http://www.wattpad.com/4523029-coffee-break-one-shot

this is a story.

this kid is amazing.

i don't know how i would have survived without him.

here's to you, ronnie.

love, miss inspiration(;

__________________________________________________________________________

They say nothing good lasts forever, and part of growing up is learning how to let go. They say that love is a chemical reaction, nothing more than a bunch of proteins and DNA and amino acids being sent to a billion different places at once. They tell you that magic isn't real and miracles don't happen.

They're also the ones who tell you to cheer up, wear a smile and pretend to be happy until it feels real.

Happiness isn't real. But depression? Depression is absolute.

Not everyone gets to feel joy or laughter. Loads of kids are taken away from their parents and locked away, forced to do everything ordered by their kidnapper for as long as they can imagine. They'll feel sadness, of course. They'll feel lost and confused and afraid.

Those are negative emotions.

If God really did create life, then why the hell does he enjoy torturing it so much?

Timmy hasn't spoken to me since the kiss. Since I ran away as fast as I could, stumbling over roots through a blur of tears.

He knew where I was going. He knows where the graveyard is.

I saw the look of letdown cross his face as he realized he would always come second to somebody who's nothing but a rotting corpse and a folder of memories. I can't say I've felt worse in my life then when I let the sweetest, most innocent boy I'd ever met down.

It's moments like these where I seriously consider suicide.

A slash to the wrists, gun to the head, a little push over the edge I've been falling off for longer than I can remember. My body yearns for the feeling of solid ground. It craves the impact and the explosion of seventeen years of wasted life. It's so easy to die.

There's such a thin line between barely holding on and letting go.

My toes curl beneath the sheets. The material, once smooth as silk, scratches and claws at the blistered skin.

Wet shoes without socks really isn't a smart idea. Then again, nothing I seem to do is smart.

I fucked over Timmy's life.

I refuse to take my medication.

I don't speak.

I haven't shown up to a therapy session, which became even more crucial after the accident, since it happened.

Did I mention, I pretty much fucked up my life? Oh, and Timmy's too.

I'm so going to hell.

Someone knocks at the door downstairs. It's a pleading, desperate knock. I'm the only one home. Whoever's standing outside that door came for me.

I can't help but to imagine how it'd be if that was my dead boyfriend.

They say depression makes it hard for you to get sexually excited, but by the looks of my crotch after that thought, I'd say I'm doing just fine.

I don't even bother looking through the peephole to see who is standing there. His neon hair shines bright through the window. I unlock the door and pull it open.

"Ohmygod. You look like crap, are you alright? You haven't been in school all week!"

It's only like, Tuesday.

"Have you even left your house? You look like a ghost. You're translucent. First you kiss me, and then you disappear. Jesus, what got into you?"

Even if I was going to say something, he doesn't let me.

"And then you speak. You actually spoke to me, on purpose. And then...boom! Gone. I'm pretty sure it's standard in most cultures not to show affection by giving someone blueballs."

Sorry. I've kind of got my own set of blueballs going on right here.

"Can I come in? Your house looks so worn down on the outside, but the inside doesn't look so bad." He scans behind me, taking in the pictures neatly lining the walls and the shoes stacked in rows by the door, my Converse included.

I step back and allow him to enter. He ducks as he steps through the door.

"Thanks. I like your house. It looks like people actually grew up here, instead of just moved in. We've got boxes everywhere."

Timmy throws his arms up on "everywhere" as to emphasize his point.

Everywhere, huh?

His eyes catch on the frames on the wall, more specifically of the most recent of them all- two boys smiling in the dark outdoors.

"Justin?"

I nod.

"He's gorgeous. You two look so happy together. Like one of those couples you see on book covers and everything. It's the kind of thing that makes people jealous, you know? I'd be jealous if I saw you two together in the park or something. I'd be..."

Forgiveness is golden.

It went so much deeper than the picture perfect couple. We were actually happy too, beyond those moments we were posing for the camera.

"I'm sorry. I know that wound is still new. Can I have a tour? Like, where the bathrooms are and everything incase my potty training doesn't appear to be holding? And, I'd love to see your room!"

Yeah, come on. I take his hand in mine. Timmy's palms are cool and smooth, innocent baby skin, while mine feel rough and callused-- unkempt. I've had a million things on my mind before taking care of my hands.

When you've been in a relationship with someone as long as me, the little things don't matter. You're not at that stage where you still have to impress the other person.

You're comfortable with each other.

I point out the kitchen on our right, living room in the front and the bathroom under the stairs. I always wanted my parents to tear out the plumbing when I was little and turn it into a bedroom for me like Harry Potter had. They didn't go for it.

The stairs have never looked so menacing. Timmy bounds up them with ease, taking the steps two at a time. I can barely lift my foot onto the first.

I'm about to bring another person into a world that belongs entirely to me and Justin, and me and Justin alone. Hidden pieces of us line the walls, little quotes and pictures after pictures of all our inspirations. I'm putting myself on display in front of a little blue haired judge.

Fuck it all.

He smiles at me off the top of the flight. "You coming? I'll bet I can guess which door is yours. If you're not coming, I'll go ahead and open i-"

That's all it takes to send me after him. Don't you dare! That's my room!

"Nice picture you got," he tells me when I make it beside him. "Didja draw it? I'll bet that's supposed to be you, yeah?"

On the paper, I don't hide behind my hair. Justin drew me with my bangs stopping just above my eyes. They're a mix of crystal blue and green, but so few people know that.

"That's wasn't me," I mutter.

"You don't talk to anyone alive, do you?" Timmy asks.

"No."

"But you do to me. Are you trying to tell me something?"

I take a deep breath and bite my tongue. "You remind me of him. Something in the way you take in the world, observing everything with this..."

"This...?"

"A childlike fascination."

I place my hand on the doorknob and slowly turn. The single piece of wood protecting everything I am from the world swings open with a creak on the hinges.

It's too dark to see anything.

"Have you any lights?" He flips the switch and a dusty strand of multicolored twinkly lights illuminate the ceiling in five different colors. It's an unfamiliar light. I can hardly remember how the faces glowed, their eyes hungry with revenge for everyone who wronged them.

That's all my music is about- anger and revenge. Karma's a bitch, but payback's even worse.

"Wow."

It's a lot to take in. 

"I like it, a lot," he assures. "It looks like you put a lot of effort into it."

"You guys," I correct. "You guys put a lot of effort into it."

"Is some of this his?"

I point out the distinct styles of scrawl along the walls; Justin's small, and neat; mine messy and letters blurring into each other. 30 Seconds to Mars, Show me the Skyline, Breathe Carolina and All Time Low- his favorite bands; Vic Fuentes smiling back at us under bangs longer than the length of his face; all the quotes that meant anything to us, to the world and to our relationship; any lyrics that kept us going when there seemed to be nothing left. Justin cannot be escaped.

"He's everywhere," I tell him. "I can't ever get away from the boy I loved with everything I had."

Timmy sits down on the edge of my bed. The springs creak under his fingertips, and he pats the covers beside him. "Sit."

I place myself down next to this person, this living, breathing person, and the first friend in my room in over a quarter of a year.

"If you can't get away, maybe it's time to take a different approach. Embrace your past, because it's the only thing you can hold responsible for the person you are today. And whether it was full of your favorite memories, or your greatest fears, it's still a part of you. It's not going to fade. You can't start to heal until you learn to accept the wound. Scars don't heal when you keep cutting. And maybe that's not such a bad thing."

"And, Damian?"

"Yeah?"

"Maybe it's time for you to stop trying to run from it all."