to.

Just don’t get mad at me, Curly. Please.

Or else I hope I give you food poisoning.

But I'd still take care of you until your next shift takes you away.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I don't understand.

I hate you so much.

Why are you like this?

Curly, you're the biggest jerk I've ever met and I was raised with my father.

Why is talking to you like talking to him?

And if I tell you that...

Curly, I don't understand. Why do you say I can talk to you but you keep telling me everything I say is wrong? Oh, wait but even that wrong right,  Curly? You never tell me things like that, oh no, you would never. Bite me, Curly.

Why can't I talk about my feelings or thoughts like you say I can? Are you just a liar? You'll just get mad at me for saying that. You always get mad at me for saying anything.

What do you want from me, Curly? I can't give you anything if you refuse everything.

I can't wait until you leave again. Suffer in that cramped spaceship. See if I care about the crappy company food you eat. You won't miss me. I know you won't.

Stop giving me those damn Polle souvenirs, I hate that damn horse. Clean your ears out for a second, would you?

If you are really care, then why do you make it so difficult?

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I used to feel like I could talk with you.

But you keep yelling at me. And when I finally told you, all you said was, Where? When? What exactly did I say? Like I have to record every second of my life just to prove what I feel.

Just stop.

I was alone most of my life, kid, teenager, adult. Getting close to you was a mistake.

All we do is fight now.

You say I run away, but if you won’t listen to me, what the hell am I supposed to do? Choose to stay and get yelled at? Choose to leave and be called a coward? I lose either way. At least when I run away you can continue to delude yourself that you weren't in the wrong and I don't have to hear you ridicule me anymore.

Curly, I don’t want to lose you. But you’re driving me away and you won’t admit it.

I know I’m a problem. I know I fight too much. I know I piss you off when I get jealous of your friends. But you have problems too. Stop pretending you're this perfect “bigger man.” Stop acting like you're morally above me. If you’re serious about having flaws, then stop holding yourself a mile higher.

Curly, you’re the only friend I have.

And you treat me really fucking bad sometimes. I try to make up for things and you don’t let me.

What do you even want? I can’t think or speak without imagining you shutting me down. How can you get mad that I “don’t take responsibility” when you never give me space to?

Or is it because I don’t do things your way? I’m not you. Stop trying to make me be you.

Oh wait, forgot. I don’t have the right to be mad. I don’t have the right to tell YOU what to do.

Sure, Curly. Give me all the “advice” you want, so you can blow up later when I don’t take it. If it’s just advice, then I have the right not to follow it. So don’t get pissed at me. Don’t act betrayed.

You’re not helping. You’re controlling.

And then you’ll twist it back to you, how you never “forced” me to do anything.

Just listen to yourself.

I listen to myself all the time. I don’t need you reminding me how pathetic I am.

Oh right. When have you ever said that? My bad. I’ll start recording everything next time, yeah?

I hate you. And let’s be honest, you hate me too.

Because if this is how you treat someone you like, then you’re more fucked up than I am.

And that’s saying something.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I got really drunk that night. I was so mad at Curly for doing his whole “I’m always here to listen, but you have to stop running” speech again.

He keeps saying that crap, and I keep falling for it like an idiot. I wish he’d stop giving me false hope.

I told him about a carjacking in the parking lot. I only told him because I got scared. I thought I was safe with him. But he climbed onto his high horse again, giving me “advice.”

When I told him I regretted saying anything, he blew up in my face.
Fuck you.

If I’m such a burden, why do you keep chasing me down?

I didn’t come to you to fix anything. I just wanted to get something scary off my chest. When you said you couldn’t support my decision of my living space unless I moved somewhere safer, something in my head finally clicked.

You just like the sound of your own damn voice.

I blacked out at the bar after that. I only remember getting kicked out. I remember wanting to yell at you, but when I finally showed up at your place and saw your face, I just crumbled. I knew you were going to turn cold on me again.

Do you realize how hard your grip is? It hurts.

I’m sorry I disappointed you. That’s all I ever seem to do, right? And if I try to tell you any of this, you get mad. You say, “When did I ever say that?” But Curly,  you don’t have to say the exact words for the meaning to come across.

If you didn’t intend to be cold, then you should choose your words better. Your texts all sound angry. That’s why I stopped responding. You say I can do whatever I want, but what you really mean is that I’m supposed to do what you want.

But you’ll just deny that, too.

I remember crying into your pillows. Hard.

And all you did was look at me like I disgusted you.

I’m sorry I’m not your perfect friend.
I’m sorry I can’t follow your rules.
I’m sorry I can’t make you happy.
I’m sorry you won’t listen.
I’m sorry for everything, I guess.

I don’t think I care anymore. I’m tired of fighting. But you won’t let me go. You say we’re not fighting, but you keep pushing me into corners where I have no choice except to fight back because nothing I do satisfies you.

Well, fuck you. I’m not you.

And you need to understand that. I know you’re different from me, and I actually like that about you but do you like anything about me? Or are you just going to yell again and pretend you never said anything hurtful because I don’t have screenshots?

Fuck you, asshole. Why are you like this?

At least I’m honest about my shitty traits.

I need you to kill me.

Chapter Text

🎂📖

Before Curly walked into the therapist’s office, he spent six hours soaking in pain-relief soap. The stress of reading Jimmy’s diary had settled into his bones.

His back hurt. Really hurt.

Normally, when his back ached because of Jimmy, it was because the two of them had been roughhousing like idiots. Two grown men throwing each other around like teenagers.

Jimmy had thrown his back out more than once.

On Earth, they’d play basketball at the park near Curly’s building or, on a really good day, kick a soccer ball around. Every game ended with bruises, scraped elbows, and someone limping. Jimmy was a rough player. Curly would miss those bruises for the rest of his life.

And on the Tulpar, when they thought they were alone in the lounge, they’d end up competing over the stupidest things. Rock–paper–scissors. Arm wrestling. Cards. Anything to kill time. Jimmy wrote so much about the negative moments, but god, they had good ones too. Great ones.

Curly remembered one in perfect clarity. They were wrestling again over who had to buy drinks once they got back to Earth. Curly had Jimmy pinned to the ground, smug as hell, and his hand brushed the side of Jimmy’s ribs. Completely by accident.

Jimmy dissolved into helpless laughter. Loud, messy, real laughter.

Curly would give anything to go back to that exact second, Jimmy squirming, nearly crying from how hard he was laughing. And how, the moment Curly eased up, Jimmy flipped him like he weighed nothing, pinning him to the floor instead.

Curly had honestly thought Jimmy might pull his arm out of its socket with how fast he reversed the hold.

And the terrible thing was… he would’ve let him. He would’ve let Jimmy do whatever ridiculous, painful move he wanted… if it meant Jimmy was still here today.

If it meant he still had the chance to laugh like that again. If it meant Curly could hear that tiny snort Jimmy made when he lost control.

Instead, all he had were the words in Jimmy’s diary, sharp enough to hurt more than any bruise Jimmy ever gave him.

He'd let Jimmy wrap his hands around his neck instead if it would keep him alive to this day.

Curly exhaled, pushed himself out of the bath, and got dressed for the session.

Today, he would have to talk about all of this.

🎂📖

Curly sat on the edge of the chair, trying to ignore the dull burn in his knuckles. Every time he thought about Jimmy writing “I was scared you’d get upset with me,” his skull felt like it was being squeezed from the inside. Why would Jimmy ever assume that? Why would Jimmy think he was someone he had to brace himself against?

The therapist cleared her throat, gentle but still enough to cut through the fog he’d put himself in.

“Orion. After you stormed out last time, and with today being the last session your workplace is covering, where would you like to proceed from here?”

The shame hit him with the force of a freight train. He had stormed out. He remembered getting really worked up. How fast his heartbeat was, how hot his face felt.

And he had never lost his cool like that before. That was something Jimmy did. Storm out of a room when things got too tough for him to hear.

Except… apparently Curly did that too.

He swallowed hard. Time to actually say it.

“I’d like to keep seeing you,” he managed, then took a breath that felt heavier than he expected. “After I left… I tore my hands up.” He pushed his hands forward a little. Angry red abrasions crossed over his knuckles from the beating he gave his punching bag.

“It was really hard confronting that I said things that made Jimmy want to shield himself away from me.”

Her pen scratched quietly against the paper.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said. “If you want to change anything from now to future sessions, please tell me.”

He nodded. It had been his request, after all. He wanted help through the grief. He wanted help understanding what Jimmy wrote. He wanted help understanding what the hell he was actually doing while he thought he was helping.

“How would you like to proceed?” she asked. “It's your move.”

The words hit him harder than they should have. His whole body gave a small, involuntary jolt. His breath caught in his throat.

He had said those exact words to Jimmy. After fights where he thought he was offering reassurance.

He’d meant them as, I’ll wait for you. Take your time. I won’t push. He had genuinely believed it was encouragement.

But hearing them come from someone else, clean, neutral, and completely without emotion, he felt sick. Cold. Small.

Maybe Jimmy didn’t hear them the way he intended. Maybe Jimmy heard, This is your responsibility. Fix it. You're taking too long. Maybe that was one of the lines Jimmy read as condescending. As another example of Curly putting himself on higher ground.

