Chapter 1 — Act 2
(Narrator)
Almost a year had passed since everything quietly went wrong. Samuel was fourteen now, older in age but thinner in spirit. What followed that first collapse was not recovery—only erosion.
It was raining hard as Samuel walked home from school, his clothes soaked through, his shoes heavy with water. Other students ran past him, shouting and laughing as they tried to escape the downpour. Samuel did not. The rain pressed against him, loud and constant, and he welcomed it. It drowned out his thoughts. For a moment, it made the ache inside him less sharp.
Then he heard it—two bicycles approaching from behind, tires slicing through water.
His body reacted before his mind did. His chest tightened. He already knew who it was. Knowing did nothing to soften the impact.
He turned.
It was Janette. And beside her, the girl.
Samuel barely registered Janette at all. His attention collapsed inward, dragged toward the one presence he had never learned how to endure. Seeing her again felt like reopening a wound that had never sealed. The pain did not shock him anymore. It simply sank deeper.
(Narrator)
By then, Samuel was already losing himself. The inner voices he once relied on no longer stood beside him—they circled him. Solace tried to shield him with reason, reminding him of facts and probabilities, but logic could not blunt longing. Vex attempted arrogance, insisting Samuel was above this, above her—but Samuel did not believe it, and the lie dissolved on contact. Nova reached for acceptance, for meaning, for growth—but Samuel was not ready to let go of the illusion that had kept him standing.
At the crosswalk, Samuel faced forward. He told himself not to look. He knew better than to look.
He looked anyway.
Their eyes met.
Rain streamed down her hair, clinging to her face, her clothes darkened by water. She was laughing—laughing easily, freely—with Janette, untouched by the storm that had hollowed him out. Then, just as quickly, she looked away.
(Narrator)
Samuel turned away because it hurt. She turned away because there was nothing left to see.
They crossed the street. Samuel moved faster than he needed to, desperate to be anywhere else. Moments later, the girl and Janette followed. As they passed, the girl called out a brief goodbye before pedaling off.
That single word cut deeper than silence ever could.
Samuel stood still, watching her leave, every instinct screaming not to let her go. To him, she had been constant warmth—something bright in a world that often felt dull and unsteady. Around her, everything had seemed sharper, more alive. Safe, even.
(Narrator)
But Samuel did not love her. Not truly. He loved an image—an idea he had polished until it reflected everything he lacked. What he mourned was not her absence, but the collapse of the illusion he had built around her.
As he continued home, the sound returned.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Louder than before. Closer. No longer something he could mistake for imagination alone. Samuel felt watched—not by someone else, but by something that had always been there.
He ignored it. He always did.
(Narrator)
It was only a matter of time before everything he had constructed finally gave way. And only then—only after the collapse—would anything be rebuilt.