"I Learned Absolutely Nothing from Icarus — How I Burned Too Bright and Crashed Even Harder"

The door swings shut behind us.
We're tangled up the moment we step inside his room - I barely notice where we're going —too desperate for each other to care about anything else. Only his hands cupping my face, his mouth taking mine again.

Jackets hit the floor in a careless pile as his steps guiding us backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed and we fall onto it together. I straddle him, every inch of him pulling me closer. His hands settle on my waist, steadying me, but I'm the one who can't stop the wildfire burning beneath my skin.

His eyes searching mine one last time, everything about him trembling like he's on the verge of something he can't take back.
But neither of us says a word.
Because we've already said too much.
And not enough.

So instead, we kiss again—deep and slow and desperate—giving in to what we've both wanted for far too long.

His mouth moves under mine like it's the only thing that matters, like it's pulling me toward something I'm scared to fully reach for.

I'm trembling, ready to cross the line we've both been circling for so long, when—

Buzz.

His jacket on the floor buzzes sharply, cutting through the heat like a knife.

I pull back just enough to sit up, needing a breath, needing space. His eyes flash irritation at the sudden distance. He pushes himself up, muttering, "Not important."

Before I can answer, he's back, eager and insistent, crushing his lips to mine as if trying to make up for the interruption. I feel his hands slide up my things, pulling my dress up to my waist, I instantly arch, as he reaches my lower back, pulling me closer with a tight grip.

But then—buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

He groans, reluctantly pulling away with a heavy sigh, his hands falling to the bed beside him like he's wrestling with the frustration of being pulled out of this moment.

He looks up at me—me, perched on him, heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it—and I see it in his eyes: disbelief. Like he can't believe he's actually stepping away.

He grabs the phone off the floor and stares at the screen, brow furrowing instantly.

"It's my sister's friend," he says quietly, voice tight with worry. The tension in his shoulders tells me this isn't just some random call. It seems heavy somehow.

He answers fast.

"Hey?"

I slide to sit at the edge of the bed, it somehow doesn't seem right to be lying down as I hear the tension in the call increase. His posture shifts —rigid, focused.

"What do you mean you lost her?"

His voice stays even, but I can hear it tightening.

"She was with you—at the club? Have you called her? Is her phone off?"

A pause.

"Okay. Yeah. I'll figure it out."

He hangs up and doesn't say anything for a second. Just stares at the phone like it might offer a better answer if he looks hard enough. Then he starts to explain, maybe more to himself than to me,

"She's gone. They were out, drinking, then switched clubs—and somewhere in between, she just disappeared. Her phone's dead. She's been gone for three hours."

I can't tell if he's breathing or just holding everything in place. I just nod,

"She doesn't know them that well," he adds. "It's that university trip thing. I knew I shouldn't have let her go"

He goes quiet for a moment. Then says, flatly:
"I need to call my dad."

There's a snark, like he really doesn't want to, but feel like he's performing something I've never been let in on,

"He should know," he says after a second. "Even if he's... useless."

The last bit he says more to himself, than to me. His thumb hovers over the screen. I don't move.

"He'll say we're overreacting," he mutters. "He always fucking says that. About everything. About her." then almost exhale a whisper, "About my mom."

I don't press. I just sit with it. I feel like I should think ahead, come up with ways to help him, do something, help. I got nothing. Maybe because I'm usually in Lea's shoes, and not his.

As if he was chewing on his words about his mom, he goes looks at the phone and go on,

"I fucking hate if it's her anxiety... Like back then when she was overwhelmed... And he pretended like it wasn't real. Like she was just being dramatic. Just like..."

He finally calls. Stands completely still while it rings. The conversation is clipped and quiet, mostly one-word answers. I can tell exactly when it ends because his shoulders drop, and he lets out something between a breath and a curse.

"Wasted time," he says softly. "I should've just started calling people."

And then he does—scrolling through his messenger, her friends, already dialing.

