Her head shot up as she heard the clicking of keys just outside the flat door, even as a small part of her mind was rolling its metaphorical eyes at her jumpiness.

Goddamnit, girl, you're at Josh's place, he was spending the afternoon with Chris, said he was coming back for dinner, it's now six p.m, who do you think it is?!

She flattened her class notes with the palm of her hand and pretended to be going over them as her friend closed the door behind him.

"Sam, you're still here?"

"Kitchen," she simply answered.

It wasn't long before he slumped down the chair next to her.

"That looks boring," he said, gesturing vaguely at her work scattered across the table.

She chuckled slightly.

"Actually, it's pretty interesting once you get into it."

"Mmh." He sounded less than convinced. "And are you into it right now?"

She sighed and leaned back against the back of the chair:

"Not really… I'm tired, focusing is hard."

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"Keeping you up last night, I guess? Or… more like burdening you in general, to be honest."

"Don't-"

"I know you don't sleep well either," he cut her off, "and… all that. Sitting with me for hours at a time while I apparently can't fucking stop crying, that's like the last thing you need."

"You're right, I don't need to be there, but I want to. I'm not leaving you alone… not this time."

It was her turn to look away as she whispered the last words, so low that they were almost inaudible. At least, if Josh had heard them, he didn't reply.

For a while, she focused back on her notes, or at least try. She could feel Josh's gaze lingering on her, glanced up for a second and met his eyes – one inky black and the other, the left one, more of a dark grey because it never got fully got back to its initial color after the Wendigo incident. It looked slightly unsettling at times.

"I don't understand."

Sam wasn't expecting him to talk, so she just stared at him with widened eyes, unsure of how to respond.

"Don't understand… what?" she finally uttered after what felt like minutes.

"Why you're still here."

She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

"No, honestly, I wonder about it each time I see you," Josh continued. "I thought that I'd have driven away for good after what I did to you. Chasing you, putting you to sleep, tying you. You looked so terrified back then."

She felt a shiver run down her spine, hated herself for feeling that way. But something felt… off? Josh's voice was low and monotonous, his hands flat on the table in front of him, one finger twitching slightly from time to time. This time, she didn't dare go all the way up to his eyes.

"So why?" He asked in that same blank tone. "Why do you still care?"

As she hesitated his fingers grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him. She stifled a surprised gasp.

"Josh, what are you doing?"

"Why?"

"Because I…"

She took a deep inhale – shakier than she would have liked –, pushed away his hand, looked him straight into the eyes.

"Because you're one of my best friends, because you were lost and in pain and ill, and though that doesn't excuse everything, it does explain, because I can't help but feel that we could have done more during the year before… that I could have done more. Remember, that last night at the lodge, I said that we were here for you, whatever you need, whenever. I intend to keep that promise because I know that you can-"

"Be saved?"

Sarcasm was dripping from his words and it left her speechless.

"Yes?" she squeaked; fully aware that it wasn't the right thing to say.

"You may have saved me from turning into a wendigo, but you can't change the fact that I'm already a monster."

Instinctively, her hand went to the part between her shoulder and her neck, where Josh's – half-wendigo-Josh's – claws had left three deep silvery lines.

"Josh-"

"That night, I tried to kill you for all you know!"

He had stood up so abruptly that his chair fell backward and hit the tiled floor with a clatter that made her wince.

"Sometimes, at night, my only regret about Blackwood is that I didn't get to carry out my plan all throughout. No- no no no," he added, a disturbing smile creeping on his features, the scar on his cheek uglier than ever. "I wish Hannah had killed you all. I wish you had been a coward and run for the switch, and enjoyed the fact that you were saved as you watched your friends go up in flames. Just so you know how that feels."

Sam got up suddenly, her hands balled up into fists, squeezed hard enough so her knuckles turned bone-white.

"That's the truth, Sam, so I'll ask you again, why are you here? So you can play the good Samaritan, believe you are a good person, uh? You think all is forgiven because you stick by my side even though you, you and the others, you killed Hannah and Beth, you killed my baby sisters?"

She slapped him.

He stumbled backward, his hand raising instinctively to his reddening cheek. She stayed where she was, upright, shaking. They locked eyes.

Sam was crying.

It wasn't the wet kind of sob, the messy breakdown – it was worse than that. She wasn't just standing straight, she was unmoving, frozen in place. Her breath was trapped in her rib cage, pushed down by dry anger and grief and – and what felt like a dark hole.

