Cut.

CUT.

She was in love. 16, and in love, but she never told him. And so was he, but he never told her. But they both had secrets. Bad, awful, terrible secrets that ripped them up piece by piece. The kind of secrets that make you pull out your hair and scream and thrash, killing yourself slowly to stop the pain.

So she did. She would slit her wrist night after night, hoping to escape the chains of her secret, as well as being detached from his. Onet night, one particular night, her tears fell like the blood on her wrist. The blade sat heavy in the confused girl's hand. She craved more. One small, simple slit in the wrong direction, and her pain would end. She could escape the pain, the secrets, and just be free.

She awoke in a room, a steady beep chiming to her left, tubes running in and out her arm, a sleeve covering up the scars she created, as well as the fresh wounds by her neck. The boy she loved to her right, his beautiful face tear stained and uncomfortable in the chair. He jolted awake and rushed to her side, planting small kisses on her hand and cuts, all the way to her sweet lips. They talked and talked, though there secrets never came up. Never.

Days later, temptation called out at her. She walked toward the dresser that held her beloved enemy. Jagged lines sliced easily through her pale skin as the bags under her eyes squinted in pain. She picked up the note she wrote and some of her red blood dripped down on the wrinkled sheet of parchment. She took a last look in the mirror and ducked away from the writhing girl that once was alive. She dropped the paper and picked up the phone, dialing the boy.

The boy rushed to the girl, sprinting as soon as he got out of the car. He rushed up the stairs to find her body lying cold and lifeless on the floor, fresh wounds on her wrist. A blade in one hand, his picture in the other, and a gash on her throat. But the thing that really stood out to the now crying boy was the blood drenched paper, with three little words. "I loved you." Her secret.

He held her cold body and rocked, salty tears escaping and smearing the dead girl's blood. He laid her on the bed, and put his letter next to hers. Then took the blade, and died right next to the girl he loved. He escaped the pain and fell into freedom. They were free together.

When they were found, his picture was in her hand, her picture was in his, and two notes lie atop each other, both with the script "I loved you."