“Shit,” Curly whispered before he could stop himself. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to sound so cold. I didn’t mean it the way he heard it.”

The therapist looked up, her voice gentle but steady.

“Intent and impact can be very different things, Orion. We’ll work through that. You’re here, and you’re willing to look at this honestly. That’s the first step.”

Curly’s throat tightened. For the first time since Jimmy died, he felt the weight of his own tone.

Had he always talked this jarringly to Jimmy?

Curly’s therapist folded her hands, her voice steady. “Orion, this is why we’re here. You wanted help understanding Jimmy and why he went down this path.”

Curly shifted in his seat, trying to find comfort again. “Sometimes it feels like you’re attacking me.”

Her expression softened immediately. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that way. I’ve noticed you and Jimmy seemed very attached, and perhaps in prying the two of you apart a bit, I’ve been hurting you through it.”

Attached was an understatement.

Curly had thought about Jimmy every single day since they’d met. Even before they became close, Jimmy took up space in his head.

When Curly left for Pony Express training, it was torture. Jimmy wasn’t beside him, cracking jokes or poking fun or tripping into him during a workout just to see if Curly could keep his footing.

That anxiety clawing at his chest was why Curly pushed so hard to get Jimmy on the Tulpar in the first place. The moment a co-pilot training slot opened, Curly practically destroyed all he worked for just to give Jimmy the spot. Then he convinced Jimmy to apply, and then badgered him until he did.

Maybe that was another mistake. Maybe Jimmy never wanted the job. Maybe Jimmy only tried because Curly made it sound like he had to.

The thought made Curly’s stomach hurt.

The only way to know is to read more, he told himself. The pages were the only place left where Jimmy still spoke.

The therapist flipped to a clean page in her notes. “Jimmy mentioned you had other friends before. Would you like to talk about them?”

Friends. Yeah. He had them. Too many, maybe.

It had always been overwhelming, juggling so many people, terrified to drop one. He had to please everyone. Stay in touch with everyone. Be the dependable one. The one who never said no.

Being out in space, over a hundred thousand kilometers away, was the first time in his life he got to just… breathe.

Because up there, he didn’t have to keep up with anyone.

…he could run away.

The realization punched him deep in the gut.

Another blinder removed. Another thing he hadn’t wanted to see.

Curly swallowed hard because the truth followed fast and brutal. 

He liked that Jimmy scared off his friends.

Jimmy was sharp-tongued, territorial, and sometimes downright vicious when he wanted Curly’s attention. And Curly had let him, hell, sometimes he encouraged it. A little look. A small complaint. A vague sigh. Enough to make Jimmy snap his teeth and growl at whoever was crowding Curly’s space.

They’d scatter. And Curly didn’t have to do the dirty work.

Shit.

He hadn’t just let Jimmy shoulder that ugliness, he’d benefited from it. Played with it. Let Jimmy think he had to fight for Curly.

No wonder Jimmy got so mad when they hung out and Curly answered messages. No wonder Jimmy spiraled whenever Curly talked about other connections. Curly had trained him to expect abandonment.

And the worst part?

There were times Curly texted other people on purpose… hoping Jimmy would take the phone, snarl something jealous, shove him back against the couch, and demand his attention.

Hoping Jimmy would cling. Because he mistook that for proof Jimmy cared.

Did he ever actually tell Jimmy he wasn’t going anywhere? He must have, right? 

He had to have.

But what if the way he said it sounded dismissive? Cold? Condescending? Like those awful phrases he never meant to land the way they did?

What if Jimmy spent years feeling unchosen and unwanted, fighting for Curly’s love while Curly thought Jimmy knew how much he'd give up for him?

He needs to visit Jimmy's mother and ask for his phone. He needs to see their texts from Jimmy's side.

Because until he saw Jimmy’s side of the conversation, he would never really understand the weight his own words carried. And he owed Jimmy at least that much truth.

🎂📖

The therapist takes a close look at Curly, checking if he's gotten worse since the last visit. His cheeks look a little more hollow, and the dark circles under his eyes have settled in deeper. She finally asks, gently but directly, “Curly… may I ask? Have you been eating?”

Curly opens his mouth to answer, but he has to stop and actually think about it. When was the last time he sat down and ate something on purpose?

He realizes, with a small jolt of embarrassment, that he’s been avoiding it. “...eating hasn’t felt exciting without Jimmy around,” he says finally.

The words feel strange in his mouth. He knows it’s something Jimmy once said. But it’s accurate, isn’t it?

He really did always eat with Jimmy. They’d hit the bar together after work, splitting fried appetizers and trash-talking about the sports team on the TV. They’d pick up greasy fast food from whatever place was closest and take it to the park, sitting on a bench like teenagers even though they were grown men with stiff backs and bills to pay. Jimmy had a ridiculous sweet tooth, so Curly made it a habit to take him to a pastry shop or a frozen yogurt place, watching him light up at the sight of sugar.

Curly can picture it so clearly, he feels it in his chest. Jimmy leaned over the counter, eyes big, deciding which topping he felt like that day. And then stuffing his face the moment they sat down, getting cream or crumbs all over his mouth because he ate with enthusiasm instead of manners.

Those were the moments Curly lived for. Moments where he got to coddle Jimmy a little, spoil him rotten, pretend it was normal to care that much. He’d tease him and then reach across the table with a napkin, wiping Jimmy’s mouth. Getting his hand slapped away. It made every stupid little indulgence worth it.

And when Curly left for space, Jimmy picked up a new skill. Jimmy decided he was going to learn how to cook.

Curly had never been so excited to come home in his life. It was embarrassing how quickly he’d fall into Jimmy’s arms the moment he walked through the door, burying himself in that warm, intoxicating embrace that felt better than any painkiller or sleep cycle. And Jimmy would laugh, call him a big puppy dog, but he held him just as tightly.

Curly ate everything Jimmy made, whether he actually liked the dish or not. Even the failed ones. He ignored stomach aches and nights spent in the bathroom, wondering if Jimmy had accidentally poisoned him. He ate it all every single time, because Jimmy made it for him.

It felt like a dream coming home to the smell of a fresh meal instead of the sad, grey mush they served on the company ship. After weeks of rehydrated sludge, he was starving for anything that came from Jimmy’s hands. Even if half the time it was too salty or too sweet or inexplicably spicy.

Jimmy made an absolute mess of the kitchen every time, too. Flour on the counters, chopped vegetables everywhere, sauce splattered on the stovetop. But Curly loved cleaning up after him. It felt good to give something back, even something small, after Jimmy spent so much effort trying to feed him. And sometimes Jimmy let him help, let him stir a pot or chop something, or sneak him a quick taste from a wooden spoon while he worked. 

He remembered one time he had a couple friends over. Jimmy was edgy the whole night, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. But he still cooked for them anyway, still put his whole heart into the meal. And the food ended up being incredible, better than anything any of them had expected.

Curly remembered joking around afterward, slinging an arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and calling him his “housewife.”

At the time, Jimmy just snorted and pushed him off lightly. Curly thought it was fine. Just their usual banter.

But now…

Now he wonders.

Did Jimmy write something about that?

Did he take it differently? Did it sting?

Did Curly hurt him without even realizing it again?

“Orion, I would like you to try eating again,” the therapist said gently. “You could even bring your food here if you’d like the company. I certainly wouldn’t mind.”

He swallowed, unsure why the kindness made his throat tight. “Thank you. Um… I’ll try to be better.”

She nodded, then flipped a page in her notes. “Jimmy wrote about cooking dinner for you quite often. What was that like? Did you partake in his meals?”

“Yes.” Curly’s voice softened instantly. “They were wonderful. I could tell he practiced really hard. I loved coming home to them.”

“In my notes,” she continued, “I’ve written that he felt genuine joy cooking for you. But he also wrote about feeling extreme duress when he missed a night, especially the entry about the hospital. He seemed very afraid that day. Can you tell me what happened?”

Curly wiped his palms roughly against his jeans. He leaned back, shoulders tight. “Jim is reckless to a fault. When I saw the scar, this huge, angry slash down his arm. I lost it. I dropped everything the second I found out he was in the hospital and rushed to his side.”

He tilted his head back and covered his eyes with his hand.“...This is probably one of those moments I made him feel like shit. I just cared for him so much. I remember yelling. And I remember him bursting into tears.”

He can recall how bad Jimmy started hyperventilating.

“GET OUT, CURLY, BEFORE I CALL SECURITY!”

“CALL THEM ALL YOU WANT! I’LL JUST WAIT FOR YOU AT HOME!”

“I KNEW YOU’D ACT LIKE THIS! FUCK OFF!”

“ACT LIKE WHAT, JIM? WORRIED? YOU COULD HAVE DIED!”

“LIKE YOU WOULD HAVE CARED! GET OUT! I CAN’T BELIEVE—”

The shouting ended only because the doctors stepped in, telling Curly he needed to leave immediately. He remembered standing frozen for a second, breath shaking, before stumbling out into the hall. And then he went home and paced back and forth for hours until his legs felt like they’d tear apart.

Now, sitting in the therapist’s office, the realization crawled across his skin.

What was it that Jimmy knew?

What reaction had Jimmy been bracing for?

Curly lowered his hand slowly, heart twisting.

He knew Curly would raise his voice.

