Stupid Little Blue Haired Boy (boyxboy)

this is number ten. i hope you enjoy.

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(;

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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.