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𝐊𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐌 𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

- i fucking hate you, i hope you embrace it. loving you is complicated.

𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄. 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓'𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐋 Kyomm had been hearing.
Not the kind that felt peaceful, but the kind that pressed in—tight and unforgiving. The kind that wrapped around his throat and made it hard to breathe, let alone speak.

He hadn't said a word. Not to nobody. Not even to himself. Even though his mind was full—crowded with things he wanted to scream, truths he wanted to spill, apologies he wished he could package neat and hand-deliver.

But the words? They got stuck somewhere deep in his chest, lodged between pride and pain. They just wouldn't come out.

So he sat in the silence. Carried it like a second skin. Let it grow heavy in his bones, thick in the air around him.

Not 'cause he didn't care. But 'cause he didn't know how to say he cared anymore— not without it sounding like a lie.

He looked around his room— the same four walls that used to feel safe, like home. Now it looked like how he felt inside: chaotic. cluttered. undone.

Clothes were everywhere—hoodies slung over the back of his chair, jeans crumpled in corners, socks that hadn't seen a laundry basket in days. His bed was a mess, sheets half-off, and a tray of weed sat right in the middle, like it belonged there.

The smell of blunts clung to the air—thick and bitter, stale in his lungs. It hung on his blankets, soaked into his hoodie, sat in his hair like smoke didn't know how to let go either.

This room used to be clean. Used to be a reflection of who he was. Now, it was just what was left of him.

He silently cried as he stepped into the bathroom, his feet dragging slow across the tile like his body was moving on its own. No sobs, no gasps—just tears sliding down his cheeks, quiet and steady, like they'd been waiting for their cue.

The mirror caught him again. Same swollen eye. Same haunted stare. Same boy trying to keep from breaking all the way through.

And there it was. Right where he left it. Cold. Heavy. Still. The metal gun sat on the sink like it belonged there.

His breath hitched. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat thick and sharp, burning as it slid down. His hand trembled as he reached for it, fingers brushing the handle before curling around it tight.

It was cold in his palm. Too cold. Like it didn't care who he was or what he'd been through. Like it was just waiting.

And in that moment, everything went still again. Just him. The weight in his chest. The tears on his face. And the choice in his hand.