Are you okay?

00:25AM

Sometimes, you just needed to cry about things.

Sometimes you couldn't hold it together, no matter how many times you told yourself it was fine or begged yourself to hold it in. And sometimes, like now, the tears couldn't stop flowing no matter how much I willed them not to.

The urge to cry often popped up at the worst moments, like when I was at school during a lesson and out of nowhere I'd lose all motivation and energy to keep going. I'd make an excuse to go to the toilet so I could breakdown away from prying eyes, but when I would get there I would have no tears to cry, instead staring blankly at myself in the mirror until I felt something, anything, just the smallest feeling to convince myself that I was even still alive.

Half of me wanted to invalidate my feelings again as I usually would: why was I crying over something so painfully small? But then the other half of me knew that I had every right to cry: I had just failed a suicide attempt and then spoken about feelings I never willingly disclosed – of course I would want, and need, to cry about it.

"You were right."

I whispered quietly, more of a murmur but somehow he still managed to hear it as his head snapped up, his onyx eyes immediately focused on my own as they widened in realisation. "Right about what- Wait are you crying?!"

"No," I elongated sarcastically, forcing out an exaggerated grin as I quickly wiped my tears. "Water just leaks from my eyes sometimes."

He didn't even crack a smile, a solemn expression on his face as guilt began pooling in his eyes. "I didn't mean to upset you-"

"You didn't." You just told me a truth I was uncomfortable with hearing. "And you were right. I am scared of being happy."

It's not that I wanted to be depressed. No one willingly did. But being happy was absolutely terrifying.

When you've lived your entire life in darkness, you get used to it. I made a home from all the tears, and built high walls around it out of the pain. So when light began to stream in through the cracks in the walls, it felt... wrong. Like I shouldn't be happy; like I was undeserving of it.

I'd let my insecurities weave their way around the wall, covering up the gaps and blocking out the happiness that I so desperately craved but was too fearful to keep. And then came the hurt: the fall after the high, when you realised it was a lot darker than it was before now that the light was gone. In the absence of light was when I truly saw my deep my scars were, and realised that my wounds were still yet to be healed.

"Is it the feeling that scares you?" He queried as he shut the book sat between his hands, placing it down before directing his full attention to me. "Or the aftermath of it?"

"Both." I'm so used to being alert for potential pain that I search for danger in the absence of trouble and never get to actually enjoy being happy, since I'm so caught up in overthinking about what could end it. "It feels so wrong when I'm not sad. Like I've been programmed to feel pain and I'm malfunctioning."

He nodded. "And then at the same time, you're scared of when the feeling ends because you end up hurt, so you'd rather avoid it completely."

"Exactly-" I cut myself off, covering my mouth with my hand as I let out a quiet gasp, my eyes trailing down.

"What? What is it?" He asked, puzzled as he gazed at me inquisitively, one of his hands subconsciously reaching to check his hood was still up.

I blinked incredulously a few times as my eyes travelled downwards towards the book sat discarded on the stranger's lap, one hand splayed across the front cover, the book title still legible despite the distance between us. "Please tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."

He followed my gaze down to the book, a perplexed look on his face before he grinned in realisation. "You don't like Romeo and Juliet?"

"Hate." I mumbled vehemently, shaking my head as he picked it up and made a show of flicking through the pages. "I hate it."

"I've probably read this a thousand times-" he grinned at my appalled expression, "-and, yes, they were stupid at certain parts, but surely you can't deny that it's one of the greatest love stories ever written?"

"Love?!" I scoffed, leaning back in my seat as I folded my arms, "You could call it a lot of things, but they weren't in love. They only knew each other for about 3 days!"

"If you're going to hate the book at least hate it for a more original reason than that," he muttered, "And if they didn't love each other, why were they willing to take their own lives?"

"Same reason I want to die," I stated obviously, "They were depressed."

"Romeo and Juliet were depressed?" he repeated, unconvinced as his dark brown eyes scrutinised my statement. He got up and walked over to my row of seats, opposite where he had originally been sat, plopping himself down with a considerable distance between us. "How exactly did you come to that conclusion?"

"They thought that maybe if they tried to love each other, it might make them feel like they belonged, like they had a purpose, like they had a reason to stay alive." I clarified. "They couldn't love themselves, so they needed someone else to love them."

Once Romeo and Juliet fell in love as they claimed, they thought it was their sole purpose and everyone else in their lives became insignificant. I don't think they killed themselves because they loved each other though - far from it actually; I think they killed themselves because they both lost their one reason to stay alive.

When the other died, the harsh reality hit them that by 'loving' each other, they had simply just been running from the problems within that they didn't want to face. I found it fitting that my middle name was Juliet, since all I ever did was run away from my problems too.

"They would rather get caught up in the blissful spell of lust than admit that the two of them weren't okay, and when their plan fell through they both decided to do what they'd both wanted to do all along and kill themselves."

I turned to gauge the stranger's reaction, screaming internally as he somehow managed to find a way to oppose my argument. "I don't think either of them actually wanted to die though; that was Shakespeare's whole point," he countered, his gaze switching between me and the book in his hands. "He wanted to romanticize their deaths and have them commit suicide as a grand gesture-"

"-by making Romeo and Juliet put on a noble front, and have them spew out lies about 'loving' each other so much that they couldn't live without the other." I interrupted, adding on sarcastically just to spite him, "Isn't that so cute!"

He rolled his eyes, though a slight smile was evident on his face as he held the bridge of his nose. "Obviously it isn't, but Shakespeare probably thought it would be."

In a swift action the stranger tossed the book at me, kicking his legs up onto the seats between us while I caught it with ease. "Give me a warning next time!" I mumbled under my breath as he flashed me a brazen smirk. The copy was worn and slightly tattered, just about holding itself together as I turned to a random page. "What was the point in chucking the book at me anyway?"