I don't try to stop him. I just watch as he pulls himself into motion again. Fast, sharp, efficient.

"Anna. Klara. Sofia. The girl with the hat—what's her name again?"

I try to answer, without having the slightest idea of how to, "Can I start calling some of them?"

He barely registers, just nods, but continues to call people without giving me any of the contacts. He's calling everyone, one after another. His voice tightens with each unanswered ring, each voicemail.

"Where was she last? Did anyone see her leave with someone?"

I stand nearby, trying not to crowd him, just keeping the light low and the room calm.

Thirty minutes drag by, slow and relentless. He's on the bed, looking at his phone like he's summoning it to light up. I hesitate seven times, before I take his hand, just hold it in mine.

Then August's phone buzzes, cutting through the quiet like a siren. He snatches it up, voice tight, barely holding it together.

"Lea?"

He just listens—every second stretching like an eternity. His jaw clenches, worry crashing over him like a tidal wave.

"Are you sure? What about your meds?" His voice cracks just a little, desperate. "I—I was really scared... I thought something.. bad had happened."

A brief pause, and then more muffled words from Lea. August's grip tightens until his knuckles turn white.

"I'm coming home—"

"What?" His eyes widen as relief floods his face like warm sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "Okay, okay... I got it, but please—call me the second you feel off, understood?"

He exhales, tension spilling out. "Lea, I'm so glad to hear your voice. You really scared me."

He lowers the phone slowly, still wide-eyed, like he can't quite believe she's really okay.

A laugh escapes him—but it's hollow.

I move to sit close beside him. The weight still sitting on his shoulders is almost visible.

"You okay?" I ask softly, as I take his hand again.

He shrugs, but his eyes betray him.

"She's fine. That's all I care about."

"But you're not," I say gently

He looks to my hand in his and I feel him tighten his grip around it. His voice's quieter now,

"It's not Lea.. It's everything it brings back. My mom... she struggled a lot. Anxiety, depression. Always trying to hold it together but never really managing, she never got the right help. She would disappear from time to time, and.. The silence... the waiting... it's just hard to think that we couldn't help her."

He breathes in deeply.

"I can't lose Lea like that—disappear without warning, without anyone knowing."

His hands clench, jaw tightening. I feel my insides being rearranged, the words sound familiar because I remember them vividly said to me. How they are the actual fears my friends and family know all too well. One, I've spent almost a decade trying to dissolve from their hearts. I take a deep breath, and tell him what I've told them countless times,

"But she's here now, you are there for her, you won't let that happen to her, you're helping her in anyway you can"

I feel the words land short, as he goes on,

"Her anxiety is just as bad as my mom's, I'm terrified she might end up the same way. Lea still thinks Mom died in an accident - I know she didn't" His voice cracks, fragile, as if saying it aloud wounds him all over again..

I feel the guilt stuck in my throat, trying to swallow it. It's quickly replaced by sadness. That he's had to go through that, alone. A kid, being abandoned like that. I don't think, I just want to say something, anything, that can make it less.. Lonely.

"I know what that's like" I offer, feeling my eyes gloss over.

He looks at me, confused, searching for what, or whom, I've lost.

There's a brick weighing on my chest, increasing in size. Telling him this, is bringing my worst demons back - front and center, but maybe.. It can convince him he's what Lea needs. And actually believe it. Maybe.

"I almost had that kind of accident myself. About ten years ago." The words spill out— too eventoned for it be my first time saying it aloud.

His expression shifts—there's a flicker of worry, maybe a hint of anger.

I feel the need to explain, to connect the dots. If anything, just to make sure he doesn't think I'm like his mother.

"I have bipolar disorder—type 2—but that part isn't what matters. I wasn't well then. But I got help. Medicine, therapy—the whole thing. I haven't felt that real darkness coming for almost a decade. My family and friends helped me get here. Seeing how she has you, is why I believe Lea won't disappear into an accident."

