He comes home with legs aching and mind numb.

The thought of sinking into his mattress, of molting and decomposing until nothing left of him remains, sparks a sputtering fire that powers Angelo through the last steps of the journey home.

Further down the hallway, Ardour and his gang hover near the apartment door. Angelo never understood why they were always around. It’s not like anyone ever invited them in.

He mumbles somewhat of a greeting, see he did have manners, before shoving his way inside. 

It’s quiet.

The silence feels like a balm, a cool hand to a burning forehead.

It’s also incredibly alarming.

The absence of Doorman Tim, or anyone else in near vicinity unsettles him in a way he hasn’t felt in a while.

Careful to avoid wailing floorboards, he skitters to his room. The door is ajar, a line of light spilling into the hallway. He creeps forward until he can catch the hushed voices seeping through.

From the sounds of it, and from what Angelo can see through the crevice, an impromptu meeting with everyone is being held. In his room.

Did his invite get lost in the mail?

Everyone’s huddling around Tessa. Tessa, who’s strangely enough whispering, he didn’t think she even knew how. In her hands lays a notebook.

The notebook, with its creased dark blue cover and a rip in the corner where spiral meets paper, the edges of a name written in permanent marker, ANGELO in all caps, poking through the spaces of her fingers. 

She turns a page.

It comes to him belatedly, a sudden drop of his stomach and breath caught in his throat, almost stupidly late, the realization that Tessa is reading it, she’s reading it out loud, exposing every word he’s ever written - every dark thought, every twisted secret, every bitter truth-

“- and sometimes I wish that he-,” here she pauses and he wonders if it’s just his luck that out of every single page in that stupid fucking therapy-issued journal, she manages to land on that one. 

Angelo’s throat burns.

The smart, logical thing to do would be to storm in and rip the notebook out of her grimy hands while cussing everyone out.

In books and movies, the protagonist would give a passionate monologue about trust, privacy and respect; all The Important Things In Life. Background orchestra would reach a heart-gripping crescendo, melancholic violin and piano building in volume.

Feet glued to the floor, he does nothing. 

The embarrassment, the humiliation, shackles him immobile.

And so she continues, taking on a tone he recognizes as her theatrical story-telling voice, polished for whenever she finds herself the centre of attention. “Sometimes I wish he’d managed to kill me that day. I wish he’d slammed my head hard enough into the table that he split my brain open. Or that maybe when he shoved my head underwater, he held it under long enough. But then I think of Cora and I feel guilty-”

Her lips continue to move, shaping the words razor-sharp but the sound of her voice dissolves into static. To hear his words from her mouth, he’s never felt more juvenile and pathetic in his life.

Angelo watches himself watching them, their eyes boring to the notebook like it’s the juiciest piece of meat their stray-dog eyes have ever seen.

His view drifts away from their huddle to the rest of his room; to his open drawer, the flood of clothes spilling out around it, the tilt of his mattress lying crooked on the bed, the violated insides of his closet ripped out and scattered. 

He watches as she turns another page, licking her lips as she opens her mouth once again but then she glances up, noticing him. There’s a sound of a gasp and he catches a glimpse of something on her face, but he can’t quite put a name on the flicker of emotion and then-

“The fuck’s going on in here?” a voice booms from behind Angelo and he’s shouldered to the side as Ardour squeezes his way into the room.

With Ardour, of course, comes his friends - how did they even get in- and the thought of what they might’ve heard grips him with fear. 

Did they too hear the worst parts of himself come to life?

He doesn’t know.

His notebook is still in her grasp. 

Finally, this sparks something in him, gives him the strength to unglue his feet and he hurries into his_ _room. He can’t look at anyone’s face, don’t look at me, don’t look at me, as he yanks his_ _notebook from her_ _hands.

For a split second, he thinks she might fight him for it but her grasp is pathetically limp. 

Here is his chance to say something, to make his movie statement. React, like a normal human being, you’re a real boy Pinocchio. 

Angelo doesn’t do anything, nor can he say anything. He takes the stupid notebook, and he leaves.