Tronnor One-Shots

Dear My Dear

Dear Connor,

Do you remember six months ago? That's a stupid question; of course you do. No one will let you forget. You're bitter about it, it frustrates you that, after years of not making a big deal of yourself in front of others, you are stuck in this negative limelight. So I apologize for writing this letter, but at the same time I don't.

I don't, because while everybody else keeps asking you questions, have we really talked about this? I know we've exchanged affectionate sentiments, I've repeated that I love you; but I just have to express that, while speaking through our eyes and booking therapy sessions with little discussion sounds understanding and romantic, we can't keep choking on the truth. It isn't realistic.

And since neither of us seem to be able to stomach speaking it aloud, I have to write it. The truth? You wanted to jump off a bridge.

Correction: you almost did jump off a bridge. In San Francisco specifically, where the red color would be the last hue you would ever process, before you closed your eyes for the very last time. Before you closed your eyes, blindly climbed, stood, hopefully fell. You never told me that exactly, but knowing you and your aesthetics, I'd expect you to take them to your grave.

Other things you would've taken with you include: your voice, your presence, your love. You'd take your happiness too, and I think you knew that, because you threw it away long ago in preparation for that moment.

You were so sad, for so long. No, not sad exactly, but empty-like. Spacey, unenthusiastic. Depressed. At first I could make you feel better, but then you didn't even want me to touch you. You just seemed so, I don't

Dear Troye,

You looked really upset just now. You came out of our room, nearly in tears, and told me you needed to go for a drive. So I came in to investigate, and found this letter. I understand that you had to take a break from writing, and I'm sorry for using the rest of the page, among other things.

But I have a feeling I know what you were going to say. That I scared you to death? That the thought of losing me makes you want to throw up? That it makes you want to scream and cry and maybe want to kill yourself too?

Because, in the past couple weeks, I've been trying to switch our positions in my head, and that's exactly how I would feel if you died. And, from the way you've been watching me lately, I think you understand how guilty I feel.

And it's true, I hate talking about what happened. I hate thinking about it, I hate all the worried questions from my parents and siblings and friends. I don't want to face the people who have such emotional reactions to it.

But you; you reacted in a way that made me feel so comfortable. You didn't ask me why, or what I was thinking. You didn't ask me anything, only told me you love me, and only brought it up long enough to push me gently to therapy every week. So I could talk to somebody who wouldn't react in a way that makes me want to run away from them.

It was perfect for me, just feigning normalcy with you, but I've been starting to notice you getting all shifty eyed around me. I know you think I'm fragile, that, if you say one word, I'll shatter into a million pieces. But, hey, baby I'm getting better day by day, and I agree: we keep acting like things are normal, but they never will be if we don't talk about this.

So this is what happened, from my perspective. I've only described it once, in therapy, but I want to tell you now.

There are parts that you can guess: you were at the studio, it was late, I was too upset to eat the pizza you ordered for me. You left me in a bad state, and I could tell you didn't want to go, but your boss would have killed you if you missed another session. But, point one: it wasn't your fault.

After you'd been gone for, I don't know, a half hour, I got in my car. I drove for hours, until I was in San Francisco. I parked at the mouth of the Golden Gate bridge, and walked about halfway down. Initially, I only really intended on going for a walk but, point two: I really wasn't thinking straight.

I looked over the side for a while, hoping the view and fresh air would calm me down, but it just made me worse. My body kind of went numb, and I was suddenly climbing onto the edge. I remember putting my arms out and thinking "If the wind pushes me over, it was meant to be. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just hop down." So I waited for the wind to essentially murder me, maybe in the mindset of having something to blame other than myself. Even after a long while, I couldn't hop down.

A woman got out of her car and started talking to me, but I didn't really listen to her. She kept going on with this cliché, life-is-wonderful speech, and eventually she called the cops. I still stood there with my arms out, quiet, crying. Point three: I had no clue what the fuck I was doing, and I was scaring myself a little.

Then, all of a sudden, I thought about you. Strangers were trying to save me, but I didn't care about their desperate pep talks. I was coming to, and the first thing that flooded into my more conscious mind was your voice singing. "Come over now, and talk me down."

And I remember opening my eyes and frantically grabbing the side of the bridge, terrified out of my mind of falling. The police helped me to the ground and, soon after, I saw your car speeding down the road, needing to get to me.

You know the rest of the story, but my fourth and final point: I realized something. If I died, I'd never be able to hear your voice again. I would never hear you sing, or make jokes, or say that you love me. I would never marry you, or have kids with you, or grow old with you. I'd miss out on so much, just because I didn't have the energy to find my happiness. Or ask for help, which I now have, and am slowly feeling better because of.

And I never told anybody else that, because it made a conversation much shorter to just say that I'm fine. But you're why I'm alive, and you're why I'm going to stay alive for a long time.

I'm not going to be fine for a while. I'm going to be distant, and depressed; I can't change that quickly, but I'm trying. For the future, our future, I'll keep trying. I'll love myself as much as I love you.

To me, you are the universe and all it's concepts. Everything.

Love,
Connor.

Dear Connor,

Come into the kitchen once you've read this. I need to hold you and tell you I love you so much.

Love,
Troye.