Open Eyes (Phan)

Thirty Four

Dan

We leave Manchester a couple days later. Both of us say tearful farewells to our families. Something I never thought I'd do again.

When we get back to our own flat, we both dump our bags in our rooms, leaving them to be unpacked another day.

I'm sitting on my bed, staring at the floor in front of my feet when Phil walks into my room. His knuckles wrap softly on the door to announce his presence.

I jerk my head up in surprise.

"Hey," I greet him. My voice is quiet. Like ripped sandpaper.

"Hey. Is everything okay?" He asks. I know what he means. He knows that I'm not okay. I am never really okay. He asks it in the is-anything-eating-away-at-you-right-now kind of way.

"I don't know," I reply. I don't.

He takes a seat next to me.

It's hard for me to remember that Phil is my boyfriend. Not in the sense of having one, because I've never had one before, so it's kind of hard to forget that I have one. But in the sense that we are more than just friends now. And that scares me shitless.

"That's okay," He says.

It's okay to not know. It's okay to not be okay.

Those words are enough to make my chest restrict and my throat to close up. Like a plastic water bottle.

And then I'm crying. And I don't know why.

As tears slip down my cheeks, I realize that I cry a lot. And Phil has to help me a lot.

I apologize profusely, trying to contain my sobs. But Phil just shushes me and pulls me into his arms.

Maybe it's okay to cry a lot.

Maybe it's okay to not be completely sane.

Maybe it's okay to not know why.

Maybe it's okay to not be okay.

And maybe I don't have to shove my feelings into a hole and throw away the hole.

Maybe I don't have to hold a hand over my mouth to keep the sobs and the screams inside my mouth in the middle of the night.

Maybe I don't have to slip the mask on anymore and pretend that I'm okay when I'm not.

Because it's okay to not be okay.

I cry harder into Phil's chest, dampening his shirt.

Oceans.

The night.

Snow.

Phil.

My Phil.

When I manage to calm myself down enough to speak clearly, I pull away from him. He smiles softly.

"Feel better?"

I nod.

"A little."

"That's good." He's speaking gently to me. His voices is like the way vanilla smells. "Do you want to talk about it?"

So I tell him everything that has just flown through my head like a speeding bullet. Because I trust him.

Phil watches me while I talk. At one point he reaches up to wipe a stray tear off my cheeks with his thumb.

And then when I'm done talking, he hugs me again. And kisses me a few times.

Then he is tugging me out of the room and telling me to get my shoes and coat on.

I don't object, but curiously walk with him down the pavement.

At first, when we found the corner with the coffee shop, I think we are going to the bookstore, but then Phil walks right past it.

It only takes me a moment to realize where we're going after that.

I keep walking, but my pace slows as my mind races.

When we get to the edge of the bridge, Phil walks on, but I stop, I am standing on the concrete, my toes mere centimeters from where the wood begins.

"Phil?"

He turns around.

"What are we doing here?"

"Do you trust me?" He asks. I nod instantly.

He turns back around and walks closer to the railing.

I take a step onto the bridge. Then another. And another. Until I am standing next to him, looking over the railing.

Flashes of memories start to fly through my head. Images of that fateful night. The fork in the road.

"I came here the day you passed out," Phil starts. "After I put you in the bed, I came here. I wasn't sure why at first. But I think I was trying to understand how you were feeling and what you were thinking. I wanted to know what it looked like from where you stood the last time we were both on this bridge together."

He keeps going.

"I don't know what it's like to want to die. I don't know how it feels to face death with a straight face. Because that night, you didn't look scared or terrified at all. You were calm. You looked like you were finally at peace. Dan, you were completely ready to die."

His eyes dance with emotion, oceans swirling.

"Maybe you still want to die. But I'm hoping," he pauses as he turns to look at me. His oceans knock the breath from my lungs. They are hopeful. Sad. Angry. They strip me to the bone. "I'm hoping that maybe you want to live, too."

I don't know what to say.

Because so many words are building up in my tongue and in my throat but I don't know how to explain them in a way he'd understand.

"Dan? What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking about oceans and the night and snow. I'm thinking about purple paint sliding down a shattered mirror. About the way that your breath catches in your chest when you see a sunset."

"What does that mean?" He asks.

I search for the right words. Words he will understand.

"It means that I love you, Phil. Because I am a piece of shattered glass and you are the purple paint. Vibrant. A breathtaking red and an imperfect blue mixing together and filling all of the cracks in the mirror with beautiful color. Because you are the sunset. Something you see everyday, but it still makes you stop and question everything you think you know. It steals the air from your lungs. The oceans are in your eyes and you have hair made of night and skin covered in snow."

He is the one crying now. At first I think I've said something wrong. But then his lips are on mine and our bodies are pressed together.

It's okay to not be okay.

___________________________
Our brains are sick, and that's okay.
-Fake You Out, twenty one pilots

Soooooo that was the last chapter. Surprise.

It's my own freaking book and I'm crying.

Thank you all for reading it. Let me know what you think.

Also, by the time you are reading this, the first chapter of my next phanfiction will be up. It's called It's All In Your Mind. Please check it out!!!

Love you, fabulous readers.
-TrucePhan