i'm not crying, i'm dying {annie/armin}

[rook]

The Captiol feels hollow. HQ is a catacomb, and I am treading on the very bones that I laid down all those months ago. The smell of bleach upturns my nostrils, these empty hallways shine with a polished gleam that an array of avoxes must have worked at to perfect. It is a foul thing to smell such strong chemicals in a place that reminds you of death. It's a potent reminder that nothing can wash away the blood that I see on these walls. Nothing.

I'm surrounded by people who do not know me. Unfamiliar faces, new cadets - removed from their lives of comfort and thrown into an almighty ironworks that will either mould them or break them. It's that time of year, I suppose. It feels like yesterday that was me, fresh-faced, wide-eyed. My first glimpse of a world outside of Thirteen. The friendships I made were forbidden, but I made them anyway because it was exciting and new to me. I brush past the masses of overage Careers and privileged teenagers and make my way towards the dorms with a sense of guilt. I have a horrible feeling I'm going to have to kill some of them when things eventually go south.

I have an overbearing sense of inevitability. I've made too many mistakes, and I have thus-far been fortunate enough not to be upturned by anyone. Petra especially. Still, it seems like everyone still thinks that I am one of them. That's good for now, but I'm going to have to move for my targets soon, especially whilst key figures are still in the Capitol between Hunger Games.

But I don't want to, I'm not that person. Travelling to Thirteen, trying to figure out what was the best move forwards, that unlocked something inside of me that had me on my knees crying with frustration.

But I am that person, because despite what my brain says, and what my heart believes, there is something I just cannot control. The fabric of my own existence has been hijacked, and at times I just can't stop myself from doing what I was programmed to do - Plot and kill.

Kill. It's like static.

"Annie?" Comes a voice, and a hand on my arm. I flinch, stepping back and turning to the person. I do not recognise them - or maybe I do, but I just can't think straight with all this noise in my head.
"Are you okay? Why are you crying?" She says - I think she is someone I trained with once, or was that a nightmare too?

I ignore her voice, her concern. She calls after me as I walk away from her and quicken my step, but it is a million miles behind me. My hand shakes as I brush away the tears that she said were there, and the coldness of them makes me gasp for breath. Eyes all around me frown in my direction, and I feel very small.

I can't take their concern, their friendship. I can't make any connection with anyone, because it hurts too much. It tears me up inside because I know I'm going to betray them all, and they'll all see me as a murderer, a traitor, and a monster. I don't want to be defined as that, but that's what it is, and that's what I'll be, no matter how much I try to fight it. Everyone I care about will hate me, and the weight of that has me crying on my own in the locker room, my head pressed hard against my folded arms against the wall.

My chest feels like someone has drive a knife deep inside of me and slowly dragged it downwards. My head aches, my mind screams so loud that I can't even hear my own sobs. It's all so futile, trying to fight it, because it's just too strong. You can't lock a little girl in a dark room, steal away her childhood, teach her that killing is good and love is bad. You can't do that and expect to create the perfect killer, because I'm some kind of horrible mixture between a lonely, cold-blooded creature and a warm teenage girl who wants nothing more than to laugh with her friends.

I furiously rub my eyes with my forearm, before anyone sees me in the state I am in.

I am hurtling at a hundred-thousand miles an hour towards the surface of the planet, and when I inevitably collide, I am going to break and shatter beyond repair. It's moments like this, where I am standing still, that I have to grasp, because in all honesty I don't know how many more I'm going to get before it all ends. It's like surfacing for air, before returning to the depths of a black water. Eventually I'm going to drown.

If anyone could comprehend what I'm going through, it would be Reiner or Bert. I've always been the strongest mentally out of the three of us, but I've never shown either of them any compassion or friendship. Ironic, really. I have built such strong relationships here in the Capitol, but not with the two people I was sent here with to tear it all down. Something inside of me screams out that I'm a liar, and that Bertholt was the first friend I ever had, but I swallow it, because it's too painful for me to accept.

My face is still red raw, and my eyes look shot. I need a shower to wash all of this away, so that I can look fresh and presentable. I almost laugh at the idea of that - like I almost thought that any of this could be washed away. I'll still be a murderer. I don't laugh, I start to sob again, my eyes stinging so much that I can't keep them open.

[Python]

The massacre felt like ten years ago.

