I honestly don't know why it takes me so long to write these chapters....I'm trying guys, sorry.

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LOGIC || LOGAN

"Hey, Logan, can I talk to you?" Roman used a hand gesture that looked like a loose sideways finger gun, a gesture often used when someone wants to talk.

I sipped my coffee as I turned around to face the creative trait. "I suppose so. However, I should warn you that I am also going to consume my meal as we discuss."

"That's fine, let's just sit down." I nodded at him as I grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, my coffee in my other hand.

"So, what seems to be the issue, Roman? You're usually never up this early just to speak with me."

"Well, it's very important and I need your, erm, reasoning skills." Roman dodged eye contact, his gaze flickering back and forth between his interlocked hands and the surface of the table. If it wasn't the uncertainty that was giving it away, his body language alone could tell me that he was anxious.

"What is it, Roman? I know you're dodging the question." I replied sharply, wanting him to hurry up already and get to the point. I hated when people decided to beat around the bush.

He averts his gaze once more, his clammy hands clasped together as he took a deep breath before opening his mouth to speak. "IneedyourhelpbecauseIhavetoapologizetoVirgilbutIdon'tknowhowandIdon'twanttoaskPattonbecausehe'llgetmadatmesocouldyoupleasehelpme." He spoke in one breath, puppy-dog eyes snapping up at me in a pleading manner.

"Come again?" I had caught bits and pieces of what he had said, but not enough to fully understand his request. Something about Virgil? Perhaps Patton as well? It was all a jumble of words to me.

"I just-I need you to help me apologize to Virgil." His voice had become somewhat wispy, his pleading puppy eyes somehow growing more innocent and begging that before. The state Roman was in, it was just so vulnerable, almost as if he were a completely different person.

His request confused me quite a bit; I mean, he wanted me to help him? The persona that posses the least experience when it comes to emotion and feeling.

Yet I was compelled to say yes.

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ANXIETY || VIRGIL

I wish I was a good trait. You know, a persona that didn't make people hate themselves, or keep people from following their dreams. A trait that didn't need pills just to be kept in check. I wanted to be one of those traits. I want people to like me.

Thomas has fans, they make fan art and write theories and cosplay and write about us, but they don't really like me. They like certain aspects of me. What I wear, the jokes I make, my attempts at being relatable.

I'm not like Patton, Roman, or Logic, I don't bring anything but stress and worry. I identify small problems and blow them way out of proportion. For instance, you forgot to brush your teeth, now they're going to rot and fall out and you'll be stuck with dentures at age 24.

I want to make people smile, like Patton does with his dad jokes, or how Roman does when he performs, or how Logan pulls out his vocabulary cards. I want people to laugh with me, to joke around with me, I want to stop feeling like an outsider.

But instead, here I am, an unwanted, unneeded trait that no one cares about. The side that no one wants to show to people, the side that people are afraid to talk about. I'm Anxiety, I ruin people's lives.

Sharp pain jolts through me and I look down to see that I scratched myself too hard as I was thinking. At first, the wound just looks raw and red, until blood begins to blossom from its center. I should go look for a bandaid, but instead I watch it. The blood pools in the actual wound itself, until enough of it builds up that it begins to run down my arm.

It throbs slightly, and once again I drawn back into familiar dark thoughts. The world around me fades to fog once again, smoke beginning to crawl into my throat; I feel a tickle, yet I swallow the coughs beginning to be let out.

Without realizing, I had made a dive for my desk, easily reaching the bottom drawer even in my spaced out state.

As I begin rummaging for what I'm looking for, I prick my finger on it.

"Shit." I hissed, drawing my hand out for a heartbeats before reaching in again. Blood surely begins to gather on my finger as I fish out the object; my razor. It's not good for me, I know, a cliche for my trait, I know, but people only hate cliches because they're true.

Once I've closed the desk drawer again, scooting over to a corner of my room's floor where I don't mind if the blood doesn't come out, I stare once again at the scratch I gave myself. It is still bleeding.

So I move to my next arm, and I block out every one of my dark thoughts with electric pain.

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UNKNOWN || NWONKNU

I am comedy, I am anger, I am grief, I am sadness, I am beautiful, I am ugly, I am truthful, and I am full of lies. I am the deciding factor in a trial, the missing witness on the stand, the valuable victim that lets the criminal go free.

I am evidence, and I am the lack of it.

I can keep your secrets, I can hide your sins, I'll help make you perfect, make sure that in the end it's you who wins.

I can fix you; the only thing I ask is that you believe all the lies that I whisper into your ear.