Stop Calling me That (mcyt + ftm reader) -Book 1/2-

-34.5- (Bonus Chapter)

((Dark one for sure, completely canonical flashback to Wil a couple of years before the book starts. Felt like writing something venty and decided to incorporate that with some other stuff into a oneshot of sorts. You know, figured I'd give y'all a lil somethin))

((Warnings: ed, as well as physical effects of ed. Smoking, referenced abuse, unhealthy relationships, suicide(?), death thoughts, insensitive comments/jokes, past tense body comments, implied hospitalization, depression, general angst/sad times))

((Please don't trigger yourself. If you can read this, enjoy the chapter, dear degenerate))

Wilbur put out his cigarette against the desk, tossing it into the bin by his table. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the wood, staring down at the page and wondering where to start. It's cold. Stupid hands, half numb. He pushed it out of his mind, this was more important right now. He willed himself to just focus, focus, focus.

An open letter, of sorts, to every friend I've made these past few years.

Good a start as any, he figured. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he couldn't bring himself to before... But this was different. By the time they read this, their reactions wouldn't affect him. He wouldn't see that part, after all.

It wasn't intentional, per se, this slow-burn suicide he'd seemed to have resigned himself to, but it wasn't something he was particularly fighting, either. He didn't want to die, but he wasn't truly living, either. He bit the inside of his cheek as he considered what to put down next; how he could get everything down into words.

I'm not sorry to have met any of you, not truly. You've been amazing, and I wouldn't trade you for the world. I am, however, terribly sorry to have met you when I did. I wish I'd met you as someone else, someone stronger, rather than as someone already losing myself. Maybe then, things could've been different.

He exhaled softly, some excuse for a laugh, before sighing. He felt stupid just writing this, and it was already coming across in a way he found reminiscent to all those stupid tumblr quotes likely written by kids under the age of 14 that he used to scroll past. He erased the last line, trying to see if he could come up with anything better.

You deserve better than this person who I've become. I'm sorry that I've pushed you away, I'm sorry that I haven't checked in, I'm sorry for lying to all of you, and more than anything I'm sorry for letting you all down like this. I know you wanted better for me.

It's no one's fault but my own. I chose this, I've lived this, and even when I'd nearly broken free I fell right back into this

He paused, trying to think of a fitting metaphor. A fitting word. Anything. He groaned, dropping his head to the desk in frustration. He couldn't even do this anymore, couldn't even write, couldn't access those parts of his brain. The one thing he'd always, always loved, stolen from him by this... this...

...this disease, the moment I was given the chance. I know I'm terrible for this, despicable, and I'm sorry for doing this to you, but I can't stop. I think I might hate myself more than I love you.

He stared at the words blankly for a moment, as if he hadn't even processed them himself yet. I hate myself more than I love you.

He repeated it again, in his head, and felt a pressure building up in his chest. He reread over everything he'd written, once, twice, a total of nine times, and then, for the first time in months, he cried.