None of it felt real.

For the past few days since he'd gotten back, Evan had struggled to differentiate what was reality and what was a dream. Some things were the same. So many things were different. Zack's house had changed.

Ever since Cambria had moved in.

Evan had listened when she told him the status of their relationship and he had pretended like the idea didn't shake him. It wasn't that he blamed her; he didn't have any claim to Zack. He and Cambria had been dating since before Evan...

He'd settled for the word 'disappeared', but it wasn't quite true.

He'd been here the whole time, he just hadn't been himself the whole time.

He hadn't left the house in three days--and didn't have any intention of doing so in the near future.

In some way, he was touched that Zack had kept all of his things. He had a whole drawer to himself, and everything was clean and perfect and just how he imagined it had been left. His clothes still fit, but that wasn't surprising. The only thing that seemed to change about him in all of this time was the length of his hair. He'd cut it the day after he'd come back. He hadn't explained it out loud, but the truth was because he couldn't stand the hair in his eyes.

It made him think too much of fur.

Probably, it had been unwise to cut his own hair. Thankfully, Cambria was able to clean it up. He wasn't good with words at the time but she was smart enough to understand when he'd shoved a pair of scissors into her hands and lead her into the bathroom to fix the uneven layers in back.

She was so good about all of this.

He hadn't taken it well, but in some ways, he hadn't taken it at all.

It wasn't like he had the words to describe the sensations, the memories.

He remembered Cavansite, but he wasn't thinking about her when he could manage it. His heart always felt like it was going to explode in his chest when he thought about her. His blood ran cold and his skin was cool and clammy and he felt like he was going to slip into unconsciousness if he focused on her too hard.

He tried to pretend like she didn't exist in his memory. He remembered the man who had shoved his hand in his chest after...her.

He remembered pain, and fogginess.

Briefly, he remembered a time he'd spent in the hospital, when he was younger. When the IVs were hooked up and the drugs coursing through his body.

It felt like that, but he didn't like to think about that either so he pushed that thought to the back of his mind, too.

The television was turned on in front of him; he didn't know what he was watching. He hadn't been watching it, but he liked the noise. He kept the television on constantly. It filled the empty space where Zack's voice should have been.

Evan was happy with Cambria--ecstatic, to have a friend around. She'd never hurt him, never threatened or scared him. As a plus, she knew what had happened, so he didn't have to awkwardly struggle to explain it.

But Zack wasn't here.

In fact, Zack wasn't anywhere.

His cell phone had died on the second day and he hadn't shown up for work. They'd been calling from Cambria's phone--and Evan knew that Zack wouldn't have ignored her if things were okay.

While he didn't know much about what Zack had been up to, he knew what sort of friends Zack kept before. He knew what trouble he could have gotten into.

Cambria told him that Zack hadn't taken his absence well, and in many ways it pleased him. Zack wasn't good at showing that he cared. Evan felt an ache in the pit of his stomach when he thought of Zack, concerned for him.

But now, he wasn't even here.

So Evan went from worrying about how to explain his absence to Zack to worrying that he wasn't going to get the chance.

People disappeared in Destiny City.

He had just gotten back; he couldn't lose Zack already.

Also, though, he couldn't leave the house.

Cambria could, though. And Evan could stay with the television. He could lock the door, lock all the doors. He could make himself at home on the couch, wrapped in a nest of blankets and pillows. He'd taken one of Zack sweaters and he didn't care.

He needed it.

Evan wasn't much of a fighter, but he'd have fought for that stupid sweater. He'd held onto it like a lifeline. It was close to Zack; it smelled like his cologne and while it was a poor substitute for him, it was something.

Evan wasn't picky right now.

He had an ice pack on the table next to him--and a cooler full of them on the floor. Cambria seemed to understand the importance of Evan staying put for a while; she'd been kind enough to fill the cooler with cans of Dr. Pepper so he didn't have to get up and go to the kitchen.

A wise idea, considering what ice packs weren't being used to keep the soda cool were going on the bruises he'd given himself.

As if being a youma wasn't bad enough on its own, Evan was struggling to adjust to his body again. He'd run into nearly every wall, every door, every piece of furniture, and tripped over himself at least once every few hours. His body was a canvas of blacks and blues and yellows already, and while he hadn't taken any severe damage, they were still playing it safe.

He had aspirin on the table next to him, and more snacks than he could stomach. He had a room temperature bowl of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that he kept picking at. Usually, he was picky about his food--but now? He was eating anything--everything. He felt like he was tasting flavors for the first time; he'd picked at nearly everything in the kitchen the first time he'd been left alone.

He'd made himself sick eating so much--but he still went back for more.

Being human was strange, but he appreciated it now more than ever.

Hated the world, sure, but being a human in it was great.

Evan's coping mechanisms meant he spent most of his time daydreaming and sorting through his thoughts very slowly. Evan was an expert in denial and avoidance; he had perfected coping mechanisms a long time ago--only, he'd perfected the wrong ones and didn't seem keen on changing his habits in the near future.

Sometimes, he wound up pinching his skin, as if he were afraid it wasn't actually his. He needed to keep checking that it was attached to him, that he could feel it. Where he didn't have bruises to poke, he would scratch or pinch, just to reassure himself that this wasn't the dream.

Sometimes, he just cried. That probably wasn't uncommon; he cried all the time. More than any person should. He'd been made fun of it enough that he should have been ashamed, but now he just didn't care. He'd had things bottled up for so long that when they leaked out he was just happy to be rid of them.

Or, at least, he hoped if he didn't keep them bottled up, maybe he'd eventually be rid of them.

Crying was a temporary relief, usually quickly replaced with paranoia. Every strange noise was a new threat--some monster trying to break in, some Negaverse trying to steal his starseed. He was constantly on edge--which was bad when he was awake, but was great because it was so exhausting that he was napping through half the day and the night.

Right now he was trying to sift through memories that he could handle and suppress the ones that he couldn't. It was a challenge--but when was anything not? This was at least progress.

He might have looked human again, but he didn't feel like it. Yet.