It is the first day of summer; more importantly, the first Friday of summer. And I am in my room.

Finals are over and everyone is happy, but I don't see any reason to be so over the moon. Summer means I can stay at home: I don't have any obligations and that allows me to be all alone, all the time. Alone.

My mother has a different trip planned every week for the next three months, and my father only calls when he feels guilty (Christmas and my birthday). I've been alone a lot ever since my parents' divorce and this is the first time its upset me. Now is the time for huge parties and bonfires and alcohol, like all the other previous summers and parent-free weekends.

But I have yet to send out a single text and I haven't gotten one either.

Becoming crazy really shows you who your real friends are.

…

I hear the doorbell ring at 8 p.m. It's a distant noise behind my mom's whirlwind of packing and randomly shouting at me about where this-or-that is. As if I would borrow her two hundred dollar ring that's as tacky as it comes. I don't get my good taste from her.

I lazily lift myself from my bed and make the long walk to the front door. Out of habit, I avoid the mirrors that hang on every wall. I don't want to break another one when I freak out and "imagine things" as my Doctor would say. It's actually difficult to ignore them all, we have too many: ceiling to floor length, purple or green or blue, with jewels, and diamonds or just plain wood. They are everywhere. I asked Mom to take them down and she laughed in my face. These mirrors that line the walls use to be a great comfort to me as my mother and I use to be very vain. Now it's just my mother.

I make it to the bottom of the stairs (all mirrors still intact) and slide in my fuzzy socks to the door. Stiles stands on the other side of the door, holding a stack of movies in one hand and a large bag that has Del Taco on the side in the other. His balance doesn't seem to be holding up too well as everything seems to be swaying, so I grab the bag of food and he shifts to even out the movies to both hands.

There is a beat of silence where we both shuffle our feet before, "So, uh, you busy tonight?"

I take a long, exaggerated look around me and say, "Hmm, I don't think so."

…

I am practically sitting on Stiles lap when we start the movie. Well, half his lap. My left side is on his right side and I don't know how we ended up like this. All I know is he said something that made me laugh and I said something that made him blush, and then it seemed like there was entirely too much room between us and the blanket seemed too small to be stretched across such a wide distance and I shifted a little, he shifted a little, and there was a lot of shifting.

"To be a happy and stable teenager girl," my therapist told me at our first session this morning, "and in order to not have another episode, you have to focus on the positive things and overcome what triggers the negative things to happen."

So I try not to let my mind think of how my mom didn't say goodbye before she left for her flight (Stiles and I were eating tacos when we heard the front door slam and the car start), or how a girl in one of the opening previews had red hair, and I instead focus on the fact the my left side is on top of Stiles right side and our hands have brushed twelve times since the opening credits rolled. I don't dwell on the fact that Allison is leaving for Europe on Sunday morning and hasn't said goodbye or that Jackson leaves in the morning and he wanted to talk and I said no. Was that the right choice? I don't know. But I do know that right now, next to a sweet boy with brown eyes, I am a happy and stable teenage girl. And yes, I might just be feeling so content because of the drugs I've been swallowing, but so what?

…

I feel my head clearing as the movie ends and I know the pills are wearing off but I don't want to wake Stiles. He's asleep with his head on top of mine and his arm wrapped lightly over my shoulders. I'm curled up next to him and I'm too comfortable to be thinking of white pills, and pink pills, and small pills, large pills, pills that make me dizzy or pills that make me fuzzy and I know I should go and get them but I am not going to. Not now. I won't ruin this moment by downing four prescriptions.

I blink red and shake my head until everything is normal.

I blink and the world is swallowed up into a dark nothing and I put the heels of my hands into my eyes until I can see the soft blue of the blanket covering Stiles and me.

I get the feeling of hands grabbing at my feet and I kick and shift until my entire body is rolled into the fetal position.

I blink and I see dark shadows in the corners of the room, figures moving too quickly to focus on and I blink furiously and continuously until my eyes water and I stand because maybe I do need to swallow those pillows but I trip on the blanket and fall, barely catching myself with my hands, saving my face from pain but the blanket has fallen on my legs and I am tangled up and I kick, kick, kick and let out a frustrated scream because I am stuck and trapped and I am blinking so fast that red is moving in and everywhere and where are my pills?

Hands land on my shoulders and I shift to make the hands let go because the floor is red and I have to stand up before red swallows me and damn it, it's Stiles and his hands that are helping me up and I woke him up and sorry, sorry, sorry, "I'm sorry!"

"Lydia, are you okay?" Stiles is concerned, like he always is around me and I feel pathetic, a tangled mess of hair and tears and wrinkled clothes. Feeling pathetic leads me to pathetic, gut wrenching tears and Stiles tells me it's okay, everything's okay, you're okay, Lydia, shhh, calm down.

I shove Stiles away because I want to be okay and okay people don't need to be comforted and okay people don't sob hysterically after getting caught in a mess of blankets and okay people aren't haunted be a color so I must act okay so I shoved, shoved him away.

He looks confused and a little sad and I feel suddenly lost without his arms but old Lydia won't feel bad about it and old Lydia wasn't crazy so I mumble something about being thirsty and run away to the kitchen to down a glass of water with four large pills that promise drowsiness.

I am sick of new, crazy Lydia so I try to drown her out with two more pills and a shot of whiskey.

Stiles walks in when I slam the glass cup down and I feel like a kid getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

New Lydia says to apologize but old Lydia says screw it and crazy Lydia says red and I sit on the floor and stare at Stiles and ask him to leave.

He nods and exits the kitchen and I wait for the slam of the door, but when I compose myself and stand up a few minutes later, I find that he has fallen asleep in the entryway. I go and get the blue blanket and drape it over both of us. I am curled up next to him again and his arm has found its way back to my shoulders and it feels like we are still on the couch and the last half an hour didn't happen but I know it did, because the fear, and guilt, the pathetic feeling, the taste of whiskey, and the hard floor under me are reminders that Stiles deserves much more than new, old, crazy and me.