The first time I blacked out, I woke up to my ex-girlfriend's Christmas present.

It was a box of Reese's, half-eaten, finger-wiped free of grease, and left like a shrine at the foot of my bed. I knew exactly who placed it there.

"You didn't even try to wrap it, huh?" I asked the shadow seated across the room. He lit a cigarette, boot resting on the dresser like he owned the place.

Rayne Zenith grinned at me through the smoke. "Would you have preferred a ribbon? Maybe a little card that said, 'From the demon in your head, with love'?"

I sighed. "I told you not to bring her into this."

"And I told you," Rayne said, flicking ash onto my rug, "you don't get to tell me anything when you're the one who broke the glass. I'm just your reflection, remember? I'm the part that kept bleeding when you said you were healed."

I sat up slowly, my head pounding. My last memory was handing Leah a white envelope on her porch, her eyes already glassy from her new boyfriend’s headlights.

"She still looked at you like you were a charity case," Rayne said, reading my mind. "Like, 'Oh, poor Rex, still hung up on me. How adorable.'"

"Don't." I warned.

He spread his hands in mock innocence. "Just saying. You showed up with a Christmas card and a three-month-old letter. She showed up with a restraining order in her eyes."

I rubbed my face. "I was just saying goodbye. Closure."

"You think closure means handing her the script of your internal monologue? No, Rex. Closure means slamming the door and bolting it from the inside. What you did? That was an invitation."

There was a pause. Then:

"So… you broke in?" I asked.

Rayne tilted his head. "Define 'broke.' Define 'in.'"

I looked at the box again. The Reese’s were her favorite. A callback to when things were simple. High school simple. Before her smile made me nauseous.

"You left this in her bedroom?"

"I left it on her nightstand. With a note. Something poetic."

"What did the note say?"

Rayne grinned, eyes glinting like razors. "'For the nights you choked on silence.'"

I wanted to vomit. Or scream. Or punch him. Instead, I just stared at the peeling ceiling. "We're gonna go to jail."

"You're gonna go to therapy," Rayne corrected. "I’m gonna go viral."

The second time I blacked out, the news was on. There was footage. Home security. A shadow in a mask, dropping a red gift bag through an open window like some sick Santa.

"They called it a break-in. Said the suspect left a used candle, a copy of our prom photo, and a jar of bathwater. Yours, presumably."

"You’re making this worse," I mumbled, face buried in my hands.

Rayne was behind me now. I could feel him pacing. Or maybe I was pacing. Maybe he was never there.

"I'm doing what you won't. I'm grieving her like she actually mattered. Like losing her wasn't just a bullet point in your journal. You loved her, Rex. Say it."

I said nothing.

"Say it."

Nothing.

His voice was thunder. "SAY IT."

"I loved her!" I shouted, voice cracking. "I loved her, okay? I loved her so much it made me hate myself!"

Silence. Rayne sat beside me. For once, he didn’t smirk.

"Then let me do what needs to be done."

The third time I woke up, the world had changed.

I was in the basement. My wrists were red, the ropes cut and coiled like vipers on the floor. Rayne was humming to himself, shirtless, cleaning blood off a set of tools.

"What did you do?"

"She screamed," Rayne said. "But it wasn't fear. It was memory. We were her home, Rex. She just forgot."

I lunged. He sidestepped.

"Don’t worry. She’s not dead. Not physically. But emotionally? Spiritually? Welcome to the void."

My voice was shaking. "You're a monster."

Rayne finally looked tired. Like wearing my face was getting old.

"No, Rex. I’m your pain. The part you shoved into a bottle and sank with all the poems you never sent. The ‘man’ who never cried. I’m the scream you turned into silence. The silence that turned into a person."

I stared at the Reese’s box still sitting on the shelf.

Rayne followed my gaze. "It’s crazy, huh? How something so sweet can rot."

Then he lit another cigarette.

And I let him.