Letters to Phil. (Phan)

Letter Thirteen.

March 28, 2015

Dear Phil,

I broke again today.

I was doing really well for the past few days, without any sign of a breakdown. Sure, I felt empty still, but I hadn't cried at all since the seventeenth. Today broke that scale and this time, I was alone. No one was here to help me.

This morning, I woke up, and for some reason, I forgot you moved out. I had gotten up, excited, because I had an idea for a video that I needed you to be in with me, and I immediately started yelling your name. When you didn't reply, I just figured you were still sleeping. That was until I opened the door to your room to find that you weren't here.

I'm so stupid, Phil. I could've called Pj. Or Chris. Or Louise. Someone. I could've called them, but instead, I walked into your old room and everything hit me so quick, I wasn't thinking nor was I able to breath. I did the first thing that came to mind and that was to call you.

When you answered, you sounded groggy. As if I had woken you up. And I thought it was going to be okay again, because you answered, but when I had said your name, you asked me who it was. That's when I had dropped my phone, a loud sob escaping my mouth.

I hurt myself more. There are bandages around my wrist now because of my nonthinking state. I didn't want to do it, it hurts, but it was almost as of instinct kicked in. I did it about ten times and they were pretty deep. My arms are going to be so scarred up, Phil.

You always told me how you loved my arms. You always mentioned how impossibly flawless they were. Not a scratch on them.

You would be disappointed to see them now.

I could've called Louise, to have her come over and stay with me, but I knew she would be with you today. She told me you and her we're going to film a video together today.

I'm sitting here alone in the dark of the living room, writing this now. It feels the most comfortable. Where I don't feel as pathetic because I'm blending in with the dark. I could just disappear right now if I truly wanted, you know?

But I honestly don't think I want that. Not truly.

Which is a start to recovering, right?

Love,
Dan.