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THREE

I hate fifty-fifty chances.

It's hard to keep your head above water when there is an equally strong weight clawing at your ankles. You don't know whether to keep going or just let the darkness surround you.

My lighter isn't working.

The rain is coming down like God is angry at the world, angry at me, wanting to drown me for my failures. The sky is devoid of any colour; it is just various shades of black and grey with the occasional flash of electric blue.

I hold my hand above the lighter, but it still isn't catching; my cigarette is soaked and useless by now. I chuck it to the ground and hurl my lighter across the street in a fit of rage but with my weary bones, it doesn't get very far. It skids across the road and spins to a halt in the middle of the black tarmac.

My clothes are drenched right through and I am shivering so much but this does not seem too different from how I usually feel.

I wonder how he always knows where I am, how he always knows when to rescue me. I wonder if he is following me, but I cannot decide whether to be annoyed at his distrust or to be flattered that he is spending his precious time and effort keeping an eye on me.

"You're going to get sick," Seto tells me flatly, forcing a jacket around my skinny shoulders. He had thought ahead.

"I'm okay," I say, my voice barely heard above the pounding rain.

"Let's go," he orders, putting an arm around me and pulling me in the direction of my home, my lonely apartment.

"I'm okay," I try again, letting my feet drag as he guides me down the dark street.

"No you're not." He shoots my attempt down immediately, his legs moving much faster than mine can manage.

I try to move away and shake off his charity, because I don't want it, I don't need it, but I can barely keep up with him, let alone refuse him. He just tightens his grasp on me and settles me under his arm, the only place I have felt warmth in a long time.