The Capitol could forgive and forget in a heartbeat. The streets bathed in the blood of innocents had been paved over and bleached clean – not a speck of evidence remaining from the incident, as if it had never happened. He waited days for the official report to be released. They only heard rumors from news broadcasts and Petra, who had sustained multiple injuries from the duel. The assailant was described as a person in an armored suit, all identifying features shielded by a sturdy helmet. Petra claimed to have sliced through the material hard enough to draw blood. The blood staining the edge of her blade seemed like sufficient evidence to support that claim, so it was also included in the report.

The Capitol called it an unfortunate crime. After a few days they dropped the subject completely, reminding the world that life only moved forward. Meanwhile, the Peacekeepers called it a terrorist attack. It didn’t feel like a random act of violence – why else would they wait for the Survey Corps to depart on a mission far far away? It had to be a calculated attack, and whether it was an act of vengeance or a message for the Capitol was still a mystery. Or maybe it’s both.

Blood had never made him queasy, but the idea of murdering another human being did not sit well in his gut. When he heard of the incident, his stomach churned. It was even worse knowing the assailant had escaped. They were still lurking in their territory somewhere, perhaps planning their next attack as they recuperated. What if they didn’t target citizens next time? What if they’re after us?

To keep his paranoia at bay, he stayed up late to read books from the Headquarters’ library. Fortunately when that didn’t work, he had a second distraction. A memory.

He knew a drunken kiss wasn’t supposed to hold a lot of meaning, but it continued to linger at the edge of his mind. Over breakfast, he thought remember the night you kissed Annie? It was almost surreal, gathering that much confidence with just a few sips of liquor. He still hated the burning taste of it. His first drink and his first kiss had been knocked out in one night, and he didn’t know how to handle the memory of it. Should he ignore it, and realize that by dwelling on it he was only digging himself into a deeper hole of overanalysis? Or was there actually something there?

You can’t solve this with logic, Arlert.

He was browsing through flower shops when he heard of Annie’s accident. Hospitalized from a leg injury, they said. He bought a bouquet.

There were a hundred things he wanted to say, but the hospital was no place for that. He wanted to keep it a short, pleasant visit so Annie would have time to recover. The timing is suspicious, isn’t it?

She was his friend.

He didn’t want to ruin that, but he found himself in a garden anyways. When he plucked a rose, Annie disappeared. Whether it was a faraway mission or a leave of absence, he didn’t know. He stored the flower in a vase for safekeeping, and watched the petals droop within a few days. He replaced it with another rose, a different color. It wilted along with his confidence, and concern for her well-being began to overpower him.

He found comfort in his friends. Today, it was breakfast with Eren. As usual, he had a rose in his jacket and a seat closest to the exit. His friends didn’t question his habits anymore; tensions were high after the massacre, and nobody wanted to think about how much blood had been spilled in these streets. He wondered if Annie’s absence was somehow connected to the attack. Was a friend of hers a victim, and she hadn’t told anyone?

His mind spun, and he walked back to Headquarters alone. The floors smelled like polish and aged chemicals. The library was toward the west, and he craved the smell of old books and shelf dust over the sterile environment. He didn’t want this place to remind him of hospitals.

”Arlert!” A voice stopped him, somewhat familiar. He paused and turned around.

”Yes?”

”You’re friends with Annie, right?”

His guts curled up into a knot. What was this about?

”Yes.” I like to think so.

”I just saw her – she looked really upset. I think she went into the locker room, but I don’t wanna bother her. Maybe you can talk to her?”

His mind focused onto a fixed point – Annie’s back. But it was not under the best circumstances.

He nodded. ”Yeah, I’ll talk to her.”

Shuffling into the locker room, quiet as a mouse, he listened. The sound of breaths erased his doubts, so he turned the corner and settled his anticipation. He confirmed that it was her, Annie Leonhardt, but a side he had never seen before. A side that left him dumbfounded, if it were possible.

For a moment, he was frozen. He didn’t want to startle her. There was a reason she was in here – she doesn’t want anyone to see her. And he understood, but he also couldn’t leave her in this state. What kind of friend would that make him?

Quietly, he interrupted. ”Annie?”

[ firestorm ]

[rook]

A N N I E

I used to be beaten for crying. My cheek was struck with the buckle of a belt again and again until I had no tears left. It was weak to cry, that's what I learned, my delicate skin bruised purple and yellow like a dying nebula. I was eight years old.

