13

                                    

                                          
 The ground feels like a sinkhole. A mouth, maybe. Phil's not too sure which metaphor to use exactly, not when he's sinking. Maybe the welcome mat turns into a sea. Maybe potted plants to the sides of the door suck all the oxygen out of him. Either way, he's drowning. He can't breathe. He can't see. He's sinking. 
                          
 Phil's not sure whether to knock or just walk in. It's his bloody flat for God's sake. He shouldn't feel like an intruder. But he's been gone for four nights, barely answered any of his flatmates texts with more than okay's and he's more than sure he's not going to be welcomed back in with a warm hug and cake. It's alright, though. He can do this. Oliver has been Phil's friend for the better part of a decade. He can talk to him.
                          
 He's not sure why exactly, but his fist raises and knocks an undistinguishable pattern on the door. Maybe it's his infantile way of chickening out. The corridor lights are too bright, the world is too dim and Phil's too tired. He's just tired. Exhausted.
                          
 Almost as soon as Phil's hand makes contact with the door, it swings open. The familiar scent of home slaps him in the face. He deserves it. He's sure of it. Oliver stands in the doorway. There are bags tattooed under his eyes, hair stapled onto his forehead by sweat. Phil doesn't think he's ever seen Oli look so distraught. 
                          
 "Oh, God." 
                          
  Oliver's shaking his head. Phil can make out scratch marks on his arms, a faint smell of sick in the apartment and a waver in Oli's speech. Phil thinks he's going to vomit. He's been gone for five days. Five days and four nights. It's not like Oliver isn't aware Phil's been out. 
                          
 The doorway's starting to feel like a trap. Phil wants to leave. He doesn't. "I'm sorry." He whispers. Oliver scoffs, drags his hand across his face and gulps. Phil's fucked.
                          
 "You're sorry, are you?" There's so much bewilderment in his voice it startles Phil. "Sorry is when you accidentally break a vase, Phil. Not when you go off the grid for five fucking days. God, I-" Oliver steadies himself a breath. The lights aren't on. It's too dark, far too dark. Phil can barely see anything. He needs a light. "I thought something happened to you." Oli whispers.
                          
 Phil steps forward. He has to fix this. He can't lose another friend. Not now. Oli puts a hand up and shakes his head. "You can't keep doing this. God, Dan's been stuck in his flat the past few days in case you went to his. This isn't one of your novels, Phil. This is real life. You fucked up too far." Oli inhales, straightening his posture. "Take a shower. We'll talk about this after." Phil nods.
                          
 The shower feels cold. The insistent water droplets acting like knives to his back. Why did you run away? If he's being honest with himself, he's not too sure. All he knows is this shower feels like cigarettes and he's sick of acting the ashtray. It's too grey, he's too tired.
                          
 He turns off the tap and wraps a towel around his waist. He creeks the bathroom door and steps out. The hallway feels dead. If it weren't for the voice in one of the other rooms, Phil would've thought Oli ditched. 
                          
 Phil stays near the door, listening into the conversation he just barely catches. "Yeah, he - he's alright . . . I'm so sorry for everything . . . Not sure, really. I'll ask him questions soon. I'm worried, Dan. God, he looks like he's been living off scraps . . . Oh, no need to but you're more than welcome." Oh. Oli's speaking to Dan.
                          
 Phil feels his stomach churn. He doesn't stop moving, no. He just walks away. He's done that a lot recently.
                          
 Soon enough, a grey jumper dress is shoved over his frame, and he's standing in his living room, waiting. Waiting for this to all be a bad dream. For this to just end. Why does he always run away? 
                          
 Oliver eventually marches into the living room, stoic in the face. Phil stands like a child. He hates this. He hates this more than he can conceive. Phil's been running away for the past five days and the second he gets caught, the second it gets too hard, he gives up. 
                          
 "I think you need to start therapy again." Oliver starts. Phil panics. He doesn't want to go back. He doesn't need to. This was a slip up. A temporary slip up. He's fine. He's perfectly fine. Oliver keeps his voice steady. That doesn't detract from the terrible state he's in. 
                          
 "What?! N- no, I - I can't go back, Oli. Please." Phil's begging. It's pathetic, he thinks. He pretends he doesn't care, though. He can't go back to therapy.
                          
 "Phil, for God's sake! You disappeared for a week, left everyone else to have to find out themselves and for what? For play time?" Oli shakes his head, slumping further into the sofa. "This doesn't have to be like last time. We can get you a different psychologist but this is serious. I can't let you lose yourself again."
                          
 The walls are too white. Too clean. The dull evening haze leaves them tinted blue. Oli's talking, expressing how much Phil fucked up. How much he needs help. It's all so melancholy and dramatic. This isn't right. He just needs to know. "Did you tell him?" 
                          
 Oli stops his rant, in favour of staring at Phil in a questioning manner. Phil repeats himself louder. He doesn't let his face show emotion. He can't. "Did you tell him?"
                          
 Oliver exhales. His gaze stays locked on the ceiling. Phil wonders briefly if Oli can see galaxies on it. But then Oli's posture falls, and a small part of his façade falls away, and he starts speaking. Oli's vision drops to the ground, his voice drops to a murmur. It's comical in some sick, twisted way. "I only told him the truth." 
                          
 Phil stops dead in his tracks. "What did you tell him?"
                          
 Oli looks exactly how Phil did a mere hour ago. He's a deer caught in headlights and Phil won't stop driving. Maybe if he's lucky enough, he'll reach a cliff. "Last time."
                          
 Two words. Two words that mean nothing to so many people. Two words that leave Phil light in the head. The room's spinning. It's too much. It's too much. It's too much. Phil can't handle this. His legs turn to chopsticks. He can't walk, he can't stand, he can hardly breathe. 
                          
 Oliver's gaze is to the ground. Phil doesn't notice, he doesn't care. He's too busy thinking about how this situation got so fucked up. He's too busy wondering if he'll make it to the bathroom, or just vomit on the coffee table. He's too busy thinking about the future he could've had with Dan.
                          
 And as if God wasn't tormenting him enough, a quaint knock rings through the flat. Phil doesn't want company. He doesn't want to face what this could mean. He just wants to lie down. But the person on the other end of the door doesn't knock again. They don't leave. They open up the door and stare at Phil at awe. Because who the fuck else would be here right now other than the man that knows too much. Phil's fucked.