Curly’s hand slipped from his face and fell heavy onto his lap. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles. Jimmy was right to expect the yelling. But not for the reason he thought. Curly never yelled because he didn’t care, he yelled because he was terrified. Because seeing Jimmy hurt flipped every switch in his body. But fear doesn’t erase impact. And yelling at someone already high-strung and trembling didn’t protect them.

It crushed them.

Jimmy had already felt like a disaster that day. Like he’d failed Curly somehow just by getting injured. And Curly… gave him the exact reaction he was afraid of.

Jimmy hyper-fixated on cooking because it was one of the only things in his life he believed he could succeed at. The one gesture he thought he could offer Curly without messing up. He felt useful and reliable.

Curly hated fish, but he would have choked down every last bite without blinking if it meant Jimmy felt proud of himself.

…Maybe he should find a seafood restaurant and force down a plate until he is sick. Something to honor how much effort Jimmy put into feeding him.

His voice cracked slightly as he said, “I’m starting to think I never showed my appreciation for his efforts in a way that wasn’t half-belittling.”

The therapist’s tone softened. “Despite everything, Orion, Jimmy cared deeply about you and about your well-being while you were away.”

Curly let out a slow, unsteady breath. “And I cared for him. Maybe a little too roughly, but Jim was always hard to get through. He always assumed the worst about everything, and sometimes it got exhausting trying to rewire his brain.”

“That may have also been part of the problem,” she replied gently. “Jimmy wrote often about feeling like he wasn’t allowed to express himself fully. You may have been trying to help him find confidence and reassurance… but it also sounds like you were placing a lot of your own beliefs and coping styles onto him. And, well, you know.”

Curly nodded, finishing the sentence in a hollow voice. “He wasn’t me. And I’m not him.”

“But make no mistake,” the therapist continued gently, “he wrote that he loved you for that difference. That you weren’t like him.”

Curly didn’t sit up. He didn’t wipe his face. He just let the tears slide along his temples and drop onto his shoulders as he stared at the ceiling tiles.

“He thought I didn’t love him for being different too,” he whispered.

The therapist’s voice softened further but remained steady. “There’s only so much I can infer from his writings. But Jimmy comes across as… very confused. Torn, even. Like he desperately wanted your love, but couldn’t decide if he deserved it. Did that back-and-forth feel frustrating for you to handle?”

Curly let out a strained exhale, chest tightening. “Very. But I wish he knew I would have never left him. I knew he had attachment issues, abandonment fears, all of that… but I didn’t think I triggered it that badly.” He paused, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “I wish he’d told me. Instead, he was so scared of how I’d react that he wrote it down in a notebook.”

“Orion,” she said, leaning forward with a measured softness, “from what I can tell it seems clear that you were both terrified of hurting each other. But inevitably… You did. Both of you. You shared the same wounds, but you responded to them in very different ways. That’s expected. And human.”

Curly’s jaw clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again. He breathed out through his nose, shaky and defeated.

The session continued for only a few more minutes over schedule. When he finally sat upright again, he felt wrung out, scraped clean in places and still bleeding in others.

It was hard to imagine himself and Jimmy as two separate people. They’d spent so much time together, overlapped in so many routines, habits, rituals, jokes, fights… it was like their lives had grown into one tangled mess. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe Jimmy felt suffocated by Curly’s overbearing presence.

It was strange, realizing how much he’d adored when Jimmy took control of parts of his life. When Jimmy’s moods dictated their days. Curly loved every sharp edge of Jimmy’s personality. But that might have been exactly what made everything confusing, what let resentment rot in places neither of them noticed.

Jimmy…

He always stood his ground. The stubborn idiot who would rather break his own bones than bend.

But now Curly couldn’t call it stupid anymore. Not when he was starting to see how often he’d backed Jimmy into corners without even realizing it.

And the worst part was that he knew Jimmy’s damage. He knew the triggers, the fears, the abandonment wounds, the emotional shrapnel embedded in him since childhood. Curly had been privileged to hear all of it, straight from Jimmy’s mouth, in the safety of late-night talks after coming from a bar and they would just lay on the carpet in the living room together.

Curly knew every vulnerability Jimmy carried.

And instead of helping… he’d somehow made Jimmy feel like getting close was just another mistake he regretted. Another fear confirmed. Another wound reopened.

He should’ve dropped arguments the moment Jimmy said “let it go.” Should’ve stopped pushing, stopped insisting on talking, stopped trying to “fix” him. If Curly had backed off just once, maybe Jimmy would’ve felt safe enough to come back on his own terms. Maybe he wouldn’t have felt trapped.

Going home after the session made Curly feel physically sick. Shame pooled in his gut, heavy and burning. He stripped and stepped into an ice-cold shower, letting the freezing water hammer against his skull and chest until he was shivering.

When he finally crawled into bed, he disappeared under the covers like a child hiding from monsters. Like he has seen Jimmy do more times then he realized.

And there were still pages left to read.

So many pages.

What else did Jimmy write about?

What else had Curly bulldozed past without ever stopping to consider to see from Jimmy’s point of view?

Jimmy had so many explosive episodes with him over the years. Curly used to think it was because Jimmy felt safe enough to let the pressure out, to break down, to scream. But now… now he wasn’t sure. Maybe Jimmy didn’t shatter because he felt safe, maybe he shattered because Curly kept pressing, kept pushing, kept tightening the vise around him until something had to give.

He wished he could ask him.

He wished he could ask Jimmy everything. Let Jimmy yell at him one more time. Let Jimmy get sarcastic and snappy and roll his eyes and shove him in the shoulder. Let him say “Curly, shut up,” one more time. Curly would take it, he’d take anything, just to hear Jimmy’s voice again.

There was so much left unspoken between them.

Curly needed to call Jimmy’s mother ahead of time. Ask permission to sift through Jimmy’s things, to retrieve his phone, to find any traces of what Jimmy couldn’t say aloud. And he should bring flowers. Jimmy wasn't just his best friend. He was her son. Her boy. Her grief was deeper than his, even if it didn’t feel possible.

All these feelings were churning inside him… maybe they were just a fraction of what Jimmy had drowned in daily.

Curly should have told Jimmy how he truly felt. How much he meant. He thought he had, but reading the entries made it clear that whatever Curly had tried to communicate came out confusing. Harsh without meaning to be. It was how he was raised, blunt, direct, raised on tough love.

But Jimmy wasn’t him.

And Curly wasn’t Jimmy.

What seemed like clarity to Curly had sounded like condescension to Jimmy. What Curly meant as reassurance, Jimmy heard as control. What Curly thought was patience, Jimmy felt as anger.

Curly’s chest ached.

He was so tired of rediscovering every terrible moment between them, all the misunderstandings, the fights, the shouting. But now he didn’t know if he had the right to revisit the good memories.

Maybe he did. Maybe he needed them. It was his grief therapy after all. And things weren’t always this turbulent. Jimmy wasn’t always hurting. They had so many good moments, tons of them. Way more than they had fought.

He’d like to tell someone those stories.

Maybe he’d start with the therapist, see if he could get the words out without breaking down. And if he could… Maybe he could share those stories with Jimmy’s mother, too. She deserved to hear the good ones. The ones where her son laughed, where he was proud, where he was loved.

Because he was.

God, he was.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

When I was younger, I used to have this favorite stuffed animal. He wasn’t anything special, just a boring beige bear with curly fur and a tiny green ribbon tied around his neck with little gold stars on it.

Mom says I dragged that bear everywhere, which apparently embarrassed the hell out of her.

He was almost half my size, so when I slept, I’d lie on his chest and I felt like he was protecting me. She said I’d freak out if he wasn’t right next to me. 

After our first house burnt down. That bear died in the flames. 

And I cried. Mom told me later I didn’t stop screaming for him for hours.

The thing is I don't remember much of when I was five years old but I do remember clinging onto that bear.

And I remember who started that fire.

My father had tried cooking dinner but he left a towel too close to the burner.

Then answered a call for work and the whole kitchen went up. I was on the floor playing with little toy cars. If Mom hadn’t walked by the doorway right then, I guess I’d be gone too.

I've never been so scared before in my life.

Funny how a stupid stuffed animal felt more reliable than my actual father.

Mom tried to replace him. She kept bringing me new bears hoping I’d get attached. But I never did. 

Fun fact. All the bears in that lineup were named after constellations. I couldn’t read back then, so “rat” was the best I could do. I may have looked them up again once I could use a computer and just happened to remember him

Not because I wanted another one.

I didn’t need a new bear to comfort me through hard times.

Because I had you, Curly.

All my darkest secrets became yours too.

The only difference was, you talked back.

Okay maybe the bear “spoke back to me too,” but I’m not to be called psychotic just yet.

But Rat didn’t argue. Rat didn’t ask me to explain myself, or calm down, or “think rationally,” or prove what I felt. He didn’t make me feel stupid or small or dramatic.

It's humiliating thinking back on the day I mentioned you to my mom one too many times, and she just looked at me and said I was getting “a little too attached” to another grown man in the same way I once clung to that stupid toy bear.

For a second I even wondered if she thought I was gay, but no, I’m not, thanks, Mom. At least she kept that to herself.

But… she wasn’t wrong.

I did cling to you. I still do, even when I’m pissed at you. Even when I swear I hate you.