I mean every word. I desperately hope it can bring him some sense of relief. Maybe even peace of mind. For once, just maybe, my experience could be something else than a burden.

He just looks at me. Silent. Too long for me to jump to conclusions, like he thinks I'm a freak, like I'm broken of some sorts, unstable, weak somehow.

The room feels heavy with what's left unsaid, but also fragile and real—a raw sliver of hope that maybe, this time, things can be different. For them, but for me too.

He stays quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed somewhere beyond me, lost in thought. Then he exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair, the tension easing just a bit.

"The only thing I ever noticed was the medicine," he says finally, voice low but steady. "I didn't know any of the rest. I feel like I've missed something entirely, but not sure what."

I just give him a soft smile to assure him it's fine. I notice a flicker of vulnerability shining through his eyes, as he says,

"Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with that."

A wave of relief washes over me, heavier than I expected. I should panic, the mere hint of a bipolar symptom within the Imarket gates has had me spiral for weeks. But I don't panic. I think by sharing something, anything that could help him—lifts a weight off my chest. Maybe it's not just a burden anymore. Maybe I just want to try everything in my power to keep that flicker on his face.

I glance down at my hands, then back up. "It's not always easy, I'm not exactly low maintenance, but trust me when I say that having people around who understand... it makes a difference."

He nods, quieter now. "I think I get it. Like you have a pack, Lea's got one too"

I just nod, hoping he sees my gratitude and my love for my pack written all over my face.

"Thank you for trusting me with this, I mean it"

I hate there's a twitch in my chest when he doubles down on the trust-aspect. Even though it is what may or may not have happened, the word itself still evokes a less than ideal physical reaction. How I can't trust anyone with this really. Only those that found out, because I got sick in front of them, I never actually told anybody that weren't professionals.

The silence stretches, soft and just slightly uncomfortable.

"I think she might be stronger than she seems," I say quietly. "Maybe, more than one realizes sometimes."

He looks at me, a flicker of surprise and something softer in his eyes.

I keep talking, voice gentle. "She has anxiety, it's a lot, but she's still here, at Uni. Out with friends, not letting it hold her back. That's thriving, not disappearing."

He sits with it for a beat, but before he says anything, a thought comes to mind, heavy but clear.

"I've let people down before. I've disappeared when I shouldn't have. But the love people show—it's like a safety net – or invisible harness. Either way, it's something I'm endlessly thankful for. And because of that, I know I'll never let them down like that again. I won't disappear on them."

He watches me, something unspoken passing between us. Like he somehow seems more saddened, than the uplift I was going for.

He looks down for a moment before meeting my eyes again.

"An invisible harness, huh?" He smiles, but he's unamused. Then lets out a loud exhale, and continues, "It's just unbearable to not be able to fix it, do something, help – anything other than that. I know I can't push for it, but I just need to be there, close to catch her" There's a quiet resolve in his voice, like a weight's been lifted, a tiny. Not accepting, but maybe understanding.

I smile softly. I feel a sense of relief, that it all somehow makes sense for him. Hearing how much he wants to help - is similar to the words I've heard, felt, discussed so many times.

"That's all it takes—the knowing. Just having someone there makes all the difference."

I squeeze his hand gently. "It's enough. And sometimes, that's everything."

We fall into a soft silence, the kind that stretches comfortably when everything that needs to be said has been said. I feel the tension in my body ease, the tight knot in my chest loosening just a bit.

He shifts closer, the warmth of his presence settling around me like a blanket. Holding my hand tighter.

"Not what I expected when we came in here," he says with a half-smile.
"Neither did I," I admit, letting out a small laugh.
He leans in, softly pressing his lips against mine.
"Stay with me?" he whispers. I see a fragility in his eyes, something I've never seen before.
I just nod, and he lays down on the bed, undressing without really thinking about it.

