---Gerard---

"Tomorrow, he should be awake, and when he does, I need you to tell him you don't love him."

Those words tug at my heart. They basically yank it, like someone had squeezed it and it was close to popping. It felt like a punch to my gut. Tell him that I don't love him? Why? What good will that do but break his heart more?

"What? Why?"

Dr. Capaldi sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose before he murmurs, "It'll make the healing process slower, but it's easier this way. You know long distance relationships don't work out. I promise it's easier this way."

"I don't want to break his heart, though. I can't... I can't tell him that..." I feel like I'm about to cry, one week he was asleep and now I have to basically break his heart?

"I know it's hard, Gee, but you're strong, and if you want the best for him, this is the way to go."

I turn away, but I realize he's right. If I want Patrick to heal, this is what I have to do. But I need to be with him. I love him so much. How can I just throw that all away?

"I... can't..." I whisper.

"Gerard, please, you want him to get better, right? This is all you have to do. After this, he'll live a better life, and he won't have to worry about David or Kevin. It'll all be okay."

"He'll get better... he won't have PTSD or anxiety or... or any of it?"

"Correct,"

"I..." I purse my lips. I'm so conflicted and miserable... I can't let him leave, but I know it's for the best. Just like it was best for Mikey to leave... "Okay..."

"I'm gonna go in. One more day, Gerard," Dr. Capaldi says with a gentle smile, "I'll call you in after a bit," and then he turns and leaves.

***

Gerard: Hey

My fingers are shaking. I can't control the flow of tears draining my eyes and running down my cheeks. I'm not sobbing. I'm just sitting in silence, Mom's at work, Mikey's at school, Dad's in a grave, Patrick's moved on. Funny how the world works. How so many things can come crashing down on you at once, and all you do is silently cry alone. It's pitiful. Absolutely pathetic.

Frank: Hey, how are you?

I'm not okay. I promise.

How strong are your promises?

I have yet to break one.

Gerard: I'm okay. I'm missing Patrick but I'm doing okay...

I wish.

Frank: That's good... I was talking to Pete earlier. He sounds miserable, and I just feel terrible for him... especially after he found out everything

Gerard: yeah

Gerard: I miss him so much... I just I don't know. After I told him I don't love him I just... hurt inside... sorry if I'm getting too sappy for this

I don't bother to wipe my tears. It's like my back has been breaking from this heavy heart. I want to just sleep my life away until I'm nothing.

Frank: It's going to be alright. You'll heal, he'll get a better home. I'm sure it'll all be just fine.

I fucking wish.

Gerard: Sorry for bothering you. I'll talk to you later, k?

Frank: r u sure?

I bite my lip. No.

Gerard: yeah :) cya

Frank: Bye :/

I throw my phone into the wall. It hits the wallpaper with a loud noise that makes me flinch before falling to the floor. I sit, staring at it and I don't know why. Why not? That's how I feel right now. I feel like someone ripped out my heart and threw it into a wall. It hurts. I miss Patrick... I want to hug him and call him mine. I want to kiss him and make his cheeks turn rosy with embarrassment, then kiss the new warmth and get him to giggle like I always do. I want to hold him as he cries and tell him it's going to be okay. I want to sleep with him, no sex, just sleep in the same bed with him again so I can wake up and watch him sleep in his hoodie and jeans, curled up beside me. I was fucking it up as it was. Trying to push it all on him. I should have treated him right while I could.

Now, I can't.

I want to text him, but I'm afraid it would only mess him up emotionally.

I get up, pulling my phone from the floor and wiping my finger across the newly cracked screen. Each piece of glass looks sharp and jagged, the lines have a texture that I know could easily cut me if I tried hard enough.

It looks just like how I envision my heart right now. Cracked with sharp, jagged edges that I could use to slit my wrists.

I press my forehead against the wall and take a deep breath.

It's going to be okay.

If I lie to myself, everything will turn out fine. My heart will heal, I can forget about Patrick...

But I can't forget. You don't just forget someone like that, someone you love with all your heart, someone you wake up thinking about and lose sleep over. You love them so much, and they're on your mind 24/7. You can't stop thinking about them even when you want to. Everything about them is just so perfect. Patrick is perfect. Patrick is beautiful.

His blonde hair and the way his bangs are swept to the side just over his right eye. It shines in the sunlight. It shines in the moonlight. It shines in the starlight. I love brushing it out of his face and pressing my lips to his baby soft forehead. I love how soft his hair is and how I can bury my face into it, the way it tickles my nose. I love running my fingers through it to comfort the both of us... I mean... then I also love when he lets me tug it the slightest bit when we're kissing. Just the slightest because I don't want it to be a trigger, but damn I love pulling on it.

I love his eyes. I could get lost in his eyes. I have been lost in his eyes. It's like a maze of beautiful color that I can't seem to look away from. I love the way they crinkle when he smiles, and I love the way they look down when he's embarrassed. I love the color. I love the shades of green, the light shades like ferns or grass in the sunlight. I love the dark shades, like the dark moss on a bland stone or the color of the needles on a pine tree. I especially love the colors in the middle: the color of a clover or an emerald.

I love his lips. The pale pink color. They're not perfect, the skin is almost always broken from his constant biting and tearing, but I'll still kiss him. My lips have yet to be chapped and faded. If... I could kiss him... I loved the way they would curve when he smiled, I loved the way he would giggle when I kissed his cheek.

I loved everything. I loved him. I still love him. But... he's gone now... he's moved on... I guess it's for the best... isn't it?

I walk to my desk. The counter filled with old pictures of Dad. Him, Mikey, and I on the beach when he first came back. I was four years old, Mikey was two. I remember small bits of that day, running up and down the beach, collecting shells and showing them to Dad. I remember Mikey's curious eyes looking up at me as he followed me down the white sand.

Another picture is of Mikey, and I huddled together in a blanket. Dad took it when I was six and Mikey was four, we'd both gotten a cold and I had to stay home from school, so we ended up eating soup and cuddling on the couch, half asleep.

One year later, Dad took a picture of him, Mikey, and I as we watched The Black Parade. The pale girl and the dark boy behind us holding up the banner, "The Black Parade," beneath, "Presented by Alexander Hamilton High School."

Beside the photographs is my sketchbook. Open to a new page, a boy in a black fedora looks up at me with a lopsided smile and beautiful light gray eyes.

I rip it out and tear it in half. Just like my heart feels right now, I throw it into the trash. It was a shitty drawing anyways.

I fall back into bed, clutching my chest because I just want it to go away. It hurts so badly. I want Patrick back. I want that beautiful boy back in my arms to love again. I wish it could have worked out somehow...

The front door shuts, and I hear Mama call through the house, "I'm home, Honey are you doing alright?"

I inhale sharply, "Not really..."

I hear her set down her purse and walk to just outside my door, her necklaces clinking against each other before she knocks softly, "Can I come in?"

I'm overcome with darkness as my eyes shut, more tears falling from the corners. My throat is closing up as I reply, "y-yes..."

The door open and she walks in, she's wearing a black sweater across her shoulders, a pair of dark blue jeans, and a sad smile on her face, "You still sad about him, Honey?"

She sits down on the edge of the bed and pulls my charcoal hair from my face.

"How could I not be... I love him..." I whisper.

She swallows and replies, "I understand... it hurts, and it takes time to heal..."

The only sound in the room is her gentle breaths and my silent sobs as we sit together. Me, a broken-hearted son, and her, a broken-hearted mother.

"I'll always be here for you, Gerard. I love you."

"Love you, too, Mama..."