That Boy [bxb] - sequel to P.B.

Day five

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart) i am never without it. (anywhere
I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear no fear (for you are my fate my sweet) i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows, (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope of mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
- E. E Cummings.

Day five

Monday into Tuesday

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep

The rapid beeping sound, alerting whoever's around of Matty flatlining, is something that I think will be engrained in my mind for the rest of my life. I have never felt panic so fiercely in my life.

"Go home," I say to Nathan.

"What?" he mutters, his eyes widened with alarm, and I again want to punch him in the face.

"Go home." It comes out through gritted teeth, my voice raised in agitation. What's so hard to understand? Go away.

"But Matty—" he tries.

"Please, just go!"

He agrees, communicating this through nodding rapidly, his mouth shut tight as if he's afraid to say another word. He then turns, almost spinning with the speed he does so, and scurries away. I watch as he looks back at me unsurely, yet carries on.

Then I'm floating away again. I feel the same way I did when I found the drugs. Like I'm not in my body; I'm somehow watching from the outside, though that makes no sense. Everything feels so weird, but at the same time I feel disconnected from any feeling. I don't know what's going on.

I don't know how long I'm out of it for. I don't know what the doctors are doing to him. All I know is when coming around, I'm breathing so heavily that it hurts my chest and my throat feels tight. I feel like I'm collapsing in on myself and I need help right now. I can stop shaking. My whole body aches.

I need help but I'm all alone. No one realises.

Oh, my Matthew. Please don't go.

I'm sat for a while, and I pray in my head, over and over again, and I soon come to realise that I'm muttering my prayers out loud, gasping. I pause, then I'm whispering out "Matthew."

I see a doctor walk by and so I jump up.

"Do you know anything about Matthew Jenkins? His machine went off. That meant he was flatlining, right? Is he okay?" I'm almost begging, desperation running so thickly in my veins.

"Who are you to him?" I am asked. I've said to doctors so many times. Why do I keep being asked?

"I'm his partner— his partner. We're together. Please. Can you find out if he's okay? He can't be dead. Please find out. They haven't told me anything. They never do."