For a beat I stand there, the room quiet but alive with my own pulse. I reach for the zipper at my side, tugging my dress over my head in one smooth motion. The fabric slips down my arms and puddles on the floor. Left only in my panties, I feel his eyes on me even before I glance back.

His gaze drags over me, slow and reverent, and when our eyes meet his mouth twists with a strained kind of humor.

"You really are trying to kill me," he says, voice low and hoarse.

I bite back a nervous smile, scanning the room for something to cover myself with—then I see it, his hoodie draped carelessly over the chair. I pull it on, the sleeves hanging long past my hands, the soft cotton swallowing me whole and the scent of him—warm and clean and so achingly familiar—wraps around me like a secret I shouldn't keep.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head with that same half‑smile. There's something in his expression—like he's caught between wanting to laugh and wanting to touch me again.

I pad softly to the bed and crawl up beside him. He lifts his arm without a word, a silent invitation, and I tuck myself into the space against his chest, my head finding the warm nook he's made for me. His fingers trail lightly along the edge of the hoodie's cuff, brushing my skin where the fabric slips.

It should be terrifying—lying here, letting myself sink into him when I know the world outside this room will demand answers I don't have. But it doesn't feel terrifying. It feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years. I keep pushing the feeling away, but it's too insistent - this feels like home.

We talk quietly about nothing and everything—the way the city lights blur through the window, the hum of life outside, how sometimes it's okay not to have all the answers. His hand rests on my arm, thumb stroking absent patterns, and I can feel how carefully he's holding himself back.

Eventually, exhaustion pulls at my eyelids, and I notice his feel it too. The silence between us softens into something that feels like it's been here forever.

Before sleep takes us both, he murmurs, almost too softly for me to catch:
"Thanks for letting me in. I think I needed this more than I realized."

I smile into the fabric of his hoodie, my breath warming his chest.
"Me too," I whisper.

And then, finally, the room fades, and all that's left is the steady rhythm of our breathing—shared, fragile, and achingly real.

***

The first thing I notice is the light. Thin sun red morning bleeding through the curtains, too bright against my closed eyelids.

The second thing I notice is him—his arm still slung over my waist, his breath soft and steady against the back of my neck.

And then it hits me.

I'm in his bed.
Last night wasn't a dream.

My whole body goes rigid. My heart starts pounding so loud I swear it'll wake him. I ease out from under his arm inch by inch, breath caught in my chest. He stirs slightly, a soft sound leaving his throat, and I freeze until his breathing evens again.

Clutching my dress and my bag, I slip into the bathroom. My reflection looks like someone else—his hoodie hanging off my frame, hair a mess, lips still swollen from hours of kissing. A rush of heat floods me, followed instantly by ice. What the hell did I do?

I don't even bother changing out of the hoodie. I just pull my dress under it, hold it like a skirt, grab my shoes, bag, and leave. Every step away from his room feels like stepping off a cliff.

By the time the taxi doors close behind me, my chest is tight, my vision a little blurry. I try to focus on the hum of the city, on the rhythm of tires on wet pavement, but all I can feel is the memory of his hand on my cheek, the way he whispered Stay with me like it cost him something.

My fingers tremble as I type out a text, erasing and rewriting until all that's left is something vague and cowardly:

Me: I'm on an early flight, I didn't want to wake you. Thanks for.. everything.

No emojis. No explanation. I hit send before I can second-guess myself, before I can do something stupid like turn the cab around, crawl back into that bed and throw away everything I've been clinging to.

On the plane, I keep my head down, forehead pressed to the cool window. My heart won't stop racing. My hands shake as I strap in. Every second my brain replays flashes—his mouth on mine, his touch against my skin, the way I told him things I've never told anyone.

And then the thought slams into me: This isn't me. This is... something else.
The way I've been acting - beaming - these past days, the impulsive kiss, the intensity, the sleepless nights, the confidence, the fast heartbeat—it's not normal.
It's an episode. It has to be.