I don’t know why, Curly, but you just felt like that bear to me.

Every time you left for space I’d freak out inside. I kept imagining the ship blowing up, or some freak accident, or you falling out of an airlock and floating away. Just these intrusive thoughts that wouldn’t stop. You coming back as a pile of charcoal and metal shards.

I KNOW it’s insane. That's just what my head does.

I wanted to tell you about the nightmares. About waking up sweating, convinced you died, checking my phone like ten times a night hoping you’d text.

But you always made talking about myself feel… I don’t know. Shameful. Like I was being dramatic or pathetic or wasting your time.

Maybe you didn’t mean to, but that’s how it felt sitting next to you with all those words clawing at my throat and never coming out.

So I just kept clinging tighter. And let the anxiety fester worse.

I just wanted you to stay by my side.

Don’t leave me.

I feel like you wanted me to say it, that I need you but I’d rather sew my own mouth shut than feed your stupid, self-righteous ego. I’m not giving you that satisfaction. I refuse.

But the truth is…

I feel better when you’re around.

I hate that I do. It makes me feel weak and pathetic, like I can’t even function unless you’re hovering over my shoulder.

And I CAN.

I’ve paid my own bills before without you! I’ve gone and gotten my own beer a million times without needing you to sweettalk the bartender!

I managed life without you just fine!

So why

Why does it kill me every time you go? Why does it burn behind my eyes when I see you with other people, laughing like you’re not missing anything? Why does it hurt to watch you succeed somewhere far away from me?

I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you.

Why the hell do you get to leave and I’m the one stuck here feeling like a kicked dog?

Why do I need you so much? Why do I want you so much it makes me nauseous?

Fuck your parents from the UK.

Just stay here with me.

You could meet my mom if you wanted. She’s not all bad. I mean sure she had me and…

Is it me you’re running from? Am I the problem?

Last time I tried telling you how lost I felt without you…

We fought.

We always do when I get emotional, because you turn into some kind of logic robot and suddenly my feelings become a puzzle you insist I’m solving wrong.

I don’t know what you think you’re saying half the time, but it never fits what I’m feeling.

Are you just scared of not being happy for one second? Or am I just too heavy for you to carry? That my darkness is too much to handle.

What happened to you holding my hand at night? When we fell asleep on the living room floor watching the news because neither of us wanted to get up.

Sometimes you make me feel so stupid. And the awful thing is I can already hear your voice in my head going, “Oh really? When have I called you stupid?”

You must really think I’m just one big waste of time.

Just… come back home already.
Please.

Just come back home already. Your family held you long enough. I'm afraid I might set the next house fire.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

Curly, I just wanted to surprise you when you came back home.

I used the spare keys you gave me. I didn’t break in like last time, so don’t start with that. I was trying to do something nice for once.

But I guess I wasn’t the only one who wanted to surprise you.

Your friends showed up.

They knocked on the door and I nearly pissed myself because I wasn’t expecting anyone, and they weren’t expecting me either when I opened up instead.

We sat in your place for an hour in awkward silence.

I may have jumped out of my seat too fast when you finally opened the door.

You seemed so happy when you saw they were also there.

I just wanted to cook you dinner.

But I ended up cooking dinner for everyone because I didn’t know how to tell your friends to leave without sounding like a jealous psycho. I couldn’t stop shaking. I nearly dropped the knife twice. My hands wouldn’t listen to me. My chest felt too small.

I don’t know. I was mad, but I was also scared. I didn’t want to ruin your first day back.
I wanted it to be something good between us. Not another fight with you yelling, “Jimmy, what the hell is wrong with you?”

I'm glad you liked my meal. But I'm not sure what to make of you calling me your housewife.

Were you making fun of me? Do you even like it when I try to make food for you?

Curly, when you're with other people, you act so differently than when you're alone with me.

I like you better when it’s just us. You pretend less. Your smile isn’t fake. You don’t keep your distance. You hover and crowd me. You bump into me on purpose.

If your friends weren’t here, you know damn well you'd have been hanging off my back.

You looked like you were trying to be someone else entirely.

I kept thinking, Do you act like that because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me?

I just wanted to do something good for once.

Do you like them, Curly? More than me?

Is that why you don’t look over your shoulder to make sure I’m still there?

Are these the people you choose over me?

Because sometimes…
It feels like I’m the only one choosing you.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

(Therapist Note: The next journal entry is almost entirely unreadable.

What remains visible are only fragments of jagged, frantic scratches carved into the paper. The ink has bled through multiple pages, as if Jimmy pressed the pen into the notebook with enough force to tear it. There are sections where the page buckles, suggesting moisture damage, possibly tears, and possibly something spilled during the episode.

The few decipherable words are:

“Curly”
“hate you”
“I wish everyone was dead”
“I’m sorry”

The emotional whiplash from rage to remorse is stark. What is present here appears to be a clear visual documentation of one of Jimmy’s acute emotional meltdowns, likely severe dysregulation, possibly dissociative features given the abrupt tonal shifts and physical violence done to the page.

I will need to ask Curly what these meltdowns looked like in person.

Important lines of inquiry:

• Did Jimmy’s episodes ever escalate into physical danger for Curly or for Jimmy himself?

• Were threats of harm to self or others ever acted upon, or were they purely expressions of distress?

• How frequently did these episodes occur, and what patterns or triggers might Curly recall?

• How did Curly typically respond in the moment?

It may be necessary to gently probe for Curly’s memories surrounding the possible cause of this particular outbreak. Even if he cannot recall a specific event, his sense of their dynamic at that time may provide insight.

Without Jimmy here as an actual patient, and without direct assessment, I can only infer from his entries but the writing reflects a man in severe psychological distress, fluctuating rapidly between emotional extremes.

There is also a notable trend: Jimmy’s dysregulation appears to intensify when Curly is absent, but his language suggests a craving perhaps dependency for Curly’s presence to soothe him.

This reinforces a pattern of extreme attachment on Jimmy’s part, but also raises concern about mutual enmeshment. Curly exhibits similarly intense emotional investment. The two seem to form a feedback loop each amplifying the other’s sensitivities while simultaneously fearfully clinging to the relationship as a stabilizing force.

This must be addressed carefully with Curly in future sessions.)

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I’m hiding under your bed again.

I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did it the first time, it just happened, like my body moved before my brain. But after that… I couldn’t help it the next few times.

It’s stupid, I know. A grown man hiding under someone’s bed. But when I’m under there, everything goes quiet. It feels like nothing bad can reach me.

I don’t know where else to say this but… thank you, Curly, for saving me from jail.

I mean the bail. You didn’t have to show up at all. I swear I didn’t mean to start a fight at the bar. And I didn’t mean to hide from you afterward either. I just… panicked.

Did you ever notice how clean your place was when you came home from work?

I wanted to tell you, but I thought it would sound pathetic. So I just kept doing it. I couldn’t sit still when you were gone, so I would clean everything. Wipe the counters, fix the couch cushions, take out your trash, scrub the dishes, line up your shoes. Something about touching your things made me feel less like you had disappeared.

Our places are spotless for different reasons. Mine because I barely own anything… and because when you’re in space, I can’t stand being home long enough to make a mess.

And yours? Yours is clean because of me.

Because doing that made me feel like I belonged somewhere. Like I had a place in your life, even when you weren’t here to tell me I did.

I do everything. Change your sheets. Scrub the bathroom tiles until my fingers hurt. Steam the carpets. Dust every inch of the place. Sometimes I even do your laundry. I would fold your shirts and neatly place them away.

I think the only chores you ever really did were washing dishes for me.

I wanted to feel useful. It’s nerve-wracking being alone.

More often than not, I end up under your bed again.

So I keep that spot the cleanest. I vacuum under there almost every day. I didn’t want to ruin your pillows or blankets with dust if I crawled out and touched them. I didn’t want to leave any trace behind that might annoy you.

I know you told me not to hide here anymore but… when you’re not here, where else am I supposed to go? I can’t exactly come to you instead, right? Not when you’re light-years away.

Oh by the way, I found your missing cologne bottle. It fell behind your closet. You already bought a new one so…

I hope you don’t mind if I take it.

I just wanted a piece of you. Something that still smells like the way your jacket does after you hug me too tight.

Sometimes I think I’d crawl inside your ribs if I could. Just to make sure you’d never walk away without taking me with you.

I don’t think I’m doing good right now.

Please come back.

I’m sorry.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

WHY THEM AND NOT ME

WHY THEM AND NOT ME

WHY THEM AND NOT ME

FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU

I WANT YOU DEAD

DIE

FUCKING KILL YOURSELF

YOU DON'T DESERVE TO LIVE

WHY YOU? WHY

I WAS HERE FIRST I WAS BETTER

DIE DIE DIE DIE

JUST DIE 

YOU'RE NOTHING

I'VE WORKED SO HARD AND FOR WHAT

FUCK YOU KILL YOURSELF

(Therapist Note: The following entry appears to have been written during a manic episode.

The page is covered in frantic, rage-driven writing. Pencil marks overlap repeatedly, lines pressed so hard they tear the paper in places. Smudging suggests shaking hands or repeated erasures. Spelling deteriorates as the entry progresses, sentence structure collapsing into fragments.

Jimmy appears to be reacting to a perceived rejection or invalidation. There is a strong theme of regret and an intense need for his efforts to be noticed, acknowledged, or validated.

