n knows he shouldn't feel this way, knows it's selfish.

So, so many people have it worse, but, still... it lingers, sinks its claws into his chest and threatens to tear him apart from the inside.

He can't help it. Can't help the way he's always exhausted, never wanting to do anything but sleep, or the way he always seems to be in pain, no matter how many pills he's prescribed or hours he's unconscious.

It's always there, the nagging, the ache, the pull of his heart and lungs- always so hard to breathe, to keep going.

he calls his friends, and he talks, sometimes for hours on end. Maybe sometimes even reflects

Maybe he tells them what he so desperately wants to hear, hoping that they'll mutter the words back.

Maybe he needs the reassurance, that they are still standing with him. That they haven't found out how much of a coward he truly is. That they still believe in him, even if he doesn't in himself.

That they haven't given up, even if he has.

But after the call ends, he's exhausted, sitting in the dark, waiting for the guilt to go away, for the happiness to show up and surprise him; tell him he's done well and deserves a break.

...but it never happens.

So he lies in a cold bed, shame and fear at his side, whispering failures to lull him to sleep.

the shame of bothering those around him beating him to unconsciousness.

Then he wakes up, and it's the same thing over again. Doubt clawing at his ankles, trying to pull him down to their abyss, and sometimes... it works.

And n falls, lets them drag him to the depths of his anxiety, where he can do nothing but suffocate and gasp for air that isn't there. He even feels comfort, when he allows it. There's a sort of sick relief when he's on the verge of ending it all.

But then they'll walk into his room, and n has to pull himself back to the surface, where he's the older brother, the sole provider, where three kids are looking up at him, waiting for the next step-- one n can't take by himself.

but

It's getting better, at least that's what he tells himself when they come to him concerned, always so concerned, asking if he needs anything, if he's okay, if... he's relapsing.

But n shakes his head, smiles, pats the top of their heads softly, opts for silence because he knows opening his mouth would rat him out.

they stare in silence, then nod, but n knows they don't believe him, and it's okay. They leave-

But on days like these, they don't. Will walk in quietly, sit at the foot of n's bed and stare. Let wide eyes crack n. And they do-

They always do.

and they know.

n will start tearing up, steady gazes holding him captive, preventing him from going anywhere, pinning him to the empty, empty room, to the loneliness that surrounds him despite it all.

to the pressure and expectations threatening to strangulate him.

He'll feel cold, shiver in his pajamas, but he can't move, not when they stare at him like that; sad, defeated even. It'll feel like an eternity before they collectively move, sit next to n silently, watching him break down in misery, in shame, in guilt.

th will move behind him, jm and jk by his sides. small hands will run through his hair, rub his back, wipe away his tears.

It's been years and he still doesn't know how to deal with it, can't escape it no matter how hard he tries. It's exhausting, constantly trying to fight something you can't, and n crumbles easily. doesn't have the strength any of them do.

He looks up to them, really. Even jk- 10 year old jk.

maybe he actually looks up to jk the most.

So young and taking the world on his shoulders, afraid but brave, facing everything head-on, even if it causes him to crash sometimes. n admires that.

Because he can't. n can't.

He's a coward.

Too afraid of the consequences. Too afraid of what people will say, of the failure. One wrong move and they would be alone, no one to feed them, to protect them from the hell that is the world.

he's a coward.

jm will wrap a steady arm around him, and n cracks and shatters like porcelain beneath his touch, a routine now with how often it happens.

More than it did when he was younger, more now that he's an adult, and it makes n feel like an absolute piece of shit.

he's meant to be the strong one, the one they can come to if they have troubles- yet they're the ones comforting him- they're the ones that have to pat his head and bring him food.

He's supposed to be okay now, can't blame it on his parents anymore, can't blame it on unprescribed pills, can't blame it on an unsteady job, doesn't have a fucking excuse anymore--

He's sick, and tired, and wants it all to go away; he knows it's unfair, knows how much pain it'd cause.

he's truly a coward.

but he's getting better.

--

this one was a bit more difficult to write.