So much for new beginnings, Connor thought to himself as he sat in Aaron's office.

The rattle of the chains is still making his body tremble. For a few moments, he just sits there breathing, gradually regaining control of his body. Of his head. He made every effort to remain seated in the main gym hall while Max was pounding at the punching bag.

He tried desperately to ignore the horrifying rattle sound; the shudder going up and down his spine, but his body betrayed him. He needed to get out of there.

Run! his mind commanded his legs. But he rejected the order, suppressing it.

He attempted to go slowly so Max wouldn't be alarmed. He knew Max's eyes were on him at all times, studying his every move and expression, so he carefully stood up, disguising his shudder as best he could, and crept out of the main hall.

There were days his head just didn't work. He tried so hard to focus, to seize control of his breath, his body, his mind, but it's like trying to run through water. His brain fogs up and thoughts go nowhere at all. Sometimes he thinks it’s nature’s anesthesia, his mind doing everything it can to numb the pain, to wipe out the trauma.

Then, there are the times of clarity, sudden moments when he can see every detail and feel every feeling. The trigger can be something like a sound, a turn of phrase, a smell. In the beginning, he hoped it was a process to wipe out the terrible memories, to stop him from re-living them. Now he knows it's not so simple. It provides some protection, but the price is the flashbacks and the times of confusion; the stronger the blocks become, the more intense the flashbacks and nightmares are, as if the neurons in his brain are fighting for their lives, doing anything they can to not wither away.

Yet, as Aaron said one day on a phone call Connor unintentionally answered, "There will be a future, there will be a future." And so that keeps him living, breathing, loving. He walks each day another step onward, always hoping to arrive at that future.

To distract himself, he decided to delve into the stack of unopened letters and paperwork on the table. He shifted the stack to the chair, cleaned the area, and then sorted the documents by subject.

Kyle.

He dumped all the documents that weren't relevant - old receipts and other memo notes - into the trash pile. He took the sharp letter opener from the drawer and began opening the letters one by one.

Kyle.

In quiet moments he comes to him, ghost-like, a shadow of him. Connor shook his head, gripping harder on the cold metal of the letter opener in his hand. Stop, he thought, get out of my head.

There are days he is filled with chaos and noise to keep his soul at bay. There are days he calls him, when he’s alone, just before he falls asleep or when he’s daydreaming, fearful to lose him all over again. Every time his heart cries out he comes and his emotions swirl faster than a child's spinning top. To feel him and only see an empty room, to reach out and only feel the cool air, shatters his heart all over again. He retreats to the chaos because his pain is so strong it starts to break him in ways that are difficult to mend. So here he stands, between chaos and pain and love, all hurting so much, without knowing how to let go. Without knowing if he truly wishes to let go.

Kyle.

Kyle.

Kyle.

He finishes opening all the letters and dividing them into distinct stacks by importance when a loud commotion from the main hall startles him. He leaps from his chair and walks to the door, the letter opener still clutched in his hand, semi-happy with the distraction it provided him from his thoughts.