His emotional state fluctuates drastically across entries. This page, in particular, serves as a physical manifestation of his anger rather than a coherent narrative. The lack of clarity itself is telling.

This entry suggests emotional dysregulation at a dangerous level. The anger is not outwardly directed at a specific event but instead seems to spiral inward, feeding self-loathing, resentment, and desperation simultaneously.

Recommend discussing this entry with Curly carefully. Focus on how Jimmy expressed emotion physically and nonverbally, rather than attempting to decode exact meaning. This entry is less about what happened and more about how overwhelmed Jimmy was at the time.)

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I'm ready to die.

(Therapist Note: Jimmy appears increasingly distressed in these most recent journal entries. The frequency and intensity of emotional fluctuations have escalated noticeably.

It is unclear whether Curly was aware of the extent of Jimmy’s deterioration at this stage. It is also unclear whether Curly was a direct contributor, an indirect trigger, or simply absent during a period in which Jimmy became isolated and turned toward self-destructive coping mechanisms.

The entries suggest a growing sense of abandonment and internalized blame. Whether this was rooted in relational conflict or compounded by solitude remains uncertain.

This ambiguity is significant and should be explored with Curly carefully, without assigning fault prematurely.)

(unprofessional note: Jimmy needed so much help, did either of them think to find him a suitable therapist?)

Chapter Text

🎂📖

Curly sat alone in his apartment. It's too quiet now that Jimmy isn’t there to fill the space. It had been a week since he started therapy. He didn’t feel better, but there was one thing he couldn’t keep avoiding anymore.

Jimmy’s mother.

He hadn’t spoken to Mrs. Zare since the funeral. He had promised to help her go through Jimmy’s belongings, to be there for her. And then he disappeared with no explanation, and the guilt of it sat heavily in his chest.

Curly paced the length of his room, feet dragging softly over the floor. The skin on his hands still felt tight from the pain-relief soak he’d taken ten minutes ago. His back still ached. Everything did.

Would she be mad at him?

His teeth worried at his nails as the dial tone rang on and on. Each second felt like another chance to hang up and retreat back into the safety of avoidance. He was just about to give up when the line clicked.

“Hello?”

The sound of her voice stopped him cold.

“Mrs. Zare.”

“Grant, is that you?” 

She sounded tired. Her voice was rough around the edges, like she’d been smoking again.

“I’m sorry for not calling sooner.” Curly swallows hard, the phone slick in his palm.

“Oh, Grant, I'm glad to hear from you again. How have you been?”

“Oh no, Mrs. Zare, don’t mind me, how have you been? I'm so sorry for not making time for you. I just—it’s been,” He sighed, “I have no excuse.” He closed his eyes as the words spilled out. He felt like a child caught doing something wrong.

Mrs. Zare exhales slowly on the other end. “Grant. I miss him so much every day.”

“I do too,” he admits quietly.

“I know.”

There’s a pause.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what Grant?”

“... I guess I'm finding out.” Curly sits down on the edge of his bed. “I’m in therapy now.”

“Is it helpful? I feel like it's too late for me.”

“I'm allowed to bring people to my session… If you'd like…”

“You can do that? I don't know much about these things. Maybe that's how I failed him.” 

“No, you did your best. It's just… I'm sorry I never came back over to help clean his stuff.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I heard from your coworker,” she says softly.

“I'm so sorry.” Curly presses his thumb into the seam of his mattress. He doesn't think he could ever make it up to her.

“Big guy. I know it's been tough, but please stop apologizing.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Phone pressed to his ear, his shoulders slumped. Her gentleness hurt more than anger would have. He stared at the floor, feeling both comforted and ashamed all at once.

“So what has therapy been like? Is it like TV?”

“Yes and no. I mean, if it's one of those serious and maybe tear-jerking ones, I guess so. But, uh, I didn't know what to expect either. I, uh, asked the lady to read Jimmy's diary with me.” Curly leaned back against his headboard, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, staring up at the ceiling.

“Oh my… Grant… no wonder you never called again.” Mrs. Zare says, her voice gentler now.

Curly squeezed his eyes shut, guilt twisting deeper. “No, no. Ah, I mean… the journal isn't light, ma'am. Jimmy really took a number on some of the pages.”

“My poor boy.” Her voice cracked. Curly pictured her standing in her kitchen, cigarette forgotten between her fingers, shoulders caving inward the same way Jimmy’s used to when he was overwhelmed.

“He wrote about that stuffed bear,” he says.

“He did? Even after all these years.” He could hear a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. She's been taking this very rough. ”I tried so hard to get him a new one.”

“I know. He wrote that down.”

“Did he say anything about me? His father? You?”

“I haven't read all of it, but he does mention you guys sometimes. He mostly writes things from the past, but never anything bad. Actually, he seemed to come to terms with how hard you tried to raise him with the limitations you had.”

She let out a shaky breath, like she’d been holding it for decades. “Was he really not mad?”

“No, I think he forgave his father years ago, but he still struggled.”

“What were those flowers that the young tan man brought to his grave? They were very lovely, but I've never seen them before.”

Curly’s lips tugged upward despite himself, the memory painfully vivid. “That was our intern Daisuke. Jimmy tended to treat him like a little brother sometimes. They talked quite a bit during our job. Those were called skeleton flowers. Yeah, Daisuke went out of his way to get those.”

“So they aren't easy to come by? That's a shame. I'd love to have some for the house,” she sighed.

Curly straightened slightly, a flicker of purpose breaking through the fog. “For you, ma'am? I’ll get my head out of my ass and call him. He would be honored to get you a plant for your place.”

On the other end of the line, Mrs. Zare laughed softly through her tears, a small, fragile sound, but real. “Do you think he'd sit and chat for a while?” The hope in her voice made his chest ache.

“Daisuke can talk forever if you give him the chance.” He chuckled softly. “He's probably at home with his own family. But I will give him a call. I'll get you those flowers myself if I have to.”

“You don't have to do that. You did so much for me already. Thank you for paying all the fees.” She says.

Curly closes his eyes. “No, thank you for letting me pay for it all. I really needed to do that.” It wasn't out of generosity that he wanted to pay for her. He needed to provide for Jimmy one last time.

“He loved you. You know.”

Curly’s breath caught. His fingers curled into the blanket beneath him. “I… loved your son, too.” Curly admits

“I wish you'd call me mom, too. I love you, Grant.”

His vision blurred instantly. “Thank you so much. I'm so sorry. I failed you and your son. I—” His tears are spilling freely now.

“Grant, if you say I didn't fail him, then you didn't either, do you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Curly says after a moment.

“Tell me how therapy goes. I may want to take you up on that offer,” she says

“Ooh boy, uh, maybe when we aren't talking about, uh, Jimmy's sexual experience…” Despite everything, he snorted, a wet, startled sound.

“Oh, I already know about that. I had to clean his apartment out,” she replies.

Curly winced in sympathy. “I shudder to think what you've found.”

A soft laugh echoed through the speaker. “It's all packed away in a private box, but I have definitely seen his treasures of embarrassment. He was never afraid to ask me those questions, and I'm glad he wasn't.”

Curly smiled through tears. That sounded like Jimmy. “Jimmy was an amazing person. Somehow, the most stubborn and frustrating man in the world, but also the most charismatic and funny person you'd ever meet. I'll miss him.”

“That was my boy for you. A brat in his finest form. But I loved him.” 

Curly nods even though she can’t see him. Jimmy was a grown ass brat, throwing tantrums any time things never went his way but at the same time was so strangely reliable when Curly needed him.

“I did too. I wonder if he knew.”

“I don't know. I think he did, but he always had a hard time telling what was real. I should have gotten him tested more.” Her voice wavered with the dull ache of hindsight.

“And I definitely should have supported him more, but it seems my choice of words wasn't coming across as such. He wrote a lot about thinking I hated him.” Curly’s throat tightened.

“Curly, if there's one thing I've learned growing up, what other people's opinion of you is none of your business,” she says.

“What?” Curly lets out a shaky breath, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm, smearing away tears.

“It means, Jimmy thought about you so much, but you can't make his mind up for him. He had to do it. Even if you didn't like the outcome,” she adds gently.

“He's not me, and I'm not him.” Curly shifted on the bed, pulling his knees closer to his chest, phone warm against his ear.

“Was that from therapy?”

“Yes. She said we were too dependent on one another.”

“Oh, to be a fly on that wall.”

“Heh, Jimmy wrote down something about you also saying that.”

There was a faint, knowing hum on the other end of the line. “Well, I am his mother. Of course I knew he had a crush on you before either of you did.”

 “….I did think about asking for his hand in marriage….” 

Curly froze. The confession slipped out. That was something that was always on his mind, but he wasn't sure if Jimmy would have blown up in his face for it.

“You can still ask me now.”

“Would his father accept my proposal?” 

She hums softly, “Hmm, not at first, but I think if he knew how well off your jobs were, he'd come around quickly.”

“Then I would be so honored to be able to call you my mother-in-law. Even if it’s a bit too late.”

“Grant, I would love to have you as my son-in-law. Even if it can't be official.” She replies.

Curly closed his eyes, letting that sink into his chest.

“I promise to come visit you…”

“Grant, take your time with therapy, but maybe you could call me more?”