"You can keep it," he started, a grin spreading across his defined features as I raised my eyebrows at him, "since you clearly need it more than I do."

I threw the book at him.

"Okay I deserved that," he chuckled, getting up to retrieve the book from where it had landed on the floor after hitting his arm. "But, in the nicest way possible, Romeo and Juliet couldn't have been depressed-"

"-and they weren't." I finished off, turning to him with wide eyes as I recognised my error. "They weren't the ones who were depressed... Shakespeare was."

He shot me a dry look before dropping his head into his hands, taking heed to check his hood was still up as he did so. "I take back what I said earlier - you are definitely crazy."

I laughed, nudging him in his side since this time he had sat back down right next to me, a mere touch between us. "Hear me out at least!"

"Well I'm stuck with you for the whole night, I don't really have a choice do I?" He sighed jokingly, resting his head on his hands as he listened to me.

"Why would someone who was happy and content with life write plays filled with dying and heartbreak?" I questioned rhetorically, "Clearly Shakespeare was unhappy, or even possibly depressed, and saw writing as his escape, a place where he could express his emotions by inflicting them on characters."

The stranger pondered silently, his eyes drifting over to the cover of the book as he nodded slowly. "That's actually a valid point."

A monotone voice filled the train, grabbing both of our attention as it stated the next approaching station. The strangers eyes glinted with recognition at the mention of the station name, before he turned towards me, asking, "So when exactly do you plan on getting off this train?"

I shrugged, grabbing my journal which somewhere along the way had fallen down to the seat that the stranger was occupying, resting between our thighs. "Maybe this stop?" I suggested, placing my journal back in my rucksack and zipping it up again.

He nodded, standing up to retrieve his own rucksack discarded by his prior seat. He opened it up, the same clinking sounds I'd heard earlier filling the train as he set his copy of the play back inside. "What on earth have you got in your bag?" I blurted, dropping my head down slightly as he turned to meet my wondering gaze.

"Just some things," he answered vaguely, sending me a smirk upon seeing my exasperated expression. "Nothing important, don't worry."

"You saying don't worry just makes me think about it more," I pointed out as he shrugged smugly, his pronounced cheekbones complimenting his carefree smile. "At least give me a hint!"

"It's... it's how I relax," he spoke cryptically, strolling over to me with his rucksack this time and sitting beside me. I held his potent gaze, refusing to back down until he gave me a proper explanation. "It's... for a hobby I do."

"Based on what you've told me, and trust me it's not much to work with," I chided, "you either have knives in your bag and are a murderer – not that I would mind being your victim," he chuckled, shaking his head, "or you attend midnight fencing classes."

"Is that even a thing?" he raised his eyebrows at me, surprised as I nodded. "And it's nothing quite as extreme as that... sure it's not common but it's an art form – kind of like how you write poetry."

I stiffened, my mind freezing for a split second before I registered his words. "What- what did you just say?"

He cleared his throat, unable to hold my gaze as he began lowly. "Don't freak out-"

"You expect me not to freak out that you know something about me barely anyone does?!"

How did he know? "Did you- did you guess maybe?" I spoke aloud, more to justify it to myself than to reason with him. "Was it the journal; did you just guess that I write something creative?"

He sighed, tense as he tugged on his hood again. "If I took the easy way out and answered yes, I would be lying."

I stood up abruptly, grabbing my rucksack as I took a few steps away from him. He knew I wrote poetry. About three or four of my friends were aware, and that was literally it. "How do you- Who even are you?!"

The train gradually began reducing in speed, a sign to its two passengers that the journey would soon be coming to a temporary pause. I stood facing him in a heavy silence, waiting for an answer, an explanation, or even simply anything. His jaw was clenched as he let out a deep sigh, a torn look in his eyes as he finally lifted them to meet mine.

"You're asking me questions I can't give you answers to."

The train came to a screeching halt, jolting for dramatic effect before exhaling with relief. I cast one last look towards the stranger before heading towards the doors squeakily sliding open, seeming to take an eternity to finally do so as I huffed impatiently.

"Wait!" he called out, causing me to hesitate slightly, before continuing in my stride. I heard his footsteps shuffling behind me, quickening my pace as I felt my heart palpitate rapidly.

"Don't stalk me." I muttered, paying no heed to his further movements as I continued towards the awaiting doors. "Or however it was you found out that information."

I glanced through the doors at the uncharted platform, glad to be getting away from the cryptic stranger, before I turned to spare him one last glance. He stood still about a metre away from me, conflict brimming in his dark brown eyes full of myriads of enigmas as he deliberated on what to do.

"Don't follow me either," I warned, shrugging my rucksack on further as I gripped the two straps, before stepping into the ominous silence of the empty platform. A rush of déjà vu hit me as I hesitated in my steps, pensive before I lifted my head back up and strode down the platform without another look back.

"Cassie!"

He made my blood run cold enough to freeze me in my spot as I felt my feet come to a sharp standstill. Knowing I wrote poetry was one thing - but knowing my name?! I gripped even tighter onto my rucksack for support, my knuckles turning white as I turned to interrogate him.

"How?" I whispered, barely audible as I stood facing him. "How do you my name, or anything about me?"

He chuckled humourlessly, his piercing gaze fixed on mine as he matched my tone, murmuring lowly, "You don't want to know the answer to that."

(A/N)  I almost didn't update today because I've really been struggling mentally. I can feel myself getting worse again and I hate it. This book is literally becoming my only reason to stay alive.

Thanks to everyone for reading, I really do appreciate it!

- T.R.