There are some nights where Simon doesn't cry himself to sleep.

But most nights are like this. Most nights are curling up into a ball and sobbing until his throat hurts. Most nights are ginger in his eyes and cotton in his ears. Most nights are copper on his tongue, biting it until it bleeds to muffle his teary screams. Most nights are falling through an invisible sea of glass, condemned by the watchful glares of the stars above.

Most nights hurt.

Simon hates it. He hates the crystal tears he can never seem to control once he's finally trapped in the isolation of his bedroom, hates the way he can't rip apart the thorns chaining his heart down, hates the calamity his life has turned into. A tragedy fit for the gods.

And yet, he can't seem to escape. The cherry blossoms in his chest wilt with every heaving sob that escapes his body, but he can't stop---can't do anything but cry, because hell, it hurts so bad, and he doesn't even know why. Maybe it's the lead-smudged, half-finished worksheets scattered across his desk. Maybe it's the constant berations of his parents, the churlish you have to do betters even though he's bringing home A's in every subject. Maybe it's the fact that Tom Lewis is kissing Lynn Daley on his Instagram feed, even when Simon's still wearing his worn cerulean jacket.

Or maybe it's the stars. The stars and their sharp, glittering eyes.

Simon's grateful when the pain finally fades, agony succumbing to numbness. Nothing. Just the way it should be. No thorns, no glass, no tears. Nothing but eyes left too dry to cry and the bloody pinpricks his nails have left over his tightly-balled palms.

He huddles deeper into his blue jacket---he supposes it's his now, since Tom hasn't asked for it back, and he's not in the mood to talk to his ex-boyfriend ever again---and tries to cry over how it's a size too big for him, since he's tall but Tom's taller, but he can't. The bitterness blackening his soul has receded back into wherever it goes after midnight, leaving behind nothing but a void. The void that's been with him ever since he'd crashed through cloud nine and tumbled all the way to hell. The Void. The Void.

Sometimes, Simon wonders what would happen if he gave in to it. He wonders if he'd go down in a blaze of glory---screeching sirens and burning eyes and smoking skin---or if he'd melt into a thousand rose petals, or if he'd fall like a stone. It seems more likely that he'd land on his feet, bones snapped but not dead, because the gods seem to love watching the trainwreck that is his existence.

To them, it's probably some kind of sick comedy.

The thought makes Simon cry again, except there aren't any tears left, so he curls himself up tighter and heaves---dry, soundless wails that ricochet around the twisted recesses of his mind. I'm sorry. I should have been better. I should be better. I'm sorry I'm not good enough. I'm sorry I'm not good enough for anyone. He cries, retreating into the familiarity of the jacket hugging his shoulders, and he can still smell cologne and detergent and freshly-inked tattoos scattered over every inch of the azure cotton---and of course, it still smells like Tom. Like evergreen hickory and violets in winter. So comforting, and yet so strange. A double-edged sword that wouldn't hesitate to stab Simon in the back.

His thoughts prickle at his skin, so sharp he almost fears they might draw blood. They leak all over his room and stain it with lethargy. The invisible spots bloom, like roses in the summer, like coral in a reef, like poison in his veins. Tattered Polaroids in a shredder.

Outside, a door slams, and that jolts Simon out of his head. It's a brutal reminder that he's not alone, and that he's not supposed to cry.

He can't change that. He knows he can't.

And so, Simon lets himself drift into the land of dreams, shrouded in private melancholy and all the things he could never say. He lets the copper on his tongue and the tear tracks on his cheeks dissolve into his memory, leaving nothing but the thorns on his soul. Because it's always like this. Because he cries himself to sleep nearly every night, and he's so tired of it, tired of the gods and their elaborate tragedies. Because nothing is different, and nothing will ever change.

He can still feel the stars staring at him.

(´▽｀)ノ♪

Monday mornings are painfully brutal. The biting cold that nips at the metaphorical dark cloud already hanging over Simon's head only serves to make everything worse---only serves to make the universe feel so shitty that Simon wants to slit his throat and let his blood freeze into scarlet ice on the frostbitten pavement.

It's an overly dramatic thought just for a cold day, but fuck it, it's too cold for spring, so icy that Simon's breath puffs up in little white spirals, a feat he'd always thought could only be achieved in winter. Besides, he's been overly dramatic ever since his breakup with Tom.