The realization makes my stomach drop. My chest tightens until I can't breathe. I count backward from ten. I sip water I don't taste. I close my eyes and try to remember how to ground myself.

I don't even go home when I land. I don't trust myself to.
I call a cab and go straight to Rick's.

Kat waves me over to our table - like she somehow thought I needed help to find our usual spot. Her eyes widen when she sees me, I'm still in his hoodie, my uniform shorts, sneakers - no socks - face pale. "Frederika? What happened?"

By the time Sam and Elly join us, I'm hugging my knees to my chest, words spilling out like I can't hold them in.

"I haven't been sleeping. I've been... vivid. Like my head won't stop. And I can't stop doing things—stupid things—things I'd never do if I was thinking straight. I kissed August—no, I threw myself at him—and I felt so alive I thought my chest would burst. I've been reckless, I've been laughing too hard, I've been... I don't even know who I am right now."

Kat frowns, brushing my hair back gently. "Freddie... that sounds.. are you in an episode. Have you been taking your meds?"

I nod, words tumbling over themselves. "I've been wanting things I shouldn't. I've been saying yes to everything, I've been... I've been over-the-moon happy. And that's terrifying, isn't it? Because it doesn't last, and I know it doesn't last, but I—" My voice cracks. "I don't know how to stop."

Elly squeezes my hand, Sam just watches me quietly, her brow furrowed like he's seeing through me.

I tell them about every symptom, every wild heartbeat, every flicker of the past nights that won't leave me alone.

Elly's thumb strokes over my knuckles. "Freddie... it's not necessarily symptoms you're describing," she says softly. "It sounds like... maybe something—or someone—is triggering this."

Kat glances at Sam, then back to me. "When you talk about August... you light up in a way I haven't seen before. Are you sure it's of limited time - that it's hypermania?"

My stomach twists. The hoodie feels suddenly too warm, too tight, but I hug my arms tighter around myself. "Don't," I warn, shaking my head. "Don't make this about him. This isn't—this is chemical. I think. I know myself. I know what this is."

Sam leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. Her voice is calm, careful, like she's stepping into a room with broken glass. "Freddie, no one's saying you're in love. But what if... some of it is August-specific? Not just... the bipolar talking."

The word love lodges like a stone in my throat. I laugh, too sharp, too quick. "I'm not in love with him. I'm not capable of that, not in the way people mean it. You know me. I've been with people, sure, but I don't—" My voice breaks, heat rising behind my eyes. "I don't do that. I have once, and never again."

Kat starts to say something, but Elly cuts in gently, "Okay. We hear you."

There's no judgment in their eyes now, just that steady wall of care they've built around me a hundred times before. It's been years since last time, and I hate it. That I put this on them. But I need them to fix me.

Elly squeezes my hand again. "Then we treat this like what you're afraid it is. We help you ride it out. Keep you grounded."

Kat tucks my hair behind my ear, her voice low. "No caffeine. Eat properly. Keep to calm stuff. No alcohol. No phone late at night. And if you feel it getting worse—"

"I call you and the emergency room," I finish for her, nodding fast. "Yeah. I know."

Sam's gaze softens. "You're not alone in this. You've got us."

Something unravels in my chest at that, a thread pulled loose from a knot. "Thank you," I whisper. The guilt is throbbing in my throat, putting them through this, needing them for this, but I don't trust myself to get through this on my own.

I stay another hour. Rick dumps more carbs in front of me than ever before. A massive stir-fry with rice, chicken, a ton of vegetables - some I don't think I know the name of.

I eat, and let them steady me with normalcy - Kat's plans for the weekend, Sam complaining about her neighbors, Elly's new recipe experiment—until my pulse evens out and the spinning slows.

When I finally get home, the quiet is both a relief and a terror. I peel off the hoodie but hesitate before folding it neatly and placing it in the back of my closet. I don't want the memory of it to haunt me, but I know I can't throw it out.

