"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—" Damon raked his hands through his hair, knees bouncing like a jackhammer. "What am I supposed to do? Where do I take her? What do I wear?"
Caleb ignored him, eyes locked on the road—until Damon grabbed his arm and shook it. "uhm Bestriend. Help me."
"I'm trying not to kill us here," Caleb muttered, swerving back into his lane.
"You're my friend and you're dating, so you're supposed to help me!" Damon's voice cracked.
Caleb didn't miss a beat. "Well, I am dating. But—" He smirked. "We don't exactly specialize in the same…ehm product."
Damon blinked. "The fuck does that mean?"
"It means I'm gay, you dumbo." Caleb exhaled, amused. "So no, I don't know how to impress girls. But hey—" He ruffled Damon's hair. "If you ever turn gay, sweetheart, I'll gladly help you."
Damon groaned and faceplanted into his hands, dissolving into nonsensical, panicked mumbling. Caleb hesitated—then slowly placed a hand on his back. He had no idea what to say. But he did know this: Damon hadn't been this alive in years. And somehow, Isabella had lit the fuse.
"Alright, disaster human," Caleb sighed. "How about I take you shopping? Get you a shirt that doesn't scream 'washed-up theater employee'?"
Damon's head snapped up. For a second, Caleb saw it—the same joy from when they were dumb kids rolling in the mud.
"Yes. Yes." Damon nearly headbutted the dashboard in excitement. "Drive faster."
Caleb rolled his eyes—but floored the gas anyway.
Finally, they reached Damon's apartment complex. He flung the car door open and hopped out, calling over his shoulder, "I'll see you at school tomorrow. It's Thursday."
Caleb's shocked look said it all. "Since when did you turn into a 'there'?"
Damon, already walking away, raised a middle finger without turning around. "How else am I supposed to get to know the love of my life?"
Caleb just shook his head and sped off.
Damon trudged up the endless flights of stairs, his mind racing with visions of the date—Where should he take her? What if he messed up?
By the time he reached the fifth floor (F5), his lungs burned. The hallway was quiet except for the creak of his neighbor's door.
Mrs. Manhattan—a single nurse from F4 who had unofficially adopted the entire floor—stood in his doorway, arms crossed, her disappointment just couldn't be hidden.
She glanced at her watch. "Why are you coming back at this time?"
Damon checked his phone: almost midnight. He slapped his forehead. "Shit. How is she?"
"At least she's fed now," Mrs. Manhattan said dryly. "Something you forgot to do this morning." She sighed, softening. "Look, she took you in because she cares. The least you can do is care back, okay?"
Guilt twisted in Damon's chest, even he couldn't believe he left her all day. Without another word, Mrs. Manhattan retreated into her apartment, leaving him standing there, gutted.
He stepped inside and went straight to Mrs. Davis's room. The old woman was already asleep, her breaths slow and steady. Damon draped a blanket over her shoulders and stared for a long moment.
She took in a kid she barely knew—a orphaned, angry kid who just lost their parents with nowhere else to go—and never asked for a thing in return.
Swallowing hard, he backed out of the room and headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Manhattan had left the remnants of spaghetti on the stove, but the dishes were piled high. Damon cleaned in silence, his thoughts a storm.
When he finished, he found the leftover plate in the fridge and ate standing up, the weight of everything pressing down on him—the date, Mrs. Davis, the fact that he was still run over by his crush.
But that was his life.
Later, he climbed onto his "bed"—a mattress wedged above the rumbling laundry machine. He flipped the switch, and the vibrations hummed through him like a makeshift massage. For a moment everyday before he went to bed, he almost smiled.
Then he closed his eyes, and the day was over.
Damon's nightmares always followed the same script—a child's birthday twisted into something grotesque.
One moment, he was small again, waking up at his parents as they lifted him from bed. "Happy birthday, sweetheart," his mother whispered, her smile warm.
His father carried him to the living room, where streamers and balloons glowed under golden light. The air smelled like frosting and joy.
Then his mother stepped into the kitchen, returning with a red velvet cake. Little Damon reached out, giggling, and swiped a finger through the icing—
—and froze.
It didn't taste like cake. It was just disgusting. Wrong.
He blinked.
The ceiling dripped blood.
His mother's face—once bright—went slack with terror. An invisible blade slit her throat in one smooth motion. Blood running down her neck, her blouse, her arms, yet she stood perfectly still, clutching the cake while quivering. Her eyes rolled back, white as bone, before she collapsed. The cake shattered on the floor, red smearing like a wound.
Damon stumbled back while not looking away from his mother's body on the floor, choking on screams—
—only to crash into his father.
The man who grabbed his own head, fingers digging into his eye sockets. With a wet rip, he tore them free, tendons snapping, blood gushing down his cheeks. His hollowed face turned toward Damon.
"Are you happy now?"
"This is all your fault! We're dead because of you!"
Damon stumbled backward, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fled to the kitchen. His father's voice followed him like a curse, each word a knife straight to his heart. Sweat poured down his face, his hands trembling so violently he could barely grip the doorframe as he staggered toward his room.
"And now you're here—looking to fuck some bitch?" His father's footsteps thundered behind him. "You selfish little pig!"
A metallic shing cut through the air. Damon turned around just in time to see his father grab the knife from the block, his face twisted into something unrecognizable.
"Remember this when you're inside her," his father spat, advancing. "Remember we're dead because of you."
And finally stabbed himself in the head.