I exhale slowly, and in that shaky breath is an eternity. The weight in my chest does not ease, nor does my stomach become less tense, but hanging in the air is an echo of my pain, its suffering then imprinted on the silence that follows. I stare down at my hands - they are shaking. My hands have always been a symbol of strength to me, I used to believe that I could punch through walls. I could do anything back when I was a young, fresh fighter. I dreamed of being able to kill the evil dictators at the top of austerity's sick pyramid. But it doesn't take strength to kill someone, you don't need strong or steady hands to take a life, in fact it's the easiest thing in the world. It's just a flick of a switch or the squeeze of a trigger, it's putting your entire body weight onto your wrists and feeling a knife slowly sink into someone's chest, it's a sharp twist and a snap as someone's neck breaks. It is easy. What's hard is not doing it. Staring at my hands, I pinpoint what it is that makes them shake so vigorously - I am afraid of myself.

And maybe I'll never find my place in this life. I am stuck in a limbo between the only two things that I have ever known - the intense drive to fulfil the objectives that District Thirteen have implanted and hijacked into my brain, and the need to prove that I am not an inhuman monster.

We can't always get what we want, can we Annie?

No, there is no happy ending for me. No great resolution to my dilemma. I am being sucked into a black hole and there is nothing I can do but wait for my poetic justice. It will come, and I will have to face it head-on like I always have.

I suppose, I have to do what I can before that day comes. Whether that is kill the names that are chickenscratched in the back of my mind, or try to somehow convince Bert and Reiner to give up and run away with me.

I hang my head in my hands, rubbing at my eyes with the palms of my hands. I try to think back to my training, on how to overcome emotional barriers. I can't remember much, I wasn't really emotional so they didn't bother on that aspect of things with me, that was more Bertholt's weakspot. Take it day by day, that's what they said. One day at a time. I take another shaky breath, and then I hear a voice I do not recognise, and I look up and around the room through stinging red eyes.

He is the last person I expected to find me, but there he is. Armin Arlert, his usual, hunched, dorky self - a look of concern is painted on top of his babyfaced features, or is it pity? No, he's never pitied me. I don't think he could ever look down at anyone. He's as gentle and kind as they come, I think that one day that will be his downfall, but right now it's a welcome change from the shifty glares and suspicious glances.

Besides, he's a friend. I think he's a friend. I don't really know what he is to me. I kissed him, and it was really quite lovely. I invited him back to my room. I was drunk and ignored all of the covert instructions I was given for one night just so that I could get lost in his eyes, so that I could run my fingers through his soft blonde hair, so that I could drink him in and forget everything. He was like a drug only I managed to cut him off. Something came up, something I couldn't ignore, and I left him on my doorstep. I led him on, and left him like the horrible bitch I am.

He isn't just something I got drunk and wanted to fuck. Armin is the most intelligent person I have ever met. He has always given me good advice, even if I've not always asked him for it. He's kind, generous, and selfless - one of the most pure people you can find in a place as corrupt as the Capitol. He's the shoulder everyone leans on, he's the logic in the dark.

Maybe I need that Armin more than the drug. I don't know.

"If you tell anyone I was crying, I'll kick your ass, and don't think I won't, Arlert." I warn him, but something tells me he's not going to take it seriously. Probably because he knows I'd never lay a finger on him.

I wonder if he hates me for leaving him that night. He visited me in hospital briefly, when I fractured my own leg so that I could be in hospital on the night of the terrorist attack. It was very short-lived, with few words said and little warmth in my voice. I haven't seen him for months, and now I'm back in his life again, breaking down in a locker room - probably a far cry from what he was expecting.

I want to reach out to him, wrap my arms around him and pull him close to me. I want to cry into his shoulder, because he's probably been the only solid thing in my life in years.

But I don't, because I am afraid.

[Python]

Armin was no stranger to tears. Bruised eyes and swollen cheeks, he was backed into corners and labeled heretic as a child because he never enjoyed the Hunger Games. He hated violence and propaganda. Bullies took advantage of his refusal to retaliate, and his small stature didn’t exactly aid him. That was how he met his best friend – curled into a pathetic ball, cheeks stained with salt and fear. Eren found him and defended him until he was also black and blue, and they could endure together. Years later, they enlisted into Peacekeeper training, and it was the most difficult challenge he had ever faced. He was no stranger to tears because after hours of being pummeled into the dirt, hearing “mutt bait!” pounded between his skull, he retreated to his bunker to cry. He thought he wasn’t good enough.