“For you? Always.”

The call ends, and Curly stays where he is, phone still in his hand, for a long time.

🎂📖

“So you called her? And how did that go?”

Curly shifted on his back, the carpet rough against his shoulder blades. When he had entered the office this time around, he hadn’t even made it ten steps before pacing started back and forth. Sitting in the chair hadn’t helped. So he slid down onto the floor.

That’s where they are now, with Curly flat on his back, staring up at the now familiar ceiling tiles and counting the cracks between them.

“It went better than expected.” Curly bit his lips, jaw tightening as he stalled. His chest rose and fell unevenly. “…I asked her permission to say Jimmy was my fiancé.”

His hands drifted up to his chest without him really thinking about it. His fingers found the scabs on his knuckles, worrying at them, picking until they stung.

“That was wrong of me, wasn't it?”

“Depends. What did she say?”

Curly swallowed. He still couldn’t quite believe it. How easily she had said yes, how she had accepted something so strange and so late. His chest felt warm and hollow all at once.

“I’m her son-in-law.”

The therapist wrote something down in her notebook. Curly had long since given up trying to decipher her handwriting upside down.

“Have you spoken about any pages with her?”

“Not in detail. She knows Jimmy had a lot of struggles with his health. Plus, she thinks she has no right to read it when it was instructed to be given to me. She's the reason why I even have the book.”

The therapist nodded slowly. “Where would you like to start today? You seem very anxious right now.”

Curly huffed out a short laugh, more breath than humor. “Ever had a patient lie on the floor?”

“I haven’t, but you seem a lot calmer now than when you walked in. May I direct today?”

Curly lifted one hand lazily in the air as a silent go-ahead.

“Has Jimmy always hidden under your bed? Usually, children do that when they think they're in danger. What do you think caused him to behave like that?”

His brow furrowed, eyes tracing a crack in the ceiling. “I didn't know he did that, to be honest. There was only one time I found out, and that was after we fought.” He drew in a slow breath, ribs expanding, then let it out carefully. “I don't know what Jimmy got up to when I was gone.”

“So you didn’t know about him constantly cleaning your living space?”

Curly’s fingers stilled. No, he hadn’t. The thought replayed through his mind, coming home exhausted, the place spotless, Jimmy already there or appearing minutes later like he’d been waiting. Curly had never questioned it. No, he hadn’t known.

He’d been so excited to see Jimmy again that everything else blurred. The first face he looked for, every single time. Rain or shine. Fight or peace. Space or home. All that mattered was that Jimmy was there.

“Hindsight, I should have noticed,” Curly murmured. His voice cracked just slightly. “But I just wanted to see him.”

“Do you think you’d like to talk about when you found out he was doing that?”

“I guess it would help to talk about it. It was after he crashed my car.” Curly rubbed at his eyes until spots bloomed behind his lids. He still wasn’t sleeping well. Lately, he almost missed the weight of Jimmy’s diary in his hands at night.

“Oh, I misunderstood. I thought this was after a bar fight, and you paid bail?” She flipped through her notepad, brow knitting slightly.

“That was something different.” Curly let out a breath that almost became a laugh. “Jimmy just stormed out of my apartment that day. Didn’t speak to me for twenty-four hours. Then he came back after smoking an unholy amount.” He huffed softly. “I bought him more. I probably shouldn’t have, but I just wanted him to stay.”

“Ah. Okay. Then please continue with the first time you saw him hide. Maybe afterward, if you’d like, we can talk about that bar fight.”

“Might help knowing I paid for a lot of Jimmy’s damages,” Curly muttered. He shifted onto his side, fingers worrying at the carpet fibers. “Where to begin… He lost his license. I was too tired to go out drinking. I’d just gotten back from visiting family in London.”

His jaw tightened.

“Normally I’d spend that time sleeping so I could feel… I don’t know, recharged. Ready to give him a full day.”

A full day of soothing Jimmy’s nerves. Of reassuring him, they were still friends. It was hard work, but Curly had loved every second of it. Jimmy would get intensely physical, like he needed to breathe the same air. And if Curly was being honest, after months stranded in space, he felt the same pull. Coming home always made him want to anchor himself to Jimmy, to something warm and alive.

It just felt like an obligation to put his family first.

“I should’ve seen how anxious he was,” Curly continued quietly. “The way he kept grabbing my arm. I just thought he looked like a cute kitten begging for attention.” His mouth twitched, then fell. “I told him he could camp out at my place until I felt rested again. I guess he heard something else. I guess he felt rejected.”

“I’d like to ask about the bed sharing at some point,” the therapist said gently. “It seems to be a sore topic for him.”

Curly’s face flushed immediately. He tugged at his collar, suddenly too aware of his own skin. “Heh… okay.” He swallowed. “So maybe I did ask him to just lie down with me.”

The therapist smiled gently and nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“He lied to me,” Curly said, then corrected himself with a quiet shake of his head. “Or maybe I didn’t give him time to answer. I barely remember asking him anything. The second I touched my bed, I was gone.” His fingers flexed against the carpet. “Next thing I know, I’m waking up to my phone vibrating.”

Jimmy’s voice had been rushed and breathless, panic bleeding through every word.

“Curly, fuck, I’m sorry—” Jimmy heaved into the receiver. “I took your car, and it’s smoking and—”

“You what?” Curly had shot upright, heart slamming against his ribs. “Jim! You aren’t supposed to be driving!”

“Curly, please—” Jimmy hiccupped, his voice cracking. “I’m scared.”

That word alone had snapped him fully awake.

By the time Curly got there, Jimmy reeked of alcohol and burned rubber. The car was wrapped around a tree. It was a miracle Jimmy was standing at all. The car was dead, he completely totaled it. No amount of money Curly could throw at it would ever make it drivable again.

Curly hadn’t cared.

He grabbed Jimmy and crushed him into his chest, arms locking tight, almost painfully so. He didn’t stop to ask where it hurt or if Jimmy could breathe. All he could think was alive, alive, alive. He squeezed him as if he let go even for a second, Jimmy might disappear.

When the cops arrived, Curly lied without hesitation.

He said he was driving. Said he swerved to avoid a deer. His voice was steady. His hands didn’t shake. They believed him, hook, line, and sinker. No one checked Jimmy. No one asked him a thing.

It wasn’t until they stepped back into Curly’s apartment that everything collapsed.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” Curly rounded on him the second the door shut. His chest burned, anger and fear twisting together until he couldn’t tell them apart. “Do you have any idea what you just did?”

“Curly, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Jimmy stumbled over his shoes, barely catching himself as he lurched forward. He reached out instinctively, fingers grasping for Curly’s arms.

Curly shoved his hands away.

“Are you fucking kidding me!?” His voice cracked sharply through the room. “I just wanted to rest for one moment after a long flight! I never said I was ditching you! I never said I was leaving! What the fuck, Jimmy!”

The rejection hit immediately.

Fear flashed across Jimmy’s face. He backed up without realizing it, eyes darting around the room like he was searching for somewhere to go. Curly stood between him and the door, still breathing hard.

Jimmy’s shoulders caved inward.

“Jim,” Curly snapped, not noticing the way Jimmy’s breathing hitched. “Look at me. We are talking about this now.”

And only much later did Curly realize that was the moment Jimmy stopped hearing his words at all.

Curly ducked his head into the crook of his arms, his voice muffled as he pushed himself back into that horrible day.

“You wanted my attention so badly?” he had snarled. “Well, now you have it. Stop playing these games with me!”

He had gotten right up in Jimmy’s face, breath coming out in hot, furious bursts, crowding him the way he always did.

If Curly hadn’t been so blinded by rage, he might have noticed it sooner.

Jimmy’s breathing started to break apart, shallow and fast. The color drained from his face so quickly. His eyes went wide and unfocused, pupils blown out. He didn’t look like an adult man anymore, just a terrified little boy.

All he could think about was hiding.

Curly had never heard Jimmy whimper in fear. Not like that. The sound was small and broken, barely louder than a breath, but it cut straight through him and stopped him cold.

Jimmy shook his head over and over, as if he could physically shake Curly’s words away. His hands spasmed at his sides, fingers curling in on themselves before he shuddered hard. He took one unsteady step back.

Then he ran.

Straight down the hall. Into Curly’s room. The door slammed so hard the frame shook.

Curly dragged his hands through his hair with a frustrated groan and dropped heavily onto the couch. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands over his face again and again until his skin burned. His legs wouldn’t stop bouncing, nerves firing with nowhere to go.

“I was so mad,” he said hoarsely. “And so scared. I wanted to shake him so hard and hug him so tight that he could never leave.”

The therapist watched him carefully. “And you’d never seen Jimmy show physical distress like that before?”

“I mean—” Curly hesitated. “He flinched a lot. Rolled his shoulders when he was uncomfortable. Any time one of my friends tried to touch him, like a hand on his back, he’d immediately shift away.”

“Depression and anxiety can cause physical responses like hyperventilation, shaking, and dissociation.”

Curly frowned, thinking. “But he never pushed me away. Actually… he always pulled me closer.” He exhaled shakily.

“Have you noticed anything like that at other times?” the therapist asked. “You mentioned nicotine use before.”

