This is the sad fan fiction I read
Summery: If she had to die, at lest he had the next best thing...her journal. Willa/Philby
He doesn't know what to do. He's never felt like this, because its not normal to feel like you're splintering into a thousand pieces, like silk threads holding you together are ripping, like you're soul is a paper thing that has been shredded. His parents don't come to his locked door, as he paces his bedroom, going from ripping photographs to shreds, to typing up E-mails he doesn't send, to sitting in silence wondering why.
A few days later, he comes out, starved, exhausted, and only two steps away from falling to jagged pieces all over the floor.
The next day, Monday, Philby misses school for the second time in his life, because the first time is too painful to remember. He sits in bed, pawing through photo albums, ripping pictures to shreds. He doesn't throw the pieces away; he slides them into a shoebox marked "What's Left" and stores it under his bed. Maybe someday, when he can breathe steadily, Philby will reopen the box to tape the pictures back together.
Around 3:00 Finn shows up, with his brown hair too long, his blue T-shirt the same one he wore three days ago, but he doesn't care enough. Philby sits on his pillows, while Finn rests in the desk chair, looking at his hands, like words of comfort are written there. Philby wants to sneer at him, yell, tell him that even though he's the leader, it doesn't mean he knows everything, knows the pain. But he never moves; he's afraid that if he stands up too fast he'll shatter like the mirror she hated.
"Amanda found this." Finn finally says after forty-five minuets of pure silence, slipping something into Philby's hands, before racing from the bedroom, apparently breaking under the weight of heavy silence. When his eyes move downwords, viewing the cover, Philby has to slid it into the shoe box, and proceeds to pull the feathers from his pillow, one by one.
That night, Philby sits on the roof, staring at the stars, and wonders if she can see him grieving, and if she misses him, and if she will talk to him.
His parents make him go to school the next day, but he doesn't pay attention in class, because he thinks about the first time he skipped school, which was the best day of his life. People look at him weird, whisper as he walks down the hallway, but Philby is numb, he tunes them out all too easily. Teachers try to talk to him in private, but he waves them away, they don't care like he dose.
There is a sympathy note taped to his looker, not a store-bought card or Hallmark message, but a girls letter, written in silver ink, a rather poetic piece with the fact that its okey to grieve and try to remember how she was as a person. Philby rips the letter, just like the rest of them, but doesn't throw the card away, instead slips the card remnants into the shoebox.
The clock in his room is ticking so loud he can't sleep at night; it doesn't really matter. Philby isn't sleeping at all, he just sees her face whenever he closes his eyes, and the pain, the warm brown eyes, the beautiful skin, the blood dribbling between her fingers.
Finn's discovery seems to be screaming from the shoebox, more terrifying then any hidden monster could ever be.
Philby is killing himself over what's hidden in the box, he has to open it up, has to read her real thoughts, how she really felt about everything. Curiosity drives him to open up the shoebox, shakily pull the small, leather-bound, navy blue journal marked with a creamy ribbon. A "W" emblazoned on the front in silver, modeled to look like the famous Disney font.
The journal seemed to burn in his hands, so heavy that he'll drop it, lose the last remains of her forever, and when he opens up the cover, all the bitter pain seems to reach his heart, and he wonders if he's having a heart attack. Philby opens his eyes after squeezing them shut, finding a drawing of him staring back, draw in oil pastels standing in front of Cinderella Castle. She's next to him, holding his hands, as fireworks explode in a blurred rainbow behind them, so real, its like a photograph.
