one foot in front of the other ➳ phan

they never leave me alone

Every day is the exact same.

The same sequence, the same bloody schedule; it never changes. It's like being trapped in a spiderweb: you can struggle and try to escape but in the end you've just made it worse. You end up dying there inside that silky prison, and that's how your story ends. Don't struggle, don't change, or else it'll go to shit: that's life, for me at least.

Every day yields the same fruit: none.

There's no result from my labour, no finish line. I can't see a light at the end of the tunnel, because hell, this tunnel might as well extend from one end of the universe to the other. I can't breathe because I'm underwater, and lord knows I can't swim for shit.

Every day is a struggle.

My life is a monotonous blur and it pains me to open my eyes in the morning. It sends a pang of agony through my hollow body every night to know that I'll have to wake up and do it all over again.

I wish I had died. I wish—

"Dan?"

Dan lifts his tired eyes from the sepia pages of the water-stained notebook and blows on the ink to dry it, placing his pen in the margin nearest to the spine and shutting it forcefully. His hand shakes with anxious tremors as the door swings open and hits the wall. He winces at the noise, and he stares up at the other man from his prison of pillows and blankets.

"Sorry, Bear," he clasps his hands together and scans the room. His eyes return to the figure on the bed, and he sends a knowing glance his way. "Have you moved all day?"

Dan looks down in defeat, and that's an answer that satisfies his query. He sighs, and closes the door with a careful grip, trying to make the click as silent as possible. He's had practice now, and manages to make the snap back of the handle almost mute.

He sashays over to the chest of drawers with the chipping paint and splintering wood and picks up one of the bottles. The lid hits the table with a plastic sounding thud and the sound of pills emptying into his palm hits his ears. The schedule on the table is missing a tick mark for today, the thirtieth of August, and the brunette man feels his heart sink a tad. He'd forgotten again.

That pill bottle closes and another three are opened: Zoloft, Wellbutrin, and Lamictal. His three kings of the pharmaceutical world. The doctors stopped adding on after these stopped working together. That was months ago; and he's steadily getting worse. That's life for 'ya: a steady decline into the abyss.

He picks up a red pen and ticks off today's medications for the morning, and carries a small cup of six pills over to his best friend while also handing him his water bottle. He tosses them back and coughs at the sudden taste of pill capsules, and the black haired man pats his back like he's a small child as he chokes them down.

He feels like he's drowning once again.

He fixes the glasses onto his nose and kisses my cheek, giving him a sympathetic smile as he runs a pale hand through his tangled mess of hair. Dan exhales and fogs up both our glasses, and brown meets blue as their eyes lock for what seems like the first time in an eternity.

"You're getting better," Phil states in a whisper. "I promise you you're getting better."

He sounds like he's trying to convince someone...but to Dan, the only person he's trying to convince is himself. He's heard the doctors speak—he's obviously not getting better, and he thinks he never will. He feels like a lost cause, a burden. The words from his journal flood through my mind again.

They never leave him alone.

He scoffs slightly and he absentmindedly bites his lip. "Yeah, and who the hell is saying that?"

"Me," he answers, pecking his lips and standing up. He grabs something off the bedside table and turns back to his boyfriend. "I'm saying that, Dan."

He hands the taller man the something he picked up and he takes it in shaky hands. The day never truly begins until he's reminded of what happened, what he lost, and the monster he is now. He can piece him back together all he wants, but he feels that he'll always be the same inside. He lifts his eyes to meet the piercing blue ones above him and he gets an unsympathetic smile in return. He's learned that sympathy does nothing but discourage, and he hates that he ever had to adapt to...well, his life.

"Doctor Harris called," he says, plopping himself down beside him. "It's time for a refill and a follow up. I scheduled it for tomorrow."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," He laughs as he dies on the inside once again. His eyes become stone and he scoffs. "And what if I don't want to go, Phil?"

"You're going," he demands, but in a pleading tone. "You have to go."

He chuckles, and takes his boyfriend's hand. "I only go to these bleeding appointments where nothing gets solved and our finances go down the drain because I love you. Not because I think I will ever get better."

"Then keep doing it for me!" He places a hand on the place just below the back of his neck and his sparkling eyes water. "If you give up, Dan, I'll never forgive you. You can't give up."

"Shouldn't you be filming?" Dan cut him off.

He just stares at him. "I guess I should. But the fans can wait, Dan."

"Don't you think they've been waiting enough?" He smiles derisively—not at Phil but at himself. "Don't let them down like I did, Phil."

"I told them you're struggling with your mental health right now," he whispers. "And it's true."

"If I was 'struggling' it'd come to an end sometime." He shrugs his hand off my shoulder. "This is terminal."

"Dan—"

"Go," He murmurs. "Go film. I'll change my shirt and guest star. Just give me a few minutes and I'll make my way there."

He nods simply. "I'll pan the camera again."

He gets a kiss on the forehead and Phil leaves the room, keeping the door open. Dan tugs a random sweatshirt from the accumulated pile of clothes on the bed and inhales, peeling the "My Neighbour Totoro" t-shirt he's been wearing for three days straight over his head. His hand brushes against his torso accidentally and he looks down. The white streaks are still raised like they're fresh, and the bruises never quite went away fully, as they're still a yellowish brown colour. He sighs and tugs the fleece hoodie over his head, narrowly avoiding knocking his glasses to the floor.

He scoots to the edge of the wicker bed and picks up the silicone apparatus from the pillow. He lifts the blankets to reveal his lower body and carefully pushes his leg stump into the prosthetic limb and flinches as the pin clicks, sending shivers down his spine. Dan puts his house shoes on over his "feet" and grabs his cane, pushing all his weight onto it to lift himself from the bed. As soon as his prosthetic is stabilised by the floor, he stumbles and his real leg threatens to give out, sending him to the floor in a helpless heap.

As he limps through the hallway he wonders what it would be like if he hadn't survived. If he had died rather than lived. The familiarly annoying click of the metal joint matches the pressure on his soul from the weight of imperfection, and he stops. He leans against the wall and begins sobbing, staring through a kaleidoscope of tears at the buckling and shaking fake leg, a sorry excuse for what he's lost.

Hello. My name's Dan Howell, and I swear on my right leg and left stump that I wish I was dead.

Every single day is the exact same. He's the only thing that's dynamic, and if it wasn't for Phil Lester, I would have never woken up that day.