I have the beginning of the next chapter started, so hopefully it won't be too long to get it up. Don't hesitate to leave a review and I may be inspired to write it sooner (;

Each time Jake needed reminding of which turn to take to Eli's, I briefly considered giving him the wrong directions. I was by no means looking forward to making amends with Eli tonight, or talking him off of whatever ledge CeCe thought I could, but I'm not sure she could handle my cancellation after what she sounded like she was going through. I wasn't sure whether to be thankful that Jake didn't question me during the drive, or agitated that his silence allotted me a lot of dwelling time, but soon enough, which was really too soon, we were pulling up to the abode that housed my discontent.

Departing from the truck with another quick hug, storing that one away for the courage I'm sure I'd need at some point during this visit, I made it halfway up the walk before the heavy door opened, revealing a hardened looking CeCe behind it. She silently let me in, clicking the door closed with her body weight.

"He's in his room," he sighed, "still. He went straight there after school and hasn't said a word since. The doctor warned us that this sort of thing would happen, and... well, it isn't as though he hasn't always been an angsty little shit," she chuckled softly. "But... the lock is back."

The conversation hadn't been too light to begin with, but at the mention of the combination lock that had once graced his door after Julia's death, I really began to worry. It was no easy feat to get him to retire the barricade, but I knew how much better he felt without it and how long it'd been since his doorknob was bare. This was ten steps back for him.

With a nod to CeCe, I ascended the staircase, halting outside the steel constraint. Sighing, I hesitantly spun the numbers around to align to the uncomfortably familiar date.

4...22...09...click.

The inhabitant was inside pacing, if you could call it such. I would have been surprised if there were tracks in his carpeting with how ferocious his pace was. He snapped out of it quickly as he heard the lock click open, staring back at me like a wounded deer and his muscles locked into place.

"How did you get in here?"

"You didn't change the combination."

"Why are you in here?"

"You didn't change your patterns, either."

He let out a staggered breath, staring at his feet as though he wasn't sure whether to keep pacing. I followed his line of vision only to see all the scattered paper across the floor. I picked up a slice near my own feet and took it upon myself to skim the words. Perhaps it was karma for being so nosy that the first thing to jump out at me was the name "Clara", but it wasn't enough to stop me from continuing on down the paragraph of defamation.

"What is all of this? You didn't write this all today, did you?" Eli was a talented writer, without a doubt, and it was always easy for him to be thrust into his work without pause, but that wasn't always a pro, least of all not recently. His disorder had taught him more chaos than he'd ever known and more obsession than should be allowed. I was witness on more than one occasion to the binge nights of dead silent revisions, the breathless determination to crank out one more verse, but the wild eyes were new to me and not something I could laugh off as easily. Nobody had reason to laugh now.

I looked up in time to see him shake his head. I had a split second of relief before it dawned that this was an ongoing project. He'd been gutting himself to write each scene and judging by the amount of material, it was likely weeks since the start. "How long?"

He didn't meet my gaze, looking sheepish as he inched closer to his pillows.

"How long, Eli?" I demanded. "How long has this been going on? How long have you been writing about me?"

"Since we met," he scoffed, and his honestly irked me.

"You know what I mean. How long have you been writing this?" Brandishing the rough draft's pages, I grew just as frantic. This was detailed material. I wanted to believe it was entirely fiction, but I'd have been lying if I didn't suspect it was also the product of watching me, overhearing things, getting too close again.

"A while," he boomed, suddenly angry. "A couple of months. Your name does not make an appearance, so aren't you a tad vain for being for presumptuous?"

It was my turn to scoff then as I flipped the unbound papers to a random page and selected a passage.

"The most recurring of Clara's habits was the unconscious nibbling of her pencils and pens. I don't think there was one exam or essay where any of my utensils were returned to me without a number of distinct imprints. She was embarrassed every time, but it was always met with a sincere smile on my part. She always teased me that I was the most difficult quiz for her to pass, but she never bit anything but her lip in my presence. I guess she knew I graded on a curve."

I didn't expect Eli to relent, but my evidence was pretty solid. I went through countless ink pens during finals after I gnawed them out of functionality.

"Do you have any idea how many people do shit like that? It's a top ten common habit. Try again."

I knew his taunt was just that, but I had tunnel vision now. I flipped through the script, picking out relevant pieces.

"Cerulean eyes... the wind licked the honey curls framing her face... to end as her unrelenting parents' had... really, should I keep going?"

He rolled his eyes, and his silence gave me the courage to flick through a few more pages, each more incriminating than the last.

"Eli... you can't option this," I breathed, no less than horrified. I opened my mouth to speak again, but the words were dead on my tongue. He took the opportunity for me.

"You're right," he agreed, his tone ominous. "I think a rewrite may be in order. I'm starting to believe that the lead was the protagonist all along."

He stared down at me with the iciest eyes I'd seen him hold and it truly began to seep into me just how damaging this sickness was. For as much love he held somewhere for me, however volatile it was, in an instant he could set it aside to wrong me back as badly as he felt I'd done to him. I was no longer a face or a name to him, but instead a vessel to instill his rage into until he came back out of the storm clouds. Eli was in the rain and my umbrella was covered in holes, as deep as an insult as Eli's words. Perhaps I had been too stern for his liking, cutting him off from too much or not being willing to hear him out, but it was for his own good.

...wasn't it?

His eyes hadn't averted yet and my insides all caught a chill. I didn't know how to react to this. He wouldn't listen to me if I had the words, anyway. He didn't listen to my pleads on the steps of the Spring Fling and I had much more pull with him then. I had nothing now. I had to right to try to stop his mania.

"Why are you doing this?" My voice lacked the conviction I had hoped for, or any at all, truthfully, but I didn't think Eli was in any position to be stronger. Whether it was a question of him doing it to me or himself was up in the air, but it wasn't constructive to either party. "Please..."

"Please!" He laughed then, and I'd never had such a strong and inverse reaction to the sound. "How dare you, Eli, how daaare you get better. How could you stop revolving around me and get back into something you love that isn't me? You selfish, selfish shrew. I know, Clare, I'm awful. You're a martyr for being in the same room as me, I don't know how you bear it."

The sick in my stomach was swirling, unsure where to even begin to defend myself.

"I do want you to get better," I hissed, gritting my teeth as strong as I could to bite back tears. "But this is by no means better. Not by a long shot. You say you're not revolving around me, and yet you're shut away in your bedroom writing plays about me. What part of that screams healthy to you? You're smothering yourself in memories, and then in fiction. This isn't real. None of this is real, and honestly I don't know if I believe you want to be better. Maybe you like being suffocated."

I hadn't caught on to the incredibly poor choice of words I'd chosen until they clicked in Eli's head, the expression draining from his face. He blinked a few times, his eyes darting along the wall.

"Get out, Clare."

Had I really heard him? Was my truth too much for him or was it the flashback of hearing that I was the one he was once suffocating?

"What?"

"Get out. Get the fuck out, Clare!"

Whether it was the language I was so unused to or how resolute his anger was, I wasn't up for arguing, jerking backwards towards the door, thankful for not tripping over the growing clutter on his floor.

"Take your pills."

My parting sentiment was not one of malice, and I hope he understood that. He needed those meds no matter how much he wanted to fight that fact and if he did truly want to get better, those were his only window. He couldn't spend his life rewriting our story until the storybook version of us got the happy ending that we never did.