All He Wrote // Phan AU

Chapter 0.2

A/N - Okay I just thought I would publish one more chapter because why not right? And who wants to read a story with just one chapter. I hope you enjoy. 

Btw most of the chapters will be this length or longer that was kind of a prologue thing.

Have an amazing day, stay strong, and remember someone loves you.

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Pastel Pink – The feeling of being overwhelmed, questioning, or confusion. Synonyms: Confusing, Misunderstood, incomprehensible, Curious.

Phil's P.O.V

I stare ahead, unable to comprehend any of the information that the teacher is desperately trying to fuse into my brain, but I keep trying. History isn't one of my strong points, well, nothing is really. Except drawing.

My eyes daze in and out of focus on the elderly lady before me. I blink a few times to steady my swirling brain and I look back at the whiteboard. I copy all of the incomprehensible information into my book, hoping I can manage to decode it on my own later.

The bell rings through the classroom loud and clear and I take that as my cue to pack up. Everybody had packed their bags early and were already stalking their way out of the classroom, eager to get home. I gently place my sketchbook in my bag along with my notes and walk down the narrow aisle between the horrendously old desks. A small piece of paper on the corner of a table catches my eye and I pick it up, about to hand it to the teacher before I realise it isn't the handwriting I recognize from the board. It's messy and all over the place and I can barely understand what it says, but along with everything else in life, I will try. I gently fold the white piece of paper and twiddle it between my fingers on the walk home.

Time speeds by too quickly for my liking and I find myself turning the familiar corner onto my street. I awkwardly stumble my way over the fence to the backyard and go in through the back door because mum still hasn't bothered to get an extra key cut.

I navigate my way through a series of halls and rooms to my own and throw my bag haphazardly across the room. I throw myself, face first, onto my bed and just sit there and groan to nobody. I eventually roll over and find the little piece of white paper that had flown out of my hand onto one of my pillows. I unfold it, almost ripping the delicate paper and try to decipher the information. It could just be notes for all I know but even if it was, it would help my current situation. It quickly becomes apparent to me that these are not in fact notes. I brig the paper closer to my face, squinting at it in confusion until all of the words finally make sense.

My favourite game is one of masquerade

When the days turn to nights the in-between is grey and the colour of blue eyes when they start to fade

I pride myself in distinguishing the line between masks and faces on the death parade

But to say you are dying inside, is a phrase man-made

Because all is natural to lie and say you're okay

A clever disguise and a game you can play is what you need to hide from the light of day

But what we need is not what we desire

When will the rain catch fire?

When will your tired eyes tire for sleep?

Because when I look into your eyes I see those of a liar

This game is not what you need

I don't even know what this is, but it's beautiful. Heartbreaking, mesmerising, and terrifying all tied together in a perfect little bow. This is something I can understand, other than my own words and pictures, and that is what terrifies me the most. This is not a feeling I am accustomed to. I never understand anything but this seeps straight into my body, leaving emotions without names and thoughts without words. I don't need to understand what the words are saying, all I need is the feeling and the picture it paints in the world around me.

I neatly fold the paper again and place it under my pillow, moisture welling in my eyes and a deep pain in my chest. The aching is uncomfortable, but a comfortable kind of uncomfortable. Like when you go to hug someone at an awkward angle. The dull ache leaves me unsettled. I have no idea what's going on and I know even less about whether I enjoy this pain or not.

This mysterious note gives me a strange feeling but before it starts making me contemplate my life I stand up and make my way over to my school bag. It landed itself half in my wardrobe, messing up my perfectly organised shoe collection. I rearrange everything before tossing my bag over to my desk and getting to work on decoding the notes from history.

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Dan's P.O.V

Just because you have picked up this book does not mean it belongs to you.

'Off the page'

The first words of the beloved book. Ringing through my head. Loud. So loud they could be coming from an outside source

False.

I have left my own story behind for you and therefore my heart. And if it is in your hands, there my heart lay with it. It belongs to you.

First pages in a first page book. Not such a creative name but creativity seeps from its binding and onto the hands of the beholder. A construct for the purpose of remembering and being remembered.

Confusion and curiosity. Light pink.

Did he pick up the note? Did he even see the note? Will he know it was me? Will he care? Or will my heart and story be thrown away like nothing. Figuratively and literally.

Maybe there is a dash of deep purple hidden in there somewhere. Anxiety.

Soft sheets. A wavy mess of black, white and grey. Appropriate representation. What is the point in writing at all if he is too ignorant to notice?

Oh no. No no no.

Why would you think that?

I cannot write therefore a mind numbing sensation.

I cannot read therefore a loss of reality.

I cannot read a book more than once but there is only one I haven't the mind to read. Reminiscent of old books and memories and stories I have not created with my own two hands.

A book in which I have not written is of comfort to me the same way a meal that you have not prepared is of comfort to you. Midnight blue. It personifies suspense and heart palpitations in a way that in any other situation would be an unhealthy mistake. You cannot simply read only one page of a good book. Therefore in an attempt to create something with the purpose of personified emotions I have procured the book of first pages.

The first page from every book I have read. Designed to have you trapped in a dark hallway with suspense, longing and a desperate need for conclusion. Dull yellow and silver. Not a great combination of colours.

I have long given up on the hope that I could personify these emotions throughout myself.

Disappear into a thousand realities.

But I still remain white.