It gets depressing. Warning.

Alec Pov
The date with John went well.
We went to a movie theater and held hands the whole time. And afterwards, guess what fucking happened?!

He asked to be my boyfriend and kissed me.

It was awesome.

Alright, so here's a more detailed description of what went down;

I sat down on a bench outside of the AMC theater.
The movie had ended but we were there just talking.

"Hey Alec?" He asked.
"Mhm?"

"I've been wanting to ask you for quite
sometime. About two months almost." He said.

"...what is it?" I asked.

"Maybe..we could out again? Like..what I'm trying to ask is if you'll be my boyfriend?" He choked.

HOLY
SHIT.

"Yeah!" I exclaimed.
He smiled and hugged me.

And that's when it happened.
We pulled away, and then he kissed me.

I immediately kissed him back.
We moved in synch and I loved every fucking second of it.

It didn't last long but at the same time it felt like forever.

When we pulled away this lady covered her kids eyes and angrily walked away.
I couldn't care less.

See?
I'm fine without my pills.

I still haven't told John about the PTSD, anxiety and depression that I used to have.
And I'm not gonna.
I don't need to.
I don't have that stuff anymore.

(Oh my god Alec no smh this is bad)
Nobody fucking asked you. I thought you were putting yourself out of the narrative.
I thought you quit.
(...ANYWAY-)

So that's what happened.
I have a boyfriend.
It feels good to know that I'm not going to die alone.

I stood in my room staring at the mirror.
What was I trying to do?
What was I trying to accomplish?
I'm not fucking sure.

But I kept staring.
Ugly.
So ugly.
Repulsive.
The tense shoulders.

Ew.
God I'm fucking awful.

It's fucking awful.
I shouldn't even be allowed to classify myself as a human.

John shouldn't have to be weighed down by me.
He could do so much yet he has to be handcuffed to a relationship with a stupid individual like me.

Martha and George should start to beat me. Put some god damn sense in my head.
Make me think I have to be perfect. Make me live in misery.

So when they beat me it'll take all of the emotional horror and pain then put it into real pain drowning all of the emotions.

But my last family would beat me,
I'd cry, cut, and it would be the same schedule everyday.

Get beaten,
cry,
cut.

But I stopped crying after a while.
Not only because my body had gotten used to the pain but because I would get beaten, cut, stare in the mirror then cry myself to sleep.

It wouldn't hurt to cut again right?

Maybe I was just like....
faking it or something.

It wouldn't hurt to cut again.
The world is sick.
Chasing black.
I'm so close to the edge.

But I don't want anyone's help because I'm fine
and I don't need anyone's pity because I'm fine
and I don't need therapy or pills because
I'm
fine.

It wouldn't hurt to cut again.
It'd distract me from everything.
Like it used to.

How long have I been clean?
A year and a half?

Wait no I can't.
John would be so disappointed,
Martha and George would be so disappointed.

They don't care.
None of them have said, 'I love you.'

There's no one.
No one.
On my own.
I'm on my fucking own.

Nobody cares and they never will.

Clean for a year?
Not anymore.