you look so cool. (matty healy)

ten

Matty walks off down my block in the direction of downtown. I'm left in disbelief, in awe of what just went down. I stumble back inside, Sloane is still on the sofa asleep. Holding the paper in my hands, I wander into the kitchen and make myself some tea.

I head back outside onto the porch and sit on the stairs not ready to let go of what just happened. I look down at the paper, with "for luna" in the handwriting I am all too familiar with.Slowly, I peel open the paper, to which I am surprised opens to be multiple sheets, all handwritten. He wrote me a letter.

Dear Luna,

Firstly I want to start this by saying, don't feel obligated to read any of this. You owe me nothing, but I want to explain everything. I hate that I've left you in the dark all these years, and for that I have no excuse.

I'm such a fuck up.

I couldn't even look at myself in the mirror for months after I left you. I was so fucking disgusted with myself.

The only thing I have ever done right in this life is you. And even that I managed to fucked up.After the petrol station when I left you, I was so fucking manic. I was high, and again that's no excuse, but it wasn't me. I feel so fucking deep into this pit of despair, coupled with drugs, I become a shell of myself.

I was shooting up multiple times a day, I lost almost thirty pounds, and my arms were covered in bruises. I hid from society and myself in long sleeves and beanies.

I left England entirely, and ran off around the world. I ran away from everything. I blacked out for almost two years straight. I needed help, but wasn't brave enough to ask. I cut everyone off, my family, my friends, even you, the one person I needed more than anyone in this world.

I came back to Manchester, and it took just about killing myself to realize I needed help. I had the worst overdose of my life. I was legally dead for two minutes. I spent a week in the ICU on every machine you can ever imagine. I was given an ultimatum. Continue to kill myself or get help in rehab.

I almost chose not to go. I really did. But then I thought about you. And what scared me the most was the things about you I couldn't remember.

I couldn't lose any more of you then I already had. I signed the papers immediantly. I was gone in a rehab in North England for about 6 months. I got clean. I got better, and I felt better. And leaving rehab I was better than I had been in a long time. I went home to Manchester, and I met my now best friends, Ross and George.

We bonded over LCD Soundsystem, Talking Heads, and Blue Nile. We all loved music and had played in minute bands growing up. All of us were leaning on the other for support, and we kinda decided "fuck it", what if we made music?

We messed around for a bit with sounds and such for a while, still not completely serious, and then we put a song out on youtube, and it slowly began to blow up.

After some gigs at small bars we made the decision to record an album. Every time I would sit down to write all I could think about was you. So I kept writing, it helped me. I worked through a lot of feelings.