It's ironic, since their breakup had been on the less theatrical spectrum of high school breakups---no cheating, no dicking around, no dumping-over-text. Just, Hey, I don't really think this is working out, and I'm sorry, I hope you'll be okay, and that had been that. The only thing dramatic about it had been the way Simon had clung to Tom after and followed him around the carpark for at least an hour, sobbing until he'd thought his lungs would break. And although there's no right way to handle a breakup, Simon's pretty sure he'd done everything wrong.

The wind swirls through Simon's messy dark hair, ruffling it even more. He's sure it'll be a hopeless mess by the time he gets to the safety of Shiloh's car, but he can't find it in himself to care. Instead, he focuses on the gale itself, and how horribly chilly it is, and how the blue jacket hugging his shoulders only seems to make him colder.

It's easier to blame the cold on the jacket, easier than unchaining the tortured melody in his heart, easier than letting his withered roots grow equally withered blossoms, easier than admitting he's got a hole in his chest that's been empty ever since Tom had dumped him.

The silver Audi pulled over by the side of the street lifts his mood a little, because he knows it contains his three favourite things in the world---warmth, coffee, and Shiloh. And Emi's a close fourth, so he picks up his pace and tries not to trip over the shoelaces that he can't be bothered to tie anymore.

"Sorry I'm late," Simon mumbles, swinging himself into the passenger seat. Shiloh always insists on him sitting in the passenger seat, because they're best friends and all. Simon had initially expected Emi to make a fuss about it, but Emi is unbelievably chill. Even when she has to sit in the back.

Shiloh grins. It's Simon's favourite thing about them, how their smile always lights up the room and exposes the deepest set of dimples he's ever seen. They've started taking a leaf out of their girlfriend's book, dressed in black from head to toe. Their dark hair seems particularly curly today, so fluffy Simon's sure he could build glass castles on it if he tried hard enough. "Don't worry. We got held up in the Starbucks queue, anyway. I got so worried, because how could I be late picking up my favourite boy?"

Simon sneaks a glance at the back. As expected, Emi looks completely unbothered. He's learned not to expect jealousy from Shiloh's girlfriend whenever Shiloh gets affectionate with him---although he's really not sure whether that's due to Emi's natural apathy or because he and Shiloh have been friends since they were in diapers.

Emi shoots him a lazy grin. "But we weren't late, so that doesn't matter." She runs a hand through her bright pink pixie cut, and Simon's relieved to see a black beanie half-slipping off her head---at least he's not the only one who's cold. "We got you..." She gags. "The usual. Iced Americano. Extra shot of expresso. No milk. No sugar. You animal."

The see-through cup that she hands to him is full of brown liquid so aggressively dark it's almost black. Ice cubes float around in it like miniature glaciers---just the way Simon likes it. "Your cup of diabetes isn't any better."

"Let's just agree to disagree." Emi snaps the gum in her mouth and beams playfully. "Life's too short to argue about coffee, anyway."

Simon would disagree, since he's been feeling rather argumentative lately, but he's too tired to fight right now. Instead, he stabs the all-too-familiar plastic straw into his cup and practically inhales the drink he's come to regard as his sole source of life.

Shiloh's started driving already, but Simon can tell one hazel eye's firmly fixed on him. More specifically, his jacket. "You're still wearing it?" they ask.

Simon stares into his coffee and clenches his ice-block fingers into fists, trying to ignore the elephant in the room. "I don't know what you're talking about." He does. Of course he does. But he doesn't want to talk about the jacket on his shoulders, or the sudden dampness in his eyes, or the shattered porcelain fragments of his fragile heart.

"You have eyebags again."

"Bad genetics."

Shiloh side-eyes him dubiously. "Simon."

Simon slumps further down in his seat. He knows he can't lie to them---they're his best friend, after all, and they can read him like a book. He's pretty sure Shiloh knows he hasn't been sleeping properly---that he's been too busy crying himself awake, accompanied by nothing but the judgemental scrutiny of the stars and the faded rhapsody in his hollow chest.

"Have your parents caught on yet?" Emi asks, leaning forward in her seat so her face pops up next to Simon's elbow.

Simon feels his fingers twine themselves together nervously, writhing in his lap like a nest of serpents. "The fact that I still have a home should speak for itself."

Emi sighs. "So that's a no, I guess." Another snap of her gum. It should be annoying, but Simon's used to it by now.

