This is the second time you've stood at the door of the café today.

Last time, you saw Sarah through the window, she waved, and you REGRESSED all the way back to your room.

You slept too soundly last night. Even the dog didn't visit you. You prepared yourself—prepared yourself to freak out, to break down, to have a panic attack—anything that would happen to normal people after murdering someone.

But it never came.

Because Kyle never died, right? Sure, you remember, murdering him over and over and over again, grinding him into a fine nothingness, but in reality, right here, this reality, he's alive. So why be concerned? It's no different than someone fantasizing about brutally killing their boss or in-laws. Very human. Very normal.

You look at the list of names you scrawled on the back of an old envelope.

Leads or dead ends. You don't know. Should you bother? Stalk and abduct and tie up each and every one, stow them in the trunk of your car? Is that how you're going to be, from now on?

You had looked over the phones again. You felt your face grow hot as you looked over the conversations between Kyle and Damien, but then you realized something after some more scrolling.

Emojis.

Damien never used emojis. And there they were.

You threw the phone across the room, screamed, REGRESSED second by second in your fury.

Nothing. Kyle had nothing. Damien truly had disappeared, leaving nothing but your confusion in his wake.

You called his sister, asked her where Damien was. She said he hadn't called in a while—four weeks?— but didn't mention moving. She sounded a bit worried on the phone.

You REGRESSED out of that call.

You sit on your bed, staring at the wall.

0-0-0-0-0-0

He was begging you. He was gripping your arms, shaking you.

"Turn it back!" he pleaded. "Turn it!"

You looked through him. You were so tired. When you grit your teeth... you would flicker back, a second. Two seconds.

"I can't," you whispered. "Damien, I—"

"You have to!"

"I—I can't."

"I know you can! Try! You have to!"

0-0-0-0-0-0

The wall begins to waver.

It yawns wide before you, like a vast black mouth.

The dog emerges, trotting out.

It looks up at you.

You place a hand on its head.

You feel warm.

0-0-0-0-0-0

The coffee steams. Smells good, too.

Wait.

You blink.

You look around. You're in the café. It's late.

Sarah slides into the booth, sitting across from you.

You look down into the cup, see your reflection.

"You've been doing it, haven't you?" she asks quietly, intently. She drags her finger on the table in a swirling motion. Counter-clockwise.

You consider REGRESSING out of this conversation, but... right now, you don't know where you'll end up.

So you nod.

"It hurts you," she continues.

"Anything can hurt you."

Her eyes narrow. She leans forward, her earnestness radiating. "Just—listen, just try. For a week. Just a week, try not to roll back, okay? You look—"

"I look terrible."

"I was going to say anemic and sleep-deprived and slightly haunted."

You chuckle a bit at that. Do you? You look pretty ordinary, you think. Then again, you've been avoiding mirrors. Stare at the walls or ceiling whenever you're brushing your teeth.

Sarah reaches out, touching your face. You flinch back. She was always forthright about that kind of thing.

"You're warm," she says. "Do you have a cold?"

You shake your head. She bites her lip.

"Look... remember a few days ago, you texted me in the morning—about five thirty—and told me to get up, since I forgot to set my alarm?"

You remember. You had wandered into the café, and Sarah had been having an utterly shitty day. And it all started with her being late. So you—

"I appreciated it," she says, her tone wary, "but... please, not anymore. If this hurts you, then... don't waste it on me, for little things like that. I mean it."

You look out the window. It's raining. You watch the clear beads slide down the glass.

0-0-0-0-0-0

At home, you really do it. You look in the mirror.

... Fuck.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You walk. You walk until you find a park and walk until you find a tree.

You sit under it, in the rain, letting the water soak through your clothes.

But the warmth stays.

If anyone looked closely, you imagine, they would see steam rising from your skin.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You drop a sandwhich.

"Fuck," you mutter, and clench your teeth—

...And pry your jaw apart, force yourself to stop. No, no. Come on. Not over something like this.

The rest of the day, you feel like you're living a torn-out page of a manuscript.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Eat. Sleep. Get outside. Be normal.

Look in the mirror. Not so grey. Circles not so dark under those eyes.

Sarah and Cassie and her friends are going out for drinks— come with? You stare at the text.

... Shit, why not?

So you go. You and Sarah and Cassie and two guy friends you've never seen, but they're friends of Sarah so they're friends of you. The five of you go from bar to bar, drinking and laughing and joking.

Sometimes you say something lame or stupid, or misspeak, want to REGRESS, but... no. Let it be. Sometimes you want to tell the joke right the first time, want to REGRESS, but... no.

Let it be.

0-0-0-0-0-0

You switch on the lights.

"Sorry, it's bit of a mess."

But Sarah comes in and falls gracelessly across the couch, nuzzling into it. You roll your eyes. You go to the kitchen, fill three glasses of water, and place them in a line on the coffee table.

Sarah turns her head and looks at your accusingly. "I'm not that drunk," she contests.

"Sure."

She throws a pillow at you. It knocks one of the glasses to the carpet. You clench your teeth—

"Don't!" Sarah grabs at your jacket, and you jerk away.

You both stand there, staring at the growing waterstain in the carpet.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

0-0-0-0-0-0

You put on a movie. You don't know which one. Doesn't matter, if it's not good, you can just REGRESS out of it.

You sit on the couch, staring through the TV.

You and Sarah didn't have much to say to each other that night. So you both watched—or, at least one of you did, you think—and when she dozed off, you turned it off and sat in silence for a while.

You can think of every single time you were going to REGRESS today. And yesterday. And the day before. But you forced yourself through those moments.

But you can feel them.

Those moments.

They're still with you, part of you, in you. One REGRESS and they'd be set free like so many steel moths, scraping your insides raw and clean. Just one REGRESS—

Sarah murmurs in her sleep.

You lean over, kiss her forehead, and go to bed.

As you lay in darkness, you can see two red points of light, looking at you.

You look back.