Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Silence. Except for the clock.

My phone vibrated.

"H-hey Roman!"
"Pat. What is happening?"

I started to sob. Loudly and boldly. In an empty waiting room, crying loudly and without any care.

"Patton?"
"Sorry..."

Then the doctor walked in.

"PATTON DONT YOU D-"

And I hung up.

"Virgil's room is 36."

—————————————————————————————xxxx——————————————————————————————

"I'm Doctor Picani, and you are?"
"Patton."
"Ok. So he may need to go to a mental institution."

What? He was sane. The anxiety was quite obvious, but other wise, sane.

"He has had a... a history of mental issues."

I paused.

"Anxiety, depression, agoraphobia, dyslexia, schizophrenia-"

"What?! Virgil isn't... Virgil isn't schizophrenic! He obviously is anxious... depression, sure, agoraphobia, ok... dyslexia, yes, b-but schizophrenia? Why, why didn't he tell me? W-was he, was he scared? Is it my fault? Did-"
"Not finished, he also has insomnia-" Dr. Picani paused,
"Yeah, obviously."
"-And I-I think that's it, he should be awake; but the anaesthetic might make him dazed."

—————————————————————————————xxxx——————————————————————————————

I walked in on the exact fear I had, Virgil, hooked up to wires and IV drips, heart monitors and painkillers, looking dazedly at me, terror and sorrow in his eyes. Virgil.

Beep.

The noise was almost silent, but it deafened me every time.

Beep.

The noise hit me all at once.

Beep.

There were doctors rushing in and out. There were doctors taking his blood pressure. There were doctors taking his pulse. There were doctors who just wanted to take him to wherever he'd go. There were doctors taking notes, making the only noises the deafeningly quiet beep, numbers being murmured, and the scribbling of pencils against ivory paper on deep sea blue notepads.

The ward seemed natural, with sun-yellow sunflowers in black pots. But, like everything else in the hospital, it was obviously sterile plastic. The entire hospital had the smell of bleach covering every wall, every cold floor and every single mirror,

As I held Virgil's hand, I lost all hope about the idea of seeing him in time for my birthday, in three months. If he even was alive by then.

"Patton..." Virgil's voice was croaky, like an old, uncleaned vinyl album,
"Virgil! Virgil, you're awake, you're alive!"
"Pat, I know what's happening. I'm gonna be sent somewhere where, where I hate. Where I face my biggest fear," He blinked,
"What?"
"Doctors. Being forced into a routine. Bland food. Not... not seeing you."
"Hm?"
"Everything. I would rather die then go without you, and I would prefer hell then spend it in a mental hospital."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"What?" Virgil looked at me,
"... The schizophrenia."

To that, he began to cry softly.

"I'm sorry Virge, I shouldn't have..."
"No, no it's fine. I just have... have bad hallucinations."

I couldn't imagine it. Not trusting my own mind, my ears, nothing. And for Virgil to feel like suicide was the last choice. That was pain. That was loss.

And knowing that he truly felt like dying, that was the worst pain ever.