His best friend lifts one hand off the wheel to ruffle his hair, making both of them grimace when one of their long nails gets caught in Simon's tangled locks. "It's been a month, Monnie," Shiloh says.

Simon doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. So he tilts his head back and lets the comfortingly bitter coffee trickle down his throat, filling the fissures in his frozen veins with liquid ardor, and no one speaks until Shiloh finally parks the car.

They manage to sneak into school two minutes before the bell---something Simon's mother would murder him for if she knew. "If you're late, you might miss out on something important, then you'll be at a disadvantage when it comes to the exams," she always says, and no matter how many times Simon insists that traffic just happens sometimes, she never fails to blames it on his friends.

It's always his friends. "The black and the gay," his mother muses from time to time, nose scrunched up like Shiloh and Emi had done something to personally offend her.

(They haven't, really. They've never even met her. Simon thinks that's for the best.)

"Just in time," Shiloh exhales, and Simon can tell they're doing their best not to flop face-down on the corridor floor right now. After all, they'd driven like a madman to get them to school on time---something Simon feels guilty for, since he knows that he's the only one who actually cares about getting to school on time. Emi's too lazy to bother, and Shiloh usually follows whatever their girlfriend does.

Emi wraps an arm around Shiloh's waist and pulls them close, placing a light kiss on their cheek. "Those were some mad driving skills."

Shiloh grins, and the hallway suddenly seems a million degrees warmer. "Thanks." There are stars in their hazel eyes, and they gaze at Emi like she's their whole universe---as if the petite girl with the choppy pink hair and the goth sweater and the ragged cargo pants is Aphrodite reborn, almost too dazzling for anyone but Shiloh to truly appreciate.

Simon's already turned away, his footsteps abnormally loud to his own ears. He can't bear to watch Shiloh and Emi being lovey-dovey. It's not that they're sickly-sweet or overly cringey---on the contrary, they're one of the rare couples that flawlessly balance on the tightrope between sugary and cold. But he can't stand to look at them for the same reason that he can't stand to look at any of the other couples in school---because it's just too much. It's all too much, too soon, too hard.

"Monnie!" he hears Shiloh call after him, and guilt instantly fills his chest, because he knows his best friend feels like it's their fault he's walking away---but it's not. It's not Shiloh's fault some bitter part of his empty heart can't bear to see people in love. It's not Shiloh's fault everything reminds him of Tom. It's not anyone's fault that it's already been a month, a whole fucking month, and Simon still can't get a grip.

"I'd better get to class before I'm late," Simon manages to say, adjusting the strap of the backpack slung over his shoulder. Any warmth that had clung to him from Shiloh's car is gone now, and all that remains is the cold---the horrible, biting cold, devouring him from the inside. "You should, too." He feels his veins run blue with molten ice, so chilly he can envision frost burns forming skeletal fractals over his weary bones.

Without waiting for an answer, he continues walking. He's late for Literature, but it doesn't matter---no one ever bothers coming on time for Literature. He's pretty sure his jacket's giving him a rash.

(´▽｀)ノ♪

"Professor Kelle?" Simon calls, pushing open the classroom door. As expected, the room is empty---hardly anyone who's good at school takes Literature. It's full of bunkers and junkies and delinquents looking for an easy A---something Simon's come to learn over the last half-year of being the only Literature student in his class who actually cares about Literature.

It also has the misfortune of being the first Monday class---not exactly a fantastic combination.

"Professor Kelle?" Simon forces his voice out, louder this time, projecting it to every beam and rafter of the ceiling---usually, his Literature teacher's always there with his head on his table, fruitlessly waiting for his mismatched gaggle of students to come streaming in. But it looks like even Professor Kelle has given up, because the room is completely empty.

Then, Simon's gaze lands on the teacher's table.

He's wrong. The room's not empty. Because sitting on the teacher's table---on it, like he holds the world in his hands---is a boy. Simon's eyes trail over the boy who owns the universe, and for the second time, he's wrong again.

Because what he's looking at can't possibly be just a boy.

He's short, the tips of his sneakers barely touching the ground. Wavy hair curls over his forehead and around his ears in a chocolate swathe, like the popped shells of roasted chestnuts in winter. Milky skin pools over the parts of his body that aren't hidden by the simple t-shirt and jeans he's wearing---as if he himself's so warm that he couldn't possibly feel cold. He's chubby but not fat---almost curvy, fleshy in all the right places. A riveting set of irises so dark they're almost black unfurl beneath feathery lashes and half-lowered double eyelids. His nose is one soft curve, small and round. But it's his lips that really catch Simon's eye. His lips, slim on top and plump below, a defined cupid's bow sprawling over rose-pink satin.

