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Sometimes I still feel it.
That dark part inside me.
I know it’s gone. The Nogitsune’s gone. But the things it made me do?
They’re still here.
Stuck in my head. Keeping me up at night. Making me jolt out of sleep with my heart racing, like I’m still fighting it.
There are nights when I wake up gasping for air, my hands shaking, like I’ve just come out of some kind of fight—like it’s still happening. It’s not physical, but it might as well be. The fear, the anger—it’s all still here. I can’t shake it.
They tell me it wasn’t my fault. That I wasn’t in control.
But when I look in their eyes—I don’t always believe them.
Not when Scott flinches the second I space out.
Not when Lydia’s voice tightens just a little when I say something too sharply.
They say they don’t blame me.
But I do.
I couldn’t even look in the mirror. Not without hating what I saw—because sometimes, I could still see him.
The way my eyes would narrow, the way my smile would twist—not mine. His.
One time, I broke the mirror in my bedroom, punching it so hard that shards of glass scattered across the floor.
My reflection had stared back a little too long, and something in me snapped.
When my dad asked what happened afterward, I told him I bumped into it.
He didn’t push.
But I know he saw my bruised knuckles.
And maybe he knew I was lying.
Maybe he chose not to say anything.
And honestly? I was glad.
Because I wouldn’t have known what to say. I didn’t even understand it myself.
Sometimes, I could still hear his voice in my head.
It made my breathing quicken—sometimes to the point of almost hyperventilating—because I couldn’t tell if I was asleep or awake.
There are times when it feels like I can’t breathe properly unless I’m doing something, anything, just to feel in control. But it never lasts. No matter how much I try to fill my days, I’m always left with the echo of him, in the back of my mind.
Once, Derek pointed out how skinny I’d gotten—not in a mocking way, but with this quiet concern.
And I wondered how I could ever explain to them that my body didn’t feel like mine anymore.
That I didn’t feel like taking care of it.
That sometimes, I just couldn’t.
And even though there are days when I feel like I might be okay, like I could finally move past all this, I remember—there's no going back from what I did. It doesn't matter that I wasn’t in control. I did it. And I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for that.
I try to laugh it off whenever someone offers their help, because I insist I’m fine.
But deep down?
It’s because I don’t think I deserve it.
Not after everything.