Logan was running in the rain. His vision was blurred, but he didn’t know if he was crying or not. Matthew and Nate had been too stunned to say anything. They watched the drama unfold, a destruction they’d set in motion, but it had ultimately been Logan who’d set the fire ablaze. He wished he could blame them. Everything they’d done wouldn’t have mattered if Logan hadn’t been a horrible person. If he hadn’t destroyed Dakota’s painting in the beginning, if he hadn’t fallen for Dakota, and if he hadn’t been so stupid to kiss Dakota. 

That hurt the most. The rejection, but also the way Logan had confessed his feelings. He’d forced himself upon Dakota because he didn’t want to face the consequences. Every time he had a chance to prove that he’d changed, he went and screwed it up. 

Logan ran until his legs hurt and then he kept running. He didn’t see Dakota. He didn’t know what direction he’d went after he came to the four-way. He didn’t know if he’d gone back to his house or the school. 

He found shelter under a tree and pulled out his phone which had gotten soaked as well. 

“Pleasepleaseplease,” he chanted as he flipped it open. He gasped in relief. He slammed his thumbs into the keypad until he was dialing Dakota’s number. 

The ringing tone made everything else fade to the background. The ringing was so loud he couldn’t hear his pounding heartbeat or his ragged breathing. His pulse quickened when he heard the voicemail. It was cruel this time. 

“Fuck!” 

He chucked his phone at the tree and roughly ran his hands through his hair. He was full on panting now as he paced the small walkway in front of the tree. After a few minutes of panicking, he grabbed his phone from the ground and started running again.

He followed the path back to school. He checked all the doors, yanking on them, but finding all of them locked. Dakota couldn’t be here. Logan checked the entire grounds just to be sure. 

He ran to Dakota’s house. He scaled the tree and peered through Dakota’s window. His bed was untouched. 

Logan waited outside a few minutes, calling Dakota’s phone a few times, hanging up each time it went to voicemail until it automatically went to voicemail. Dakota had turned his phone off.

Logan couldn’t quit though. His mind was running with so many scenarios of where Dakota might be that he couldn’t do anything else. He couldn’t go back home and just go to sleep. Even if he could fall asleep he would be haunted with nightmares of that look on Dakota’s face.

“I’d rather die than forgive you.”

Horror struck Logan. 

“No,” he exclaimed to an empty dark road. 

Though his legs hurt from running, he barely felt it as he bolted back from where he’d come. But instead of going back to the shed, he went past that road and ran toward the last place Logan would have ever wanted Dakota to go: the bridge.

Logan beat himself up for not thinking to check there first. It might be too late.

His legs weren’t moving fast enough. Tears constantly streamed down his face, but he couldn’t feel anything. The pain tore at him constantly. The bridge. He knew that if he found Dakota there…

He couldn’t think of that right now. He just had to get there.

It was late into the night. The forest was darker than it had ever been almost like it was working against Logan. His eyes adjusted as well as they could, but it wasn’t enough to see the obstacles in the way. Somehow he only tripped twice, each time he’d been able to catch himself before he slammed face first into the ground. 

The rain lessened a little. The downpour earlier had soaked his clothes, making him feel weighed down more than he already did. 

His sides were sore by the time he made it to the bridge. The moon had come out at some point. The moonlight was only a smudge in the darkness, a flickering of light that made the bridge more eery. Logan glared at the bridge. The metal structure stood tall and proud, mocking him. 

Relief wasn’t what he felt when he saw no one on the bridge. His stomach was tied up in knots. The answer to his worries would only be found when he looked over the side. 

He held back a sob when he grabbed onto the side of the bridge and looked over. At first, he couldn’t see anything because it was too dark. As his eyes adjusted and searched the water that had started to flow more rapidly since the start of the rain, he could see rocks and fallen branches. No body.

The sight made him fold under the anxiety. He collapsed, sagging against the metal as he folded his arms over his head. He sat with his knees tucked to his chin, gasping as tears and snot came pouring out. He couldn’t contain his sobs—it was more than he did when Dakota had actually jumped. 

Still, the relief didn’t make him feel any better. Because Dakota had killed himself. Just not in this timeline.

Not yet.

Though he knew it was futile, he pulled out his phone again. He called and when that didn’t work he sent a text. 

He didn’t want to think what Dakota might think of his behavior. He was a mess. 

The night waned on. Logan huddled inward, clutching his phone in the hopes Dakota would message him back. 

Through the night, he stayed on the bridge. Just in case.

Early morning was when he trudged his way back to his house. The hot shower he endured left him too much in his thoughts. He roughly toweled off, rubbing his skin to the point it was bright red. More red than when it was being boiled by the hot water. This little punishment didn’t make him feel better. He felt idiotic.

He wiped his hand across the bathroom mirror, clearing it of the condensation. 

A boy stared back at him. A sad, horrible boy who hurt people stared back at him. 

He twirled his finger through a lock of his long hair. He tugged at it. The mullet he’d been sporting since elementary had been the first thing he’d cut off when he left town. 

The hair trimmer was tucked under the sink’s cabinet in a black basket. He grabbed it and put it on the sink’s counter. There were a bunch of attachments, but he ignored them as he pulled out the trimmer itself. He monotonously plugged it into the wall and stared at the moving parts. 

Flashes of the windmill and the shed came to him. Dakota’s laugh mixed in the judgmental gazes of the angels he painted came filtering through. The nightmarish images carried him through the process of lifting the trimmer to his scalp and running it from the front of his hairline to the back. 

Long tendrils of hair fell to the ground. They clung to his shirt. They fought to stay attached to him. More fell, colliding with the others where they fell to their doom on the tiny bathroom floor. 

Logan hadn’t taken it this far last time. He’d given himself a nice haircut that didn’t make him look deranged. But last time wasn’t the same. He hadn’t known what he could have. A part of him wished he could still live in that naive world. 

He needed a harsher break this time.

He needed to not feel like himself.