Simon shouldn't find him beautiful, but he does, because he's so ethereal he can't possibly be just a boy. He has to be a deity of some sort, a young god sent down from the mocking cruelty of the heavens. He's not lean or muscular or tall, but he's pretty---so, so pretty, starlight woven into every inch of his divine being.

Deep dimples flash in the boy's cheeks when his perfect lips move, and Simon realises he's just as human as Simon himself, despite the sunbeams threaded in the corners of his face.

Adonis in his truest form. Mortality haloed in rose and gold.

Then, the boy smiles, and Simon's suddenly not so cold anymore. "If you're looking for Otis, he went to the loo," he says. There's the slightest hint of an accent shot through his sentence---British, perhaps. His voice is nowhere near as soft as the rest of him. It's loud and friendly and almost magical, every word a melody to Simon's ears.

Simon swallows. Hard. He's struck speechless by the delicacy of the angel in front of him, entranced by the picture painted across the snowy canvas of the boy's skin. His face burns, his ears pop, stars scatter across his eyes, and everything in the space-time continuum seems to just stop for this mysterious boy who's so beautiful he's unreal, who's so heartwrenchingly, unconventionally gorgeous he makes Simon's head spin.

"T-thanks," Simon manages to get out, tripping over his words, his feet, his world. Vertigo flips his universe upside down, and he feels like he's drowning, and oh God, he doesn't care whether he dies in this moment, dies blinded by the sheer ethereality of this beautiful, beautiful boy.

The boy's grin widens, his dimples pop out more, and Simon's knees weaken. "Maybe America won't be so bad after all," he murmurs teasingly. Simon can practically taste the light, coquettish undertones in the boy's voice, and his feet suddenly feel like they're jelly, because the prettiest human he's ever seen in his life is actually flirting with him.

His heart buzzes with light. His cheeks fill with heat. A glorious whirlwind swells his hollow chest with rose petals, and all of a sudden, Tom's the furthest thing from his mind.

Because there are a million ways to fall in love, and in that moment, Simon Huang crashes into every single one of them.

welcome BACK to the sh!tshow, we have snacks

Simon is the most emo ass freaking thing i have ever written istg

and Vincent is chubby instead of the usual skinny perfect shiz because i'm chubby and i'm still a whole snacc so

aNyGaYs hi. thank you for giving this a chance. i'm sorry if i've disappointed you already, but i do pride myself on being a disappointment. (i have a phD in disappointing people. it's framed on my wall and everything.)

i'm really sorry this kinda sucks. i've rewritten this chapter SIX FREAKING TIMES and it's STILL terrible, but i liked this draft better than the other five, so you're getting this lmao

alright! so, old readers, you know the drill. new readers, hi. hello. konichiwa. ni hao. i'm Alex, professional disappointment and king of not replying to comments until like three months later. because i have school. and i am failing in school. (like, actually failing. i currently have a 46% average in Maths T_T) so yeah. tenth grade friggin blows.

never fear, though---i WILL eventually reply to all your amazhang comments, so please leave plenty of them because i am an attention whore who requires reader interaction to keep me alive. and don't forget to hit the star somewhere on your screen cause it helps the *looks at smudged writing on hand* wattpad algoraratheme notice me. notice me, wattpad senpai.

(also, if you haven't caught on yet, my author's notes are...long. part of the package, baby ;P)

what did you think of the chapter? lemme know whether it was good, bad, awful, trash, dumpster fire, etc etc. please 🥺 i need feedback to improve :D and constructive criticism is always more than welcome! (also, please point out any mistakes you see! i do all my own editing, and even though i have potentially professional-editor-level skills, my eyesight sucks.)

again, thank you so much for giving this a go! i really hope you'll stick around for the ride, because this book is already my baby and i want to go on this amazhang journey with all of you. thank you so much, and i love y'alls <333 make sure to take care of yourselves and stay hydrated, and i'll see you in next Saturday's update!

(oh, yeah. my update schedule is Saturdays, 9am EST. just putting that out there because people tend to ask :P)

xoxo, Alex