If These Walls Could Talk [Frerard]

14: And The Hardest Part Of This Was Leaving You.

The next day was hard. It wasn't hard because of the fact that I had to move across the country. It wasn't hard because I was leaving family. That day wasn't hard because of the fact of leaving New Jersey and Ray and Bob was hard for me. No, it was hard because I had to leave Frank, the only thing I wasn't ready for. Even though we'd only known each other for a few months at the most, I'd grown closer to him than I had to many other people that had come and gone in my life. It was even close to the relationship I had with Mikey, the strong sibling relationship. Even though I had been used to people coming and going through my life and heart as they pleased, that time was different. I wasn't ready for Frank to leave. I wasn't prepared. Yet, it seemed to me that the universe was yanking him from my side, as if it was taking away my boat on a sea of darkness and depression.

Mikey had been pulling me to get my bags and my phone and make sure everything had been in the right place. His voice was still low and kind, as if I was a piece of stained glass that could shatter at the sound of yelling and shouting. Still, his tone held urgency and small amounts of aggression as he urged me forward. I sluggishly continued on the daily plans before we had to leave, only stopping when I saw my phone. It was turned on, the screen bright but only holding a name, number, and contact.

Frank Iero is calling.

I took a hesitant step towards the glowing screen in front of me, wrapping my hands around the metal and bringing it to my ear. There was no voice on the other end of the phone, and the ringing soon stopped. Instead of trying to call Frank back, I slid the drawer of the table by the T.V open and grabbed a piece of notebook paper. I searched for a pen or pencil of any time, settling on a sharpie I'd found in the crevices of the corners. Popping the cap off and scribbling on my hand once to see if it worked, I tested the improvised pen on my own flesh. When I figured out that it worked well enough, I put the tip to the paper, beginning to scribble down my thoughts. I wanted Frank to read the note after I'd given him the unfinished painting of his angelic face, after I'd left the state.

I wrote:

Hey, Frankie.

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. You just called, and I didn't pick up fast enough. Now, I'm writing this stupid letter in an attempt to resolve hard feelings without facing you in person. I'm a coward, and I'm so sorry for that. I can't help it, but if I could, I would. I hate seeing you so sad, so I need to fix this stupid habit of mine. I need to change, but I don't know how. All I know is that I need to talk to you, but I'm going to do it like this. I'm wanting to explain.

So, we met. And I will never, ever regret that. You've changed my entire life, my personality, my mind. But, it's not in a bad way. It's in the greatest way possible. I think, as soon as I saw your beautiful hazel eyes looking right back into mine, when I first heard your contagious laugh, when I first saw your eagerness and excitement, I knew. I knew that I would never want to leave you. I still don't. There isn't any possible situation where I would want to.

I know you're hurting, and I know you're hurting pretty bad. And I know that it's all my fault. It's all because of my actions that I didn't think through, my even more useless and painful words that flowed from my mouth, but just the same with the ones that I never said. The ones I'll never be able to say at all. But, the thing that hurt me the most that struck me the hardest was when you looked at me, and I saw it. I saw that you didn't have any of the hope you once had stored in those beautiful orbs of yours. I didn't see hope, only small slivers of it. And I know what I did. I ruined you.

Frank, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry I keep messing things up, I just really want these things to work out. I don't know if you remember that day you asked me what I was drawing, but I do. And now, just in time, it's perfect. It's not perfect, it's still overflowing with imperfections, but isn't that what makes it even more of a masterpiece? Being unfinished and flawed is what makes us, well, us. We live for these imperfections, and we always have flaws. So, it's even more realistic. But, you wanna know what I find even more beautiful about it? It's about you, Frank. It shows you in your purest form, the one I used to see all the time.