If You Read This...

And Took My Heart With Him

I spun my pen around in my hand and stared limply at the next blank page in my notebook. I've never really experienced writers block. The closest I've come was when I wanted to write Rory a love letter. But even then, I knew exactly what I wanted to say, I just didn't know how to say it.

Right now, I didn't know what to write. I didn't even know what to think. I was supposed to be upset, right? That's what you feel when your best friend who you're secretly in love with kills themselves, isn't it? But I didn't feel upset. Or mad. Or annoyed. I didn't feel anything like that. I felt lifeless. I felt dead.

I wondered if that's what Rory had felt. Maybe he thought, if he was already lifeless, why not be dead too? I kept contemplating and questioning why he did it, but it still didn't seem real to me. I was literally asking myself why he killed himself while expecting a call at the same time.

I kept glancing at my phone that was sitting at the edge of my desk, just waiting for him to text me and say he needed a place to stay for the night. I would've said okay. And I would've opened my door and given him a bed for the night. Or for that week. Or month. Or year. Or life! Maybe I couldn't have given him a place for life because I didn't have the money to buy one of my own once I'm old enough to leave this hell hole. But I would've made him dinner for life in a place that we bought. Macaroni and cheese, because that was his favorite. Even though I hate it, I would've eaten it every day for the rest of my life so that he could have it. So that he could smile. I would've given him a smile for the rest of his life, and when I couldn't do that because life had just broken him down too much for him to smile, I would've given him a shoulder to cry on for the rest of his life! I would've bought him a dog, or two, or three, or a whole pack! I would've taken away his sweatshirt and leave him with pale scars, instead of red bleeding lines. Because his scars would've never gone away, but I would've given him a life where he never had to touch a blade to his wrist again. I would've given him my love, for the rest of his life, and devoted my life to making sure he's okay, because that's how god damn much I love him!

Loved him. Is it too late to say I love you? Am I stuck with loved you? Can I love someone that doesn't exist? Can I crave a body that's turned to dust? There's so many things I need to say, but I never got the chance. Maybe if I only had the courage to tell him in the store this morning. Maybe if I would've just grown up and said, "I love you," then maybe I wouldn't have to have loved him. Maybe I could love him.

I felt like a bottle of soda that was left in the freezer. All it took was for someone to twist the cap, and I'd explode. I've never let all my emotions pile up inside. I always write. Usually in the form of letters and poems to my mother. I knew she'd never see them, but I also know she's out there somewhere, and I felt like my mother should know what was happening in my life.

I'd been doing this for years, ever since I could write, I was writing letters to the mommy I wanted, but never had. But I didn't want to write to her this time. I almost wanted to spare her of the emptiness that I'm feeling. Pathetic, right? She doesn't even know who Rory is. Was.

My thoughts where interrupted when I heard my phone buzz. Unrealistically hoping it was a text for Rory, I dove for my phone.

It wasn't him.

Nia had texted a group chat with my, Ivy, and Rory that we made about two years ago when we all became friends. I only glanced at the message, I didn't even read it. I didn't need to. It said something about a letter and being okay, and I knew exactly who she was talking about; my best friend. The one who's contact was still in that chat but would never read another one of those texts again. That was it. That's what twisted the cap. I exploded.

I flew down the stairs and into my kitchen, then grabbed something that drove me down the wrong road. Down Rory's road. I wasn't thinking about losing the way back to the right road, like I should've been. I wasn't thinking about how easy it is to crash down this road because it's too dark. I was only thinking about somehow finding Rory's car again. So, with the knife in my hand, I sped back to my room and turned my wrists red. Just like Rory's.

Then, with blood still oozing from my shaking wrist, I grabbed my pen and did something I never, in the seven years I've been writing letters, thought I would do.

Dear Rory,

If you read this...