Disclaimer: I do not own QAF, sadly…
A letter to Brian
Brian,
I know that you think going to New York was what was best for me. That it was what I needed to do to realize my dreams. You couldn't have been more wrong if you'd tried. I hate New York, and I always have. It's too, bright, too crowded. There are people everywhere, and I'm almost too afraid to walk out my front door. The only thing that keeps me going here is the thought that maybe, if I make enough of a name for myself, you'll let me come home. The problem with that is, I don't think I can make a name for myself here. It's too loud, and the lights give me headaches that make it impossible to work. It's like spending every second of my life in Babylon, but I can't leave. And you're not here to help me through them... They're getting worse... I should probably go to a doctor, but then you would find out because you insist on keeping me on your insurance. Anyway, back to what I was saying before. I hate New York. You think it's my dream to make a name for myself here, but it's not. It's Lindsay's dream, and she made you believe it was mine. I love to draw, I love to paint. But, when you make something you love your job, it becomes work and you don't love it as much anymore. I wanted to work, a real job, maybe in advertising, and that was before I even met you. Art was my hobby. I always thought that, maybe, I'd sell a few pieces, have a few shows, but I never wanted to be tied down by my art. I never wanted it to become a job. And then I did meet you, and I fell in love with you, but that didn't change my dreams, it only enriched them. I wanted to work, I wanted to paint, and I wanted to go to bed every night wrapped in your arms. Here, I have no dreams, I don't sleep because of the pounding in my head, and there isn't room for anything else. I have no art, I have no work, and I have no love. My dream of coming home each night to a husband who would fuck me six ways to Tuesday every night is gone, and my hand won't cooperate long enough to sketch, even with the computer. I'm miserable here, but I won't complain to you. I won't let in that I hate my new life, because you'd think I was weak. You would lose respect for me if I whined and couldn't tough it out here in the "Big Apple." I have unrealistic thoughts of you coming to rescue me. Of sweeping me off my feet and bringing me home, but it won't happen, and I'll never actually send this letter. That would be weak... But, maybe I will go to see that doctor...
That was where the letter ended, because that was where Justin set his pen down before he'd collapsed. His roommate had come home to find him sprawled on the floor and had called the ambulance and also called every number on Justin's emergency list. Brian Kinney's was the first number she dialed ...