I am not Socrates.

Although I couldn't sleep at all, I didn't get out of bed until nearly noon that day. I had already missed my Ancient Philosophy class, and I had no real desire to go to my later classes. Instead, I reached for my phone, opened up my school email account, and asked one of my classmates if there was any homework for Ancient Philosophy. I couldn't bring myself to go to class, but I still didn't want to fall behind.

She replied back relatively quickly, telling me that she was sorry for my loss and that we were supposed to read another one of Plato's dialogues for Tuesday. News spread quickly in Old Haven, but I had no idea that everyone knew about Brendon's death already. I sighed, opened up my copy of the works of Plato, and found the section that I was assigned to read.

Even my homework managed to remind me of Brendon. I thought of how he always used to call me "Modern Day Socrates." It wasn't the most accurate nickname, at least in my opinion, and it brought back all kinds of painful memories. As I read, I realized just how irritating Socrates could be. In the dialogue, he was nothing but an overly optimistic philosopher who didn't realize the horrors of the world and asked far too many questions. I swore to myself that I wouldn't become like him as I hurled the book against the wall of my dorm room. Socrates knew nothing.

I crashed back onto the bed and thought about better philosophers to emulate. I needed answers, and I wouldn't necessarily get an answer just because I asked a question. There was nobody out there to answer those questions anyways, so there was no point in asking them.

I thought of Morals, Values, and Ethics, where we had started to read some of Friedrich Nietzsche's works. He was a better philosopher to follow. After everything that had happened to me, I could believe that life was meaningless and God was dead. It would certainly explain why no higher power would listen to me and why Brendon died even though he was far too young for it. Anything that would give me an answer without a question was good enough for me.

I hardly ever left my dorm room that weekend, only leaving to play at the Aubergine. However, I didn't spend much time there either. I showed up promptly at nine o'clock, and then left immediately after the show was done. There was nothing there for me anymore, and sometimes, it felt like Brendon's death had taken all of the joy out of life altogether. Now, my life was merely routine, with nothing to truly live for.

As the days passed by, Patrick came in and out of Room 27, occasionally making an attempt to console me. For the most part, he left me alone, and it was better that way. I was lost in my own head, letting my grief consume me.

Occasionally, I let myself think of love and happiness, but only as illusions. I knew from experience that love was fleeting, always ending in heartbreak or tragedy. Happiness, I decided, was also a delusion. It was a false emotion that humans had created to get ourselves through our broken lives. Hope and dreams were useless, and I was certain that there was no reason to believe that I would ever find happiness, because it didn't exist.

I couldn't bring myself to go to Public Policy or Principles of Ecology on Monday, but I did manage to drag myself out of bed for Morals, Values, and Ethics. Although I was convinced that I was nothing more than a shell of a human being without my soulmate, I did think that Morals, Values, and Ethics might give me a few more answers, so on Tuesday, I left Flack Hall and went to class.

I sat down in my usual chair, but I barely paid attention to what my classmates were saying. They were still suffering from the illusion of happiness, and I couldn't bear to hear their incessant chatter. I tried to keep the events of Brendon's twenty first birthday from replaying over and over in my head until Professor Caldwell made an announcement. "We're going on a field trip today," she said.

"Where are we going?" one student asked.

"We are going to see the Senior Art Gallery," Professor Caldwell said. "Your assignment is to select one piece of artwork and write a few paragraphs on how it relates to a concept that we have discussed in class. I will be collecting this assignment on Thursday."

Normally, I would have been excited to see what the senior art majors at Kale had created, and I would have been even more excited to connect it to my favorite subject, but I couldn't feel much of anything when I was still being bombarded by memories of Brendon. As the rest of the class left to visit the art center, I trudged along with them, completely devoid of my classmates' enthusiasm.

When we arrived in the Senior Art Gallery, I peeked around, but nothing truly struck a chord with me. There was an abstract painting that many of my classmates seemed to appreciate that supposedly represented the moral shades of gray, but I couldn't see the appeal. Morality was nothing more than a construct, after all. I wandered amongst sculptures of men in black marching band uniforms and drawings of northern downpours, and I couldn't find anything to love. Even in a room full of beautiful art, I couldn't find a distraction to mask what was real.

As I wandered through the gallery, I finally did find something that interested me. Right next to a few pages from a graphic novel, there was a series of five paintings in black, white, and red, all done by the same artist. The first painting depicted a demonic-looking young man commanding a small army of dogs. I stared at the painting for a while, and then looked at the tag under it. Frank Iero and the Hounds of Hell - painted by Gerard Way, it said.