Being the weakest? It sucked. Yet he had accomplished so much over the years that his comrades refused to make him feel anything but proud.

Here he stood, graduated from a ruthless training class, a certified Peacekeeper and soldier of the Survey Corps – and still no stranger to tears, because that aspect of his humanity was branded in his conscience for life. Fortunately, it equipped him with the right amount of empathy. Mixed with logic, that was a concoction for success in this world of brainwashing, violence, and discrimination. He didn’t want to think of tears as a weakness; he wanted them to make him feel human. Humans are supposed to feel emotions, and they’re supposed to express themselves. Tears should never be shamed nor mocked, not even in this line of work. There was a time and place, however.

This was the time and the place. It was a secluded locker room, empty and void of life, and he felt like he was intruding. He didn’t know if Annie was a stranger to tears, but his heart ached for her. He didn’t want to see her in pain. What happened? He was eager to ask, but he had heard the question a thousand times. Everything happened, all at once. If she was overwhelmed, he didn’t want to send her overboard.

”If you tell anyone I was crying, I'll kick your ass, and don't think I won't, Arlert.”

It was safer to assume she was telling the truth. Annie had graduated 4th of their class, and could best Eren in close combat. She could send Armin spiraling into the lockers and leave him with a concussion if she wanted. As her friend, he didn’t genuinely believe she would follow through with something that harsh, but he would rather take her seriously than not.

”I won’t tell anyone,” he promised.

He took a step closer, hands by his sides. He was naturally curious, so he wanted to know why she was in here and why she was upset. He was also worried. If something terrible was happening, he wanted to help. Annie was infamous for being aloof and distant, especially now that they were in the Survey Corps and she wasn’t. He respected that decision; it was tempting because it was safe. Up until the massacre, nobody felt threatened in the streets of the Capitol. Fighting escaped mutations in the forest was risky. Most Peacekeepers scoffed at the idea of throwing away the opportunity for an easier job. He’d do the same if he hadn’t been so inspired by his best friends (and lonely without them).

He didn’t think any less of Peackeepers who didn’t join the Survey Corps. The Capitol still needed powerful soldiers to patrol the streets. Joining the Survey Corps was probably crazier; it was spontaneous, dangerous, and unpredictable. It was also stressful, but he wouldn’t ask for anything different. Annie wanted something different, and that was okay. It simply created a divide between them. He wanted to break that divide and see more of her. That night had changed them, and he wasn’t sure why. He needed to know why. Was he obsessive, or was it something more? It was a stirring in his gut that would not quit.

Annie was not just some aloof soldier. She was a person, she had feelings, and something was wrong. Perhaps it had something to do with her disappearance, or her visit to the hospital the last time he had seen her. He was still faintly aware of the rose tucked within the pocket of his jacket, but he paid no mind to it.

He could wait another day.

”Do you want to talk?”

coding : elegant

[rook]

L E O N H A R D T

I say it's an empty threat, I try to convince myself that I'd never do anything to hurt him, but the thing about tracker jacker venom is that it is like fire in your veins. It makes you want to peel your own skin from your face and stab out your eyes, rip out your hair and scream until your throat bleeds. It is one of the most painful sensations that a human being can go through, so much so that you're not even a human being come the end of it. That sort of punishment leaves scars so deep that you just can't control yourself from fear of feeling that sensation again, even though you tell yourself again and again that it's gone, and that it's over, and that you're safe. It's too late, your biological nature has changed. What you think is natural, is no longer natural. What you think is rational, is no longer rational, and when I say I'll never hurt Armin Arlert, I don't know if I can promise that, because I'm not always in control of myself, and that is fucking terrifying.

My fists are clenched so tightly that my nails dig into my palms. I was once told something about palms, something about a calming method, but when I try to think of it all I can see is the straps around my arms and the wrought iron punches to the stomach whilst they measured my heart rate. If it gets too high then you'll fail, and you have to spend the rest of the week in the box, okay Annie? I was ten years old.

"I won't tell anyone," He vows. How nice that must be, for him to be able to make a promise and know that he can keep it. I wish I had that precious luxury.

He steps forward and my body suddenly jolts like a startled animal. My heart is in my mouth, and all I can see is the four constricting walls of the room they shut me in, and the darkness that engulfed me when they turned out the lights. I'm cornered, I've got nowhere to go, only it's not the men in lab coats trying to grab me now, it's my friend Armin, but I am just as afraid.