She was frozen and the tears streamed down her face.

The redness of her eyes made the green of her irises stand out even more than usual.

When her breath finally made it through her gritted teeth and the lump in her throat, it hurt, and it came back out with a strangled gasp. Her knees buckled, her legs gave out and next thing she knew, there were Josh's arms around her body trying to hold her up. She pushed him away and he backed down like a kicked dog.

"You have no right to say that."

Her voice was strained, shaking, as her whole body. She breathed the words more than she actually said them, but they were close enough for him to hear.

"I-"

Silence crept back in, hanging low above their heads, almost threatening. Sam extended her arm, grabbed the nearby chair for support. Part of her wanted to reach out for Josh, touch him, take his hand maybe, but she couldn't bring herself to do that.

He ran away to his room and she didn't even budge.

It was hours before Sam mustered up the courage to leave the kitchen and knocked upon his door. It was almost dark out and the light filtrating from the bedroom extended her shadows to grotesque proportions behind her.

"It's open."

She inhaled deeply, pushed the door open. When their eyes met, she wasn't so sure that she could do this.

"You're still here?"

Josh sounded genuinely surprised and she managed a half-smile:

"Looks like it. Can I come in?"

He didn't answer and so she walked carefully to the bed, sat down next to him – only she was at least an arm-length away, and it pained her to realize that her instincts told her to keep her distances.

For a while she just stayed there, wondering where to even start.

"Don't say it wasn't my fault," he eventually said.

She looked at him and he looked away.

"I wasn't going to," she said softly. "I won't either ask you why you were acting this way, I think I already know the answer to that question. But… was it true? Did you… mean everything you said?"

Without being fully aware of it, Sam held her breath as he didn't respond right away.

"Yes," he whispered – and she had to lean over to understand his words. "Yes, I have these kinds of thoughts. And I hate myself for this."

He took his head in his hands.

"Sometimes I feel like you are only here because you want to witness another Washington kid suffer, or even to drive me to my death too. That- that's what the voice in my head says at least. She tells me that you don't care, you can't, and you're only here to hurt me – and I know, I know, she's lying, that it was just a stupid prank gone wrong, that we all drank too much and of course it was cruel and wrong to do that to Hannah but it never should have ended up that way. I know you all cared for them and mourned their losses, especially you, Sam. Only- sometimes I don't know which voice is me anymore, don't know how to tell my thoughts apart from the lies. I don't know where the illness starts and where I begin, or if I even exist anymore."

He paused, slightly out of breath. At some point during his speech, Sam's had reached tentatively for his knee and he placed his shaking hand over hers.

"Do you know right now?" She asked.

"Yes. And I know that you were right, I should have never said that to you. I'm sorry, Sam."

She squeezed his hand in response.

"I'm glad you're still there," he said quietly. "You and Mike. I feel more myself when you two are around. It's almost like… you remember me more than I do. You two have known me the longest, along with Chris, but there is Ash, and- I mean, of course, I don't blame her, she has every right to… ah, fuck, no. Shut up."

There was an awkward few seconds as he gazed at his and Sam's hand with enough intensity to drill a hole through them.

"Yeah," she finally said. "I won't ever know what it's like to live with… with your illness, but I do know that it feels better not to be alone. No- it feels better to be with you. Most of the time, at least," she added with a slight wince, and he smiled bitterly.

"I'm truly sorry."

"I know you are…"

She sighed, let herself fall back until she was laying down on the bed, feet still flat on the floor and hand still in Josh's. She felt the mattress depress slightly as he imitated her, didn't move to look at him. For the longest time, she just watched the ceiling intently, until its whiteness merged into a slow, stirring mix of pale colors.

"It's less fun than in my old room, right? All that white, it's boring."

Josh's comment made her smile as memories of similar evenings floated in her mind. The ceilings in his parents' room, upstairs, were made of wooden boards, and they had spent hours, when they were younger, looking for shapes and animals and stories in the rich maroon.

"I have seen on social media people using their blank ceilings to project movies," she said after a while. "It looked nice."

"Yeah. Could be."

He let a heartbeat pass before continuing:

"But it was nicer to hear you telling the stories."

She hummed. Right now, she would be unable to tell any story; she didn't trust her voice not to break up as soon as her mouth opened, couldn't quite see the ceiling through a thin veil of tears. She wasn't sure why she was crying again, only knew it didn't hurt this time – more than that, even. It felt warm.

"I love you, Sam. 'Have for a long time."

"I know."