It started with a question.
Simple.
Thrown carelessly.
During therapy.
"What do you want to be when you grow up, Daniel?"
I laughed.
Soft at first.
Then louder.
Then too loud.
She tilted her head. Concerned.
"Something funny?"
I shook my head.
Still laughing.
Still shaking.
Then I said:
"Dead."
The room went quiet.
Her pen stopped moving.
Her lips parted, but no words came.
So I kept talking.
Not the way Daniel talks.
The way I talk.
Raw.
Crooked.
Burning.
"I don't want to grow up. I don't want to become someone who lies this well."
"I don't want your safe words. Your recovery charts. Your soft colors."
"I want the attic back."
She reached forward.
"Daniel—"
"Stop calling me that!" I screamed.
The window rattled.
My throat burned.
I stood up.
Knocked the chair down.
"I'm not Daniel. I'm not your survivor story."
"I'm the boy who was left behind."
"I'm Lucas and I remember everything."
She tried to speak.
To ground me.
To soothe.
But Lucas — I — wasn't listening.
Because it wasn't her I was talking to.
It was everyone.
Everyone who clapped when I came back.
Everyone who smiled but never saw me.
Everyone who said:
"You're safe now.""You're lucky.""You should be grateful."
I left the room before she could stop me.
Ran into the hallway.
Out of the clinic.
Into the cold.
Lucas whispered, almost proudly:
"There you are."
That night, I didn't go home.
I stayed in the park.
Felt the wind cut through my jacket.
Felt the silence settle.
It didn't scare me.
Not like it used to.
Because for the first time…
I wasn't pretending.
I was just a boy.
Angry.
Lonely.
Shattered.
Real.
And real is terrifying.
But it's better than fake.