I mask it as best I can, swallowing the fear and the anxiety, bottling it all up and burying it deep inside myself as I burn it all away with a scowl. It's still there, tunneling inside me, to my very core, but my exterior turns cold and my heart rate slows. I feel stronger through the techniques I once learned, now second nature to me. My stomach feels heavy, and drops heavier still when I lapse in concentration and the fear leaks back in grimaces on my face.

"Do you want to talk?" His voice is something to focus on, and my eyes meet his. Clear blue, like water. That calms me. In all honesty, I don't want to talk. Talking is probably the worst thing to do when you're emotional, double-so is the case for me given what's at stake. Yet I can't bring myself to walk away from him, not like I did last time. Something stronger keeps me rooted to the spot.

I want to tell him that I've come back from the dead. He wouldn't believe me if I said I went to Thirteen and back. He wouldn't think it logically possible, but I was conditioned to do things outside the physical limitations of a normal person. I almost do, and my chest leaps as my mouth opens slightly. The words do not come out, but there, on the edge is every drip of emotion. I go to speak again, but it's like trying to throw up when you have nothing in your stomach. My eyes sting, and instead I shake my head.

The moment is gone, and by instinct I push all of those emotions downwards back inside of myself, all the while trying to not be crushed by the weight of all those bodies lying dead in my conscience.

I sit down on one of the benches, my hands move to rest in my lap. I look up to Armin, who is for once above my eye level. I look into his crystal blue eyes again, searching for help. He displays compassion that I do not deserve, but I have looked into his eyes many times and seen fire. He is far more twisted and manipulative than I am, his intelligence is far beyond his years, the only difference is he has a moral compass, and would never do anything that would hurt anyone.

Maybe Armin can be my compass. I'd go wherever he pointed, if he asked me to. I trust him that much - the only person I don't trust is myself. The only issue is that I don't want to get any closer to him than I already have. No part of this will ever end well. Ever. There is no eventuality where I get to come out of this alive. There is no eventuality where I get to be with Armin.

"I'm sorry I went away." I say, and I can't quite believe the lies I am spewing to someone who I consider my closest friend, "I needed space." But it's all so natural.

I was wrong, I'm far more manipulative.

[Python]

He paused.

There was a startle response, brief but noticeable. Her body flinched as if Armin were a threatening force, and it glued his heels to the tile. He blinked and wondered if he had imagined it. Annie was usually not the type to express vulnerability. She was sturdy, the eye of the storm, but she could also be the storm. She didn’t graduate 4th of their class for nothing. She possessed fighting techniques far beyond his own level, and nothing about her ever screamed afraid. But the startle reflex warned him that something was off. Annie wasn’t just crying; something had happened to her. More and more details were coming to light, and he grew worried as the seconds passed. What is it, Annie?

He resisted the urge to pry. One step too far, and she could shut him off completely. She had to trust him, just as he trusted her.

He offered to talk and that was all. It didn’t matter the subject. If she needed to vent about the stresses of her job, so be it. If discussing the weather would help her take her mind off of the world’s atrocities, he would sit down and listen to every word of it. He was arguably the quietest member of the squad. Silence was sacred; it was the time he spent observing, thinking, and strategizing. He had to contemplate their next move before it was made, because impulse meant certain danger (although Eren never seemed to grasp that concept, or he simply didn’t care). Even during social events he was usually quiet, but that never meant he wasn’t attending.

If anyone could sit and absorb information patiently, it was Armin.

He stood away from her, nonthreatening. She sat on the bench and apologized for her absence. It was easy to fall prey to the Capitol’s chaos. He wouldn’t blame anyone for wanting a break, especially after the massacre. An investigation was still underway, even as the Capitol smothered it with news about the Hunger Games and the next big fashion celebrity. Their world was a mess and they were all forced to live in it.

Still, he knew there was something more to this. “Needing space” was honest, but barely scratched the surface of the real issue. When Armin needed space, he locked himself in his bedroom to sort through the bombarding feelings. Usually these emerged from a specific event – a bad day of training, a particularly dangerous mission, the massacre. He had to be alone with his own thoughts, no distractions, no added stress. It was a time to gather his wits and (hopefully) formulate a solution. Something serious must’ve happened to Annie, but if this was all she wanted to reveal then he would not pursue it further. Private events were private events. Secrets are secrets.

