unsteady

thoughts

an: yes it is my birthday and yes i am 17 and YES I DID GET MY LICENSE WHOO

and yes i am still updating bc my party was yesterday night :)

so let's get into it shall we it's depresso hours

it is absolutely terrifying

                                  the kind of deep suffering

                                                                the happiest looking people

                                                                                            are able to hide inside themselves

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Sean

__

He should've told her he loved her.

He almost had.

That's all he could think about. As he sat in the hospital room holding her hand, that was all he could think about. 

"Why'd you do it Kayc?" he asked you, tears forming in his eyes. "Why'd you do it?"

But of course, no answer. She laid there motionless, the only indicators that she was alive being the slight rise and fall of her chest and the monotonous beeping of her heart monitor. "Why?"

He brought her hand close to his chest and squeezed it, inhaling as he did so, trying to gather some strength. 

"I love you." he whispered before letting it fall. "Please come back."

He didn't know how it had happened or why it had, but he had found himself falling for the tiny girl who was in front of him. The way her eyes sparkled when she talked about something exciting, the way her laugh sounded when she genuinely meant it, the way her eyebrows crinkled when someone said something that fazed her....the way that she so purely was, even though she wore a soldier's armor underneath....he adored it. All of it.

He was scared. He didn't want to lose her. Something about her brought everything bad inside of him to the surface, but she didn't make it spill over, infecting his and her lives, but she just helped him find the words to say it.

All these years, he's built up a facade. People knew who he was, knew how he was.

Without him saying a word.

He didn't have the words.

She helped him find them.

He kissed her forehead one more time, and hesitated before leaving the room. "I need you." he said. And then he was gone.

  He didn't notice as her older sister watched from her hospital bed down the hall.   

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Kaycee

Writing was like a therapy to her. At least one that helped her quiet the voices inside her head by letting them run rampant over the keyboard or the pages in her notebook, the one she kept buried under her mattress. 

The last thing she had written before she'd taken the pills was a poem for him. The hardest part was not writing her apology for death, it was giving it a title. How do you title your death? It made it seem not as heavy-hitting, not as gruesome and final, more like the name of a Broadway show. Kaycee's Big Day. She had laughed in spite of herself.