Dear diary,

It seems…lately there has been a pain in my chest where my heart is. It isn't just when I see Hungary and Austria together anymore, but it haunts me in my sleep. I wake up at night, clutching my chest in hopes that it'll go away. I know what you're thinking, the awesome me can't possibly get sick. It's true though, diary. Gilbird…I haven't seen him in a couple weeks, but I hear him. I see his shadow just outside my window, but when I got there, the only thing I see is him flying off into the woods nearby. What is happening to me?

Ah…the pain in my chest again. Is this how the Roman Empire felt when he disappeared? Was this how my grandpa, Germania, felt? Am I…am I dying? I don't want these horrible thoughts, diary, but they just seem to haunt me endlessly. Day in and day out. I try not to let West see my pain whenever it does strike. My face goes pale and my smile falters. I know West notices, he even asked me once, but I said it was because I drank too much and I was getting a little faint. Whenever I see France and Spain, they always ask me if I was sick and I say persistently that I am not…even so.

Today, I met up with that annoying brat America. I'm not even sure why, but…something told me that I should. He has really grown since the Revolutionary War. I haven't seen him much since then, besides the World Meetings which I occasionally tag along to. He's become more obnoxious. Every three minutes, he'd ask me to tell about how it was like in the "old days" and beg me to tell him stories of how England and the others are like. I told him what I knew, which wasn't very much, but he seemed quite satisfied to know it at least. That smile on his face…it was so much different from during the Revolution. His eyes shone a crystal blue, the color of the sky which cared so much for his people.

When I had begun to leave…America called me back. He took one good look at me and pulled me into a genuine hug, then let go and smiled, saying, "Let's hang out again tomorrow!" I said that I'll be back, having nothing better to do. Now…I'm not quite sure if I'll even make it through the night.

Since I've gotten home, there's been an aching pain in my chest. It's intensified so much and it burns like the raging fire of Jean d'Arc. If France ever read this comparison, I know he'd go on a rampage. He'd probably kill me even, that is if he had the guts to go against the awesome me. In all seriousness though…my time has come. I'll be seeing Germania soon…as well as the Roman Empire. If I don't make it…I just want to say goodbye. And that I'll miss everyone. Germany, Hungary, Spain, France, even Austria. Goodbye, my friends.

Germany found his brother later that night with his head on his journal and the lights on. He sighed at his elder brother's foolishness. This has happened many times before. His brother falling asleep while writing about how "awesome" he is in his daily journal entries. Germany slowly and quietly entered Prussia's room and shook him lightly.

"Bruder," Germany said softly, "bruder, if you sleep here like this you'll catch a cold."

The older nation didn't move. He didn't budge.

"Bruder?" Germany said, a bit louder, thinking maybe Prussia just had a long day.

Germany reached out to touch Prussia's face. Cold to the touch, nearly like the snow of Russia. Germany stumbled back a few, small steps. Gradually sinking to the ground beside his brother's dead body, he buried his face into his hands.

"Bruder...Prussia..."Germany chocked out his brother's many names. His sobs filled the large house which he had shared with his brother for so many years-centuries. The times they had spent together, getting drunk and spending the night playing useless games that neither of them remembered in the mornings. Those memories...they were still there, but the person that Germany had created them with was no longer. "Gilbert...oh Gilbert. Don't leave me...please...don't leave me. I'm sorry for what i've said to you, just...don't."

Austria appeared at the door of Prussia room, having come back to Germany's house to retrieve his music which he had forgotten. The aristocrat rushed over to Germany's side, "What's wrong?"

Germany looked up at Austria with his tear stained face. A face that had only been showed at the end of the second world war.

"He's...he's dead."