”I understand,” he said, nodding.

I missed you.

He gulped and decided against admitting it. It felt like such an awkward truth, and a perfect way to ruin the moment – but we’re friends, aren’t we? His feelings no longer cooperated with that term. His mind and his heart were in agreement that he could see her as something more.

It felt against his better judgment, but he pulled the rose out of his jacket. ”I uh, saved something for you.”

Maybe it was a mistake, but he would take the gamble.

He offered her the flower, hoping to banish the red tint in his cheeks.

[ firestorm ]

[rook]

a n n i e

Guilt drips thick and black, heavy on my chest like hot tar. It's burning me from the inside, ruining me. It's weighing me down, and despite my conflicted intentions, it's just a little too late for me to take back all of the lies. The thing about lying is that it's cumulative. With every lie the web that you created becomes more complex, to a point where you have to try and sustain this false reality that you have created - you have to stick to it with such consistency that the level of concentration required to sustain it becomes unbearable. It is statistically impossible to keep lying without eventually coming to a contradiction.

And when that contradiction comes, you get caught out, caught in your own web of deceit. I will be helpless, I will be devoured.

"I understand," He nods, trying his best to lift the mood. There's something else there hanging in the void after he speaks, I can't quite figure it out. I grind my teeth, the culpability feels like steam inside of me, boiling away. I struggle, my breaths are short, my face is pale.

Do you understand? Do you really understand what the fuck I am going through? Of course he doesn't. He has no fucking idea what this is like, what this calamity is. This absolute decay. I'm being torn apart, with my duty and handwritten instincts on one side, and whatever conscience I have left on the other, all the while I am moving at a thousand miles an hour towards a net that will ensnare me. It's inevitability, that's what this is. He has no fucking clue.

I'm dying. I am actually dying. There is no outcome where I get to live. I am on borrowed time, and even that feels like I am slowly becoming nothing.

I understand is the biggest lie you can ever say to someone. It's a throwaway phrase, meant to comfort people and make you think that the other person can relate to whatever it is that you're going through, but in truth no one has any idea what any other human being is going through. Armin, whilst his intentions are good, really has no clue.

I suppose he is just saying it because he wants me to feel better. I don't deserve that kindness, but he's giving it to me anyway because he obviously cares about me and doesn't like seeing me upset. I would probably have said the same if the roles were reversed.

I look at him and I see everything I want to be. Honest, genuine, loyal. You'll struggle to find a better human being in this shitty world than Armin Arlert, and I'll struggle to find a better friend. Lover. Stop it.

Oh but I remember that night. I asked him if he thought I was pretty. He was nervous, his hands were shaking like he didn't know what he was doing, but he did. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him towards me, I kissed him and he kissed me back. It was drunk passion, and completely the opposite of what I was supposed to be doing, but fuck it, alcohol messed me up. I wonder if I get drunk enough, could I bypass the part of my brain that tells me to kill people? Maybe, but I'd probably be paralytic.

"I uh, saved something for you." Armin speaks up again, producing something curious from his jacket. I tilt my head when I look at it.

A Flower. For me?

No one has ever given me a flower before. Does this mean he likes me? Jesus, no. I can't let this happen, not again. I go red, maybe from panic, maybe from embarrassment, fuck knows. I can't get attached to him, or to anyone. What is the point when I'm just going to wreck it all? It'll kill him when he finds out what I am... and what I've done.

"That's very nice of you, Armin." I say, my voice not quite steady, but not yet breaking. My hand reaches out and gently takes the stem of the flower with two fingers and a thumb.

I stare at it. It is beautiful. He's given it to me as a sign of affection, because he likes me, because it reminds him of me. How can something as beautiful and delicate as this remind him of me? I am an inhuman monster. He is so very blind to what I am. It's heavy in my gut, the guilt piles up again, ever straining. I am struggling to breathe as the moral dilemma compresses against my chest, but I'm not quite suffocating yet.

It's unbearable.

I stand up, and before I know it I'm burying my head into his shoulder and wrapping my arms around his waist. I'm crying again - I feel so stupid. I close my eyes to fight them back, sobbing into my friend. I hear his heartbeat, and I lean my weight against him in a plea for support. He is real, and that's all that matters right now. He is the only real thing I have.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I am so very selfish for letting myself be loved, "I'm sorry. I let you down, I'm sorry."