“Yeah, He was badly addicted,” Curly said quietly. “And I didn’t help. I kept buying it for him.” Guilt twisted in his chest. “When I visit his mother again, I should really try to help her quit, too.”

“It’s very likely the nicotine worsened his anxiety,” she said, scribbling something in her notebook before flipping a page. “So after he ran to the bedroom and you stayed on the couch… what happened next?”

Curly stared at the floor.

“I went to the bathroom,” he said slowly. “Used the toilet. Washed my hands. Washed my face.” He let out a bitter huff. “I was cooling down.”

His fingers curled into the carpet. “I was serious about talking with him.”

Curly took his time, forcing himself to move slowly. He kicked his boots off and sent them thudding into the corner, shrugged out of his jacket, and tossed it onto the couch. He stood there for a moment, drawing in deep, measured breaths, trying to bleed the anger out of his system.

He listened.

Usually, when they fought, there was something. The thump of fists into pillows. The scrape of furniture. Jimmy pacing, muttering, and swearing under his breath. Curly had learned to give him space and let the storm burn itself out.

But this time there was only silence.

The quiet made his stomach twist. Fear crawled up his spine, sharp and cold.

“Jim?” he called.

Nothing.

Curly moved down the hall and stopped at his bedroom door. He pushed it open slowly, as if any sudden sound might scare Jimmy further away.

“Jimmy?” he tried again, softer this time.

The room was dark. The curtains were half-drawn, outside light barely touching the floor. There was no sign of Jimmy, just his jacket tossed across the bed.

Curly stepped inside.

That was when he heard it.

A faint, broken sound. Muffled. Wet.

Sniffling.

“Jim?” Curly’s voice dropped instinctively. “Are you hiding?” He tried to keep it light, almost teasing. “You’re not a kid anymore. Come on, stop this.”

There was a small shuffle.

Confused, Curly moved closer to the bed and slowly lowered himself to his knees. He bent down and froze.

Under the bed, curled into the smallest shape he could manage, was Jimmy.

His knees were pulled tight to his chest, arms wrapped around himself. His face was streaked with tears, eyes wide and glassy, staring at nothing.

“Jim, what are you—?” Curly’s words died in his throat.

The emptiness in Jimmy’s expression stopped him cold.

“He was beyond frightened,” Curly said quietly, curling in on himself at the memory. “He didn’t say a single word to me.”

The therapist frowned gently. “How did you get him to come out?”

“I didn’t,” Curly replied. “I joined him.” He swallowed a lump in his throat. “He couldn’t even look at me. He was completely frozen.”

Curly remembered lowering himself onto the floor, lying flat beside the bed so Jimmy wouldn’t feel loomed over. He’d whispered to him, called his name, and asked him to come out and lie on the mattress instead. Tried to coax him gently.

Jimmy didn’t move.

Tears streamed silently down his face, eyes locked on some empty point in front of him. His chest hitched erratically.

So Curly slowly shimmied under the bed too, inch by inch. He had to lie on his back to fit.

“I didn’t touch him,” Curly said. “I just… stayed there and watched him.” His voice cracked. “He looked so small. So young. Like someone I didn’t recognize.”

He stared at the carpet. “And the worst part is,” he added softly, “I still don’t know where that fear came from.”

“There’s so much neither of us knows about Jimmy,” the therapist said softly, folding her hands together in her lap. “But there’s also so much you can learn by spending time with his mother, as you mentioned. She may have answers no one else could have.”

“I know,” Curly admitted. His voice was tired. “But I think I’m afraid I’ll just… hurt her more.”

“She’s already claimed you as her son-in-law,” the therapist replied gently. “I don’t think she plans on letting you disappear.”

Curly let out a wet, breathless laugh. “Yeah… I guess only she would know if this was normal for him. If he’d done something like this before.”

The therapist nodded and guided him back without pressing. “So you joined him. What happened next?”

Curly swallowed. “I moved my hand closer to his. Not touching, just close enough that he’d see it.” He demonstrated faintly with his fingers. “I left them there, open. For him to decide.”

He paused, his throat tightening.

And he did, very slowly and hesitantly. He tapped Curly's finger a couple of times like he was trying to gain control of his motor functions.

Curly’s heart exploded when Jimmy wrapped his finger around Curly's and moved his gaze to his face. Jimmy wasn’t focused, but he was slowly coming back.

He breathed out slowly, grounding himself in the memory.

“Jimmy, how about we lie on the bed?” Curly said, softening his voice. “You can have it all to yourself if you want. I’ll stay next to you. I won’t crowd you.”

Jimmy's finger curled tighter. His eyes moved again, this time to Curly’s lips. He was watching him speak.

Curly huffed a weak laugh. “I kept trying to get him out from under there. Honestly, it was a terrible spot for me. He fit way better than I did.” His smile faded. “But he wouldn’t budge, so I tried some humor.”

He remembered taking in the sight of Jimmy’s face, tears streaking down his skin, sweat plastering his hair to his cheeks and lips. His nose was red, his eyes swollen, and his breath still shaky. He was a gross mess.

“Jimmy, I’m way too fat to stay under here much longer than you.” Curly squeezed one eye shut as if he was seriously considering it. “‘If you don’t want to leave, I guess I’ll just start bringing you meals down here.’”

A pause.

“I think I'm in the mood for some beans on toast. That sounds great right about now.” Curly continued quietly. “I wonder if the bread’s gone bad. A little mold never hurt anyone, right?”

“It wasn’t a real laugh,” Curly said. “Not even close.” He swallowed hard. “But it was… something. I knew I had amused him a little bit. And it meant he was still with me.”

The first time Jimmy found Curly drunkenly eating beans on toast was, stupidly, one of the best days of Curly’s life.

Curly had been sitting on the cold kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, toast balanced crookedly on a paper plate, and beans threatening to spill onto his shirt.

Jimmy laughed so hard he had to grab the counter to stay upright. He kept teasing Curly. But he still sat down with him on the floor, shoulder pressed into Curly’s side, and accepted the toast when Curly offered it.

Jimmy didn’t like it. His face scrunched immediately, and he gagged just a little, but he smiled the entire time, eyes bright, like the taste didn’t matter nearly as much as the moment did.

“Oh,” Curly remembered another recipe Jimmy might also find gross, “maybe I can make some English curry. I’ve got an oldddd recipe I’ve been dying to try. You’ll love it. Tastes like paste. Looks like green slop.”

“Curly,” Jimmy’s voice croaked, suddenly rough.

“Yeah, Jim?” Curly turned toward him.

Jimmy shifted a little closer. “…Can you hug me?”

Curly’s smile fell immediately.

He opened his mouth to answer, but the words never came. Jimmy’s face pinched up, and his lips trembled. Tears pooled in his brown eyes, glassy and desperate, threatening to spill again.

Curly moved without thinking, pulling Jimmy into his chest. The moment Jimmy felt the embrace, he cried. Hard, full-body sobs that shook him. Curly tucked Jimmy’s face into his chest, shielding him, stroking his hair, and rubbing slow, soothing circles into his back. His own throat tightened painfully. He couldn’t have spoken if he tried.

Jimmy kept shifting, pressing closer, like he was trying to crawl inside Curly’s skin. Curly let him, adjusting as best he could until Jimmy found a position that felt safe. He kissed the top of Jimmy’s head and just held on, steady and unyielding.

After a while, through sniffles and broken breaths, Jimmy murmured, “What makes English curry green?”

Curly huffed a soft breath of a laugh. “I don’t know. My brother used to make it. It was never really good but that might’ve just been him.”

Jimmy laughed weakly and rubbed his face into Curly’s shirt, wiping tears and snot into the fabric without apology.

“I’m hungry,” Jimmy said hoarsely.

Curly grinned despite everything. “Then let’s get back to the kitchen.”

Jimmy hugged him tighter on instinct, like he was afraid letting go might undo the moment.

A tissue slipped into Curly’s line of sight as he spoke, pale against the muted carpet.

“You seemed like you needed one,” the therapist said gently, holding it out.

Curly blinked, momentarily startled out of the memory. He pushed himself upright, accepted the tissue, and pressed it to his face. His hands shook just a little. “Thank you.”

He scrubbed at his eyes and nose, dragging a breath back into his lungs, grounding himself again in the room.

“Was the rest of that day somber?” she asked.

Curly inhaled slowly through his nose and let it out through his mouth, like she’d taught him. “A little,” he admitted. “It took a while for Jimmy to… come back to his age.” He winced faintly at the phrasing. “He leaned on me a lot while we cooked.”

His hand drifted to the back of his neck, rubbing at the tension. “For a second, I honestly thought I might have to help bathe him.” He swallowed. “I would’ve done it if he needed help. But he managed that on his own.”

Curly’s fingers tapped together, restless. “The only times Jimmy and I ever slept in the same bed were when we were both drunk by the time we got back to my place.” He exhaled sharply. “Usually I’d just give him my room and take the couch.”

“What about then?” she asked.

Curly’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I held him all night.” His voice softened. “In the morning, he was gone. But he left me a message and said he’d gone to the café nearby to get coffee.”

“Did he ever come back?”

“No.” Curly shook his head. “I met him there instead. After that, I had damages to pay, and Jimmy went back to his parents. Or… I think he did.” His brow furrowed. “I was never really sure where he went when he left.”