I moved on to the next painting, which portrayed a young woman burning her birth certificate. The tag underneath it read A Portrait of a Teenage Anarchist (Laura Jane Grace) - painted by Gerard Way. There was a rather terrifying self-portrait titled Portrait of a Mad Artist next to it, followed by an image of Pete applying eyeliner with an angry expression on his face. The tag on the fourth painting said Pete Wentz Puts On His War Paint - painted by Gerard Way.

The fifth and final painting in the series depicted me, but it wasn't anything like what I expected. I appeared so small, sitting in a chair in the corner of the painting. The background was nothing but jet black paint, but my painted counterpart didn't seem to realize that as he rested in the chair, lost in a dream. After staring at the painting for a few minutes, I took a look at the tag. It said, Ryan Ross Searches For Meaning In An Empty World - painted by Gerard Way.

Professor Caldwell passed by and noticed me gazing at Gerard's paintings. "It's odd seeing yourself through someone else's eyes, isn't it, Ryan?" she said. I nodded, and she continued onward to check on one of her other students.

Maybe Gerard had a point. Maybe all along, I had been searching for meaning in an empty world. As I continued onwards through the gallery, I concluded that life was meaningless. Others in my philosophy class might say that the meaning of life was finding happiness or worshipping God or caring for nature or creating goals, but I was certain that life was completely without meaning. Of course, if life didn't have any meaning, then I wasn't certain what point there was in living. Without anyone to love or any particular reason why I was here, I couldn't say why I was alive at all.

After class was over, I returned to Flack Hall and typed up a few paragraphs about Gerard's paintings of the Guyliner Club. They haunted me, as any good piece of art should, and even when I went to the Aubergine later that day, I still thought of the jet black background in the final painting.

I showed up to the Aubergine a couple of minutes early that day. Before I took my seat at the piano bench, I had to talk to a few people. On my way into the building, I found Gerard and Frank holding hands as they entered the Aubergine. I felt a pang of sadness as I walked next to them and remembered how Brendon used to do that with me. All of the happiness that I had felt back then was nothing more than a delusion. Nevertheless, I forced a smile and told Gerard, "I saw your artwork in the Senior Art Gallery. It looked amazing."

"Thanks Ryan," Gerard said. He then ignored me and talked to Frank, and I rushed into the bar. Inside the Aubergine, I heard all kinds of gossip about Brendon. Most of it was pure rumor or things that I already knew, but I did hear that Brendon's parents were flying to Old Haven from Las Vegas. I was a little surprised to hear that, since Brendon had never had the best relationship with his parents, but we all get together when we bury our friends. Even Brendon's estranged family couldn't disagree with that.

I was about to walk over to the stage to talk to Spencer, but Heidi stopped me. "I'm so sorry about Brendon," she told me. "I wish that there was something that we could have done to help him."

"You don't understand what it's like, Heidi," I said. It was true. I was certain that nobody else was suffering like I was.

"Perhaps I don't," she admitted. "I didn't love him like you did, but that doesn't mean that I don't miss him. I think that I can speak for everyone at the Aubergine by saying that you're not the only one who's grieving."

"It's not fair," I said. "Brendon was too young for this."

"I agree," Heidi said. "Ryan, if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here for you."

"I don't need to talk to anyone," I said as I stepped onstage and sat on the piano bench. I looked at the clock and saw that it was nine in the afternoon, and even though there was no passion in our performances anymore, we had to play. My fingers touched the piano keys once again, simply dragging themselves through the routine of playing the piano. If life itself had no meaning, then there was certainly no meaning behind playing the piano at the Aubergine.

After the show was over, I left immediately, headed back to Flack Hall, and flopped onto my bed. At last, I had a few answers, but there was still something deeply wrong. There was still a massive Brendon Urie-shaped hole in my life - a wound that I suspected would never heal. Even my newfound realizations couldn't fix that. I began to sob once again, and as I cried myself to sleep, I drifted away into the nothingness that was life. 

A/N: Thank you so much for reading The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know (and getting me to 2.5K reads!) I will be out of town until Monday, so please don't expect another update until next Wednesday at the earliest. After I return, there will be about seven more chapters before the end of the book, and I will publish a new, original novel shortly after the completion of The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy the remainder of the story! :D