I managed to sleep soundly through the night. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out like a light for nine hours. That would've been miraculous, if I didn't wake up with a gasp, the anxious feeling returned to me and attacking me relentlessly. Unprovoked.

I sat up in a flurry, hand pressed to my chest, forcing myself to breathe slowly instead of gasping and choking, which would make it a million times worse. I looked around for a solution, and found one instantly.

On the bedside table sat my unfortunate saviour. A tall glass of water and a bottle of pills, sitting on top of a small scrap of paper. I grabbed the bottle and tore it open. I popped one into my mouth, chugged some water to make it go down easier and laid back, waiting for the collapsing feeling to die down.

It took a while to kick in. In the meantime, I just laid there, staring at the ceiling and focusing on my breaths.

This was what I hated about getting back on medication. Anytime I was off of it for even a little while, I somehow forgot what being normal felt like. When you're panicked all the time, getting relief at all just makes the panic seem so much worse in comparison. It's easier to handle when I have nothing to compare it to.

I didn't know how long it was before I felt okay enough to exist like a person. I measured it purely by feeling, so once my discomfort was mostly gone - save for the ache in my foot - I sat up.

I plucked the paper off of the bedside table and flipped it over so the words were the right way around. I recognized the scrawl easily.

Stole some clothes and went home. Mark doesn't know about the pills. Take one, call me.

I crumpled up the note in my hand and tossed it on the floor. Of course, he had to be smug. And still kind enough to keep my secret. I hated how much that annoyed me. Normally I'd appreciate him keeping my secret, even though he always did so it would come as no surprise. Still, part of me hoped he'd rat me out and give me another valid reason to be mad without feeling guilty. But instead he left me with another reason to feel guilty for being mad. Clearly he didn't care as much about what I said as I did about what he said. The reason for that was pretty apparent: he won the argument. Flawlessly.

It's usually obvious who lost a verbal dispute, based on who ended up bleeding, crying and medicating afterward. That was a fine enough indicator that my defense was pathetic.

There was a knock on my bedroom door, which was entirely unnecessary, because the door opened before I said a word.

Mark pushed the door open. He looked worn, almost like he aged since I saw him yesterday. But he didn't look mad at me.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" He asked. He had a lighter voice than I was expecting. If I knew my uncle, that meant he'd taken matters into his own hands. He was a solutions man more than he was a feelings man, and he certainly liked to take away my independence for the sake of solving a problem. Come to think of it, him and Brent had that in common.

"Fine. Sore."

"Sure, it's bound to be sore for a while," He said. He had his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans and he stood with his weight back on his heels. "I called your coach and filled him in. He was pretty disappointed."

"I bet."

"But, he said to rest up, take care of yourself, and the rest of the team will work extra hard to qualify. That's good, right?"

"Sure." They'd certainly have to. Coach told me all the time that the team couldn't win without me. Right now, all I could do was pray that he just told me that so I wouldn't quit the team when the pressure felt too bad; a boost of confidence, that was really thinly veiled added pressure.

"Brent went home pretty early," Mark went on. He came a few feet further into the room and leaned against the wall. It was a strategic move to seem casual that I saw through easily. "Did something happen between you two?"

"Nope. His parents probably needed him."

"That boy has been coming over here for years and his parents have never hauled him home. You guys were quiet yesterday. Are you sure you're good?"

"We're fine."

Mark sighed. He stepped over toward the bed and sat on the edge, shifting the weight of the mattress. I sat up straighter, as if to put space between us.

"You know, son, you can tell me if something is going on with you," He told me. He had one leg bent on the bed and the other dangling off with his foot planted on the floor, so he was facing me entirely. I couldn't get passed how old he'd gotten, or how soft he looked. "I know I'm not your..." He hesitated and cleared his throat. My heart hurt. "I'm responsible for you regardless. I love you, kid and I'd hate to think you couldn't talk to me. Me and you, we're all the family we've got. So, if somethings wrong, I'd rather we face it together than you face it alone. Do you understand?"

I stared at him as he sat there, his gaze jumping between either of my eyes, like he was searching for something. I thought of what Brent said yesterday:

"You're intentionally making your own life harder, and you're okay with that, because you think it's just your own life. The truth is, Drew, when you're not okay, no one around you is either. All you have to do is talk to us."

I exhaled through my mouth, all the air in my body expelled before I nodded, eyes focused on my steady hands, resting in my lap.

The meds were holding me together and although my whole brain was screaming at me to keep my mouth shut, somehow one fact was clear to me: if I didn't tell him now, I likely never would.

I curled my hands into fists and felt my nails dig into my palms. I began, "Remember when me and Brent went out with some girls one night over winter break?" Mark furrowed his brow but nodded. "Well, a lot of bad stuff happened to all of us that night. But, I think it stuck with me the most. I... I haven't felt okay since."

Mark didn't move any closer to me. He set his jaw, his frown quivering slightly. "Tell me what happened."