I didn't tell anyone I found it.
Not my therapist.
Not my mother.
Not the mirror.
Some truths don't belong in words.
Some truths rot when exposed to air.
Lucas watched me light the match.
We sat behind the house, near the dead garden.
The paper trembled in my hands like it was afraid.
Or maybe that was me.
I lit the corner.
Held it for a moment.
Let the flame crawl across the names.
My name.
His name.
The word "fuse."
The fire hissed.
Curled the paper inward.
Until it folded into itself like it didn't want to exist anymore.
"Do you feel better?" Lucas asked.
I watched the ashes drift up, then scatter.
"No."
He nodded.
"Good."
We didn't talk after that.
Just sat until the fire died.
That night, I dreamed of the list.
Unburnt.
Taped to the wall of the attic.
Except now, there were new names.
Not written by her.
Written by me.
The therapist.The teacher.My mother.Me.Lucas.Me again.
Each one scratched through.
Except the last.
I woke up sweating.
The room too quiet.
Lucas wasn't there.
Not by the window.
Not in the mirror.
Not even in my chest.
For the first time in months…
I was alone.
And it terrified me.