“Another thing to ask her,” the therapist murmured, tapping her pen against the notepad. Then she looked back up at him, expression thoughtful. “Orion, have you noticed that neither of you ever properly disclosed this fight?”

He stiffened slightly.

“He apologized to you repeatedly,” she continued. “But he struggled to get the words out. And you never apologized back. I understand you felt he was at fault, he crashed the car while drunk. But his reaction to you yelling was intense.”

Curly sighed and closed his eyes, exhaustion settling heavily in his chest. “I did want to apologize for yelling,” he said quietly. “I just… we yelled all the time. I didn’t think this was different.” His jaw tightened. “And he came back to me anyway.”

Jimmy always did.

Curly’s voice dropped to almost nothing. “We were toxic, weren’t we?”

“I’m afraid to say yes, you were,” she said gently, her expression apologetic rather than judgmental. “But it also wasn’t impossible to work on. You both wanted the same core thing, to be with each other.”

Curly swallowed, his throat tight.

“There will always be should haves, would haves, and could haves,” she continued. “There will always be what if I said this instead, or what if I noticed sooner? But many things were out of your control. Even if you and Jimmy had built a stronger foundation with clearer boundaries and better communication, Jimmy still may have struggled with his mental health. That part wasn’t something love alone could cure.”

Curly’s fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. “So it still could have ended this way?” His voice cracked. “That just… makes me feel hopeless.”

“No,” she said firmly, leaning forward just slightly. “It means there still would have been hard battles. It doesn’t mean they were pointless. Not everything can be fixed quickly, and not everything can be fixed by one person.” She paused. “You wanted to be the rock in his life. And he believed you were, but that’s an unbearable amount of pressure to put on one person.”

Curly let out a shaky breath. “I thought I could carry it all for him,” he whispered. “I really did. I thought I was strong enough.” His nose burned as tears gathered again.

She slid the box of tissues closer to him. “He wrote many times that you tried to be a hero,” she said softly, “and that he didn’t particularly enjoy being saved.”

Curly huffed out a weak, broken laugh as he took a tissue and blew his nose. “Funny thing is,” he muttered, “he said that to my face before.”

When the session ended, Curly left the office feeling hollowed out rather than relieved. He stopped at the pharmacy on the way home and bought more pain medication, stronger this time. His joints had started to lock up, aching deeper the more he read, the more he sat with Jimmy’s words and tried to reconcile them with his own memories.

The pain seemed to worsen the closer he got to understanding how differently they had lived the same moments.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

Sometimes I crave your arms around me so badly it scares me. Like I might actually die if I can’t feel your hands on me again. I don’t even know if that makes sense, but it feels true when I think about it for too long. I crave being near you. I crave the way you smell, the way your chest rises when you breathe. I hate when you leave. I miss you so much it hurts in places I didn’t know could ache.

I know you have important things to handle, such as family matters and work at Pony Express. I just wish, sometimes, that I was picked first. Even just once. I wish you’d choose me.

I’m trying to be good while you’re gone.

I’ve been doing food delivery to make some extra cash and to keep myself busy so I don’t think too much. It helps a little. I get tired enough that my head goes quiet sometimes. I met a guy there. He’s really cool. His name’s Tyler. Sometimes I spend his breaks with him out back, just sitting and smoking cigarettes. He always has a story about customers or coworkers, it’s nice to listen. It makes the time pass faster.

I’d show you him, but you don’t really eat fast food the way I do.

He’s put together in a strange way. When I look at him, I kind of see the person I wish I was. He’s sassy, hardworking, tough, but easy to talk to. He’s really professional at his job. His customer service smile is honestly the devil’s work, fake but convincing. He keeps his cool under the worst pressure.

Well. Except for one thing.

There’s this guy who comes in every once in a while, and Tyler gets genuinely flustered every time. He always tries to be the one to serve him, even if it’s not his turn. It’s stupid and obvious. They’re both dorks about it.

But see? I’ve been managing on my own. I swear. I’ll have enough money to pay you back. All of it. I promise. I just need a little more time.

I can’t wait until you’re back. I’ll even cherish the next stupid Polle souvenir you bring me. Just maybe not one that talks this time. That last one freaked me out when it went off by itself. I thought it was watching me.

(Therapist note: This page appears markedly gentler than many surrounding entries. Pencil pressure is light and consistent, with minimal erasing. There are small doodles in the margins, an attempted British flag, the Pony Express logo drawn from memory, a rough sketch of Curly’s work ID. There are also soft, repetitive sketches of burgers and fries. 

Ask Curly whether he has ever met this acquaintance, “Tyler.”

Content suggests an effort at reassurance and self-soothing, repeated insistence on “being good,” “managing,” and repaying debts. Emotional tone is affectionate, idealizing, and dependent, but calm. No overt distress language present, though attachment anxiety is notable. Prior entries indicate emotional shifts can occur rapidly despite calm presentation here.)

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I can’t believe you got me a job with you.

What, you don’t trust me to be alone now? Don’t trust that I can find my way around without you holding my hand? I don’t need your handouts. I don’t need your charity. I didn’t ask you for this.

I DIDN’T NEED YOUR HELP.

God, I hate you right now. You always have to be my hero. Always swooping in like I’m about to fall apart if you don’t catch me in time. You can’t just let me figure it out on my own, can you? You don’t think I don’t know what you did? That glowing, shining star recommendation didn’t come out of nowhere. That was you. It had your fingerprints all over it.

You didn’t even believe I could get in on my own.

What the fuck, Curly.

Now I don’t know what to do. Because if I say no, I lose you. And if I say yes, I owe you something I never agreed to owe. I don’t want you to leave me again. I don’t want to be alone anymore. But I don’t want this hanging over my head like a debt I can never repay.

You think you’re so great, don’t you?

I can’t wait to meet this precious little crew of yours. The one you NEVER talked about before. Like I wasn’t worth telling until now. Like I didn’t earn the right to know about that part of your life until I was useful to you.

You know what, Curly? Thank you. Now I get to show them the real you. The real asshole behind those stupid dimples and that perfect smile. You can’t charm me like you can them. I know you. I know who you really are.

And I can’t wait to expose that side of you to them.

Maybe it’ll do you some good. Get knocked down a peg or two.

…Fuck.

At least you got me a decent position. Co-captain. I guess you trust me enough to fly with you. Trust me to have your back in the cockpit, where it actually matters. Guess that means something. And now I finally get to see where you keep getting all this stupid Polle merchandise from.

Maybe it’s not so bad. I could get my mom something. A mug, maybe. She’d like that.

I’m sorry. I’m scared about what’s going to change. What if you become a bigger asshole once you’re captain? What if that version of you is the one I get stuck with? Will you still be my Curly, or just that fake professional one everyone else sees?

Will you treat me like the rest of the crew or will you still treat me like your best friend?

It’s not like I’m asking for special privileges or anything. Even though I guess I already got them. At least I'm not a janitor. Second highest rank, not bad.

Not smoking is going to be really hard. I hope you know what you’re in for.

I’ll never say this to your face but thanks.

You don’t deserve to hear it anyway. Your head’s already big enough.

And that’s why you need me.

Someone’s gotta keep you humble.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

I hate her.
I hate her.
I hate her.
I HATE her.

I tried to be okay. I really did, Curly. I told myself it was fine. I told myself I could ride it out like I always do. But I didn’t feel good. My skin was crawling. My head wouldn’t shut up. Everything was too loud, too sharp, too much.

So I did what I always do to make it stop.

It just feels better when I purge.

I never thought I’d get caught. And of all people, it had to be her. Her, with her stupid calm voice and those fucking doe eyes. She’s lucky she knows her place. She’s so fucking lucky I felt generous in that moment.

Because I could have killed her.

I wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have forgiven me if I did.

But that doesn’t mean the thought didn’t sit there.

Is that why you never told me about your crew? Is she the reason? You didn’t want me to know about her, did you? You didn’t want me to see the way you look at her. You smile so easily with her. Your laugh with her isn’t forced like it is with everyone else. It’s real.

You like her more than me. Don’t you?

She better keep her fucking mouth shut. If she tells you what she saw, if she even hints at it, I swear I’ll make her regret ever stepping foot on this ship. I don’t care if she thinks she has some right as a nurse to be worried.

Stop chasing her. She’s nothing. She’s nobody. She doesn’t matter.

If she doesn’t stay away from you, I’ll give her a reason to.

🔪💀

××/××/××××

shut up

SHUT UP

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP

SHUT THE FUCK UP

STOP TALKING

STOP

MAKE IT STOP

SHUT UP

(Therapist note: Another example of a physical episode. Intense scribbling and slashing covers the page. Nothing seems legible other than the words “shut up.” In some cases patients mention having a moment where they find themselves shouting at their own thoughts. With the reference of his other pages and the descriptions Curly gives, it's safe to presume he was doing the same or this was directed at someone. This time there are no noticeable water stains.)

🔪💀

××/××/××××

(Therapist note: The removed pages are notable. Jimmy’s tearing appears deliberate, methodical, and emotionally regulated. This contrasts sharply with his previous frantic, impulsive behavior. The content he removed may have been highly significant, potentially involving intrusive thoughts, confessions, or plans he later decided to erase.

This suggests this was an act of self-censorship rather than emotional dysregulation.)