Then I make myself get rid of all the anxious energy. I move. Unpack. Shower. Drink water. Pull out my journal, jot down the day, the hours, every symptom, every step I'm taking to stay present.

I switch my phone to Do Not Disturb and let it lie just out of reach.

When night falls, I sit in the window nook, just breathing in nicotine and the soft hum of the darkness outside. I tell myself over and over: This is just an episode. This will pass. I am safe. My phone suddenly feels magnetic. His unread messages wait like open wounds.

August: You left so quietly. Are you okay?
August: I woke up and...
August: Frederika?

My stomach turns. He deserves an explanation. But what would I even say—that the girl who kissed him and curled into him all night wasn't me? That I lied with every word and touch because I was burning too bright to think straight?

I type, erase, type again. Finally:

Me: August... I'm sorry. I'm not myself right now, I'm really sorry to have dragged you into my mess. I need some time and I think it's best if we keep some distance.

My chest aches as I watch the three dots appear and vanish.
God, he's probably sitting there, replaying it too—my voice whispering how I told him about my smile, how I couldn't stand him becoming a stranger. Lies. All of it.

I don't even remember deciding to say those things. That wasn't me. It couldn't have been.

August: What are you talking about?

I cover my face with one hand, shaking my head, trying to steady my breathing.
He doesn't understand. None of it was real. None of it counts.

Me: Amsterdam... it was a bubble. We just got caught up in it. I shouldn't have let it go that far. I'm not that person. I think we'll both realize that after some time apart.

I wince as the words leave me. I wanted it to go that far. I took everything he offered and gave him something that wasn't even real. A counterfeit version of me wanted this, the one beaming and reckless and warm in his arms.

My phone lights up with his name, the green and red buttons just below. Without hesitation I press decline.

August: Frederika, you kissed me. You stayed. You telling me that wasn't you - that it meant nothing to you?

Tears sting my eyes. I want to scream that it wasn't nothing, but it wasn't me. It was this thing that takes over and make me someone I don't recognize. Someone who's brave enough to ask for him, who presses her body against his like she belongs there.

Me: I'm trying to do the right thing. I don't want to disappear on you. I'm sorry, but I'm just not that person.

I pause, fingers trembling over the keyboard. If I disappear, maybe he'll forget. Maybe he won't remember how I looked at him like he was the only thing I'd ever wanted.

August: I'm only asking you not to disappear, that's the right thing to do.

His words hit, sharp and sure.
But he doesn't get it. He doesn't know. That none of it was real. The hopeful romantic. That person will eventually disappear.

Me: Amsterdam was not real. You don't see it right now, but you will. I can't be that person.

There's a hollow space in my chest where that weekend lives, a blur of sunflowers and laughter and his hand steadying me when I thought I might drown. I tell myself it was all a trick of my brain—hypermania, not his presence. Not me.

August: I don't understand, I was there. I'm not asking you to be something you're not. Just be you. Don't just run away from me, again.

A sob catches in my throat.
I want to tell him the truth—that I don't even know who "me" is right now. That the girl who stayed in his bed is a stranger even to me.

Me: I don't want to hurt you anymore than I already have.

Me: Just trust me when I say it's for the best.

My thumb hovers. My heart hammers. I taste salt on my lips.
He deserves someone who doesn't lie just by breathing. Someone who doesn't wake up and feel like every word she said was a stolen thing.

August: You'll only hurt me if you disappear. Let me be your friend if that's all you can give. Let me show up. Don't turn this into silence.

God, why does he have to be kind? It would be so much easier if he were angry. If he hated me already.

Me: You don't understand. For both our sakes... it would be better if we just became strangers.

I hit send and drop the phone on the bed like it burned me.

The pull to call him, to take it all back crashes over me. I bulletproof myself, block his number. Put out the temptation, make sure i ride this thing out before hurting him anymore than I've already done.

And then I sit in the dark, trying not to feel the ghost of his arm around my waist, trying not to remember how safe I felt in the middle of a mistake I can't undo.