I decided to clear out my computer and post some of the finished stories I had been previously letting rot away on my hard-drive. This story is a bit confusing, so bear with me. I can't remember when I wrote it. It's a bit unusual, but I left it just as it was: an attempt at something new for me. Let me know how that turned out. I'll have to include a trigger warning. This is Skins, but there's also a bit of stuff going on with Effy. If you are easily triggered by mention of mental health issues, tread carefully.

"Those who have a why to live for can bear almost any how."

-Nietzsche

Beep. Beep.

It's a group text message.

Wanker: It's the fuckin' end. That's all. It's fuckin' over.

That's all Cook's message says. I feel my blood run cold.

I break into a run. Running has always come naturally to me. It's the one thing I am good at. My inner GPS is utter rubbish, mind you; it never shows me the right way, never tells me the correct destination. So the only thing I could do right now is run, and hope for the best.

My breath is ragged and I can feel my heart pounding heavily in my chest. A second of hesitation, then, pushing the door-bell.

Please let me be right. Please let me have found the right destination.

When I see the eyes who opened my door, I realize that, for once, I am exactly where I need to be.

They are drowning in tears; red and tired.

I let my hand comb through the messy curls. You must've at least let a week pass without washing your hair, I estimate. Suppressing a sigh, I try to tame your wild mane to get a clear look into your blue eyes. There are clouds fogging your gaze, and I can't do anything to get through to you. The helplessness I feel is starting to feed a fire of rage within me.

Rage at everything. At myself, for being so useless. At you, for letting yourself go like this. For Freddy, for fucking dying. And of course, I am angry at that asshole that killed him. I am angry at Cook, for running away when we need him to keep us together. Most of all, I am angry at the world, because it has left me alone with this; alone with you. This is a responsibility I cannot shoulder on my own, yet… do I have a choice? Can't I just run away, too? Why did I even come here?

My movements still for a moment as I am genuinely considering if this is an option for me. I am a miserable coward, and I am alone. Still, if I leave now, I can try to save myself. Do I really have the capacity to carry another person's burden with me when I am such a fuck-up myself? I am already almost gone – in my head, I have already left you. Run away from my problems, run away from the reality that is my life right now.

It is then that your weak voice breaks through my selfish musings: "He did it, Naomi. He …finally did it. He broke my heart."

To hear you – strong, dark, mysterious, self-sufficient you, so weak and vulnerable is almost more than I can bear. Suddenly, I feel very cold inside. This is what I wanted to run away from, just a second ago. A strange sense of companionship rises within me.

I wanted to run away from a vulnerable you because the thought that everyone can be broken is too much. It hits too close to home for me.

I think about Emily. About us breaking up. About the mess our relationship has been for the past few months. About myself, breaking her heart and mine because of my fears. I don't think I realized how much she loved me, at the beginning. How could I, when I am still doubting that I am worthy of such love? Once I did, though, I didn't know how to deal with that. With her intensity. With my weakness.

"I hurt everything I touch. I don't mean to, I don't…" you continue talking while something resembling a sob escapes your mouth. I am stunned into silence. This is wrong, on so many levels: This talking, sharing, feeling.

"It just happens. Stay away from me," you whisper and try to push me away. There's hardly any strength left, though, so your attempts are futile. As if your little push jump-started me back into life, I grip you tightly.

I can feel you slipping away. If you disappear, too, what will I do? Suddenly, I feel desperate.

It is as if Emily, while worming her way into my heart, has left little holes everywhere within me. I feel my strength seeping out though the cracks in my walls, and I cannot do anything to control the bleeding of my heart. I never needed anyone. I have been on my own since the day I was born. It worked, for me – until Emily came into my life, that is. And, I have to admit, not only introduced me to romantic love, but also to friendship, trust, and compassion.

There were Cook, and you, and in a weird way, also Katie.

Can I make it on my own? Can I go back to being like that, now that I have been blessed enough to know what it's like to have people care about me?

I stay. For now, I can stay.

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor against my bare feet, I stand in the Stonem's bathroom watching you very carefully. You look better, now, after showering. You might have looked dead and buried before, but now you just resemble a clean corpse. Lifeless, still, but before burial. It's an improvement.

You know what they say? About leaving somebody for dead as the biggest betrayal there is? It's always there in books and movies. People leaving their friends behind in some mortal danger?

There is worse.

Seeing you, I realize that leaving people for living is much, much more cruel. It is equally as painful, the only difference is that there's no end in sight.

I grab the towel and help as you climb out of the shower. Your feet seem particularly unlikely to co-operate today.

I sit in your bedroom. The sunset was two hours ago, but we still haven't gotten up to switch the light on. You are on the bed, sitting like a marble statue. Beautiful, but not real. Just there.

I feel more comfortable on the floor. I can still feel the cold here, on the ground. I can still feel.

After what seems an eternity to me, you speak up.

"Why are you here, Naomi?"

I have nowhere else to be. Nowhere to go. This is right where I should be, if you let me. If you let me, we can be lonely together. I tell you just that.

You stare at me. Time passes.

You bring your legs up to your chin, curling yourself into a ball when you let your body fall back on the bed. There's space on the bed now.

Still on the floor, I try to think about the last time I felt so full and empty at the same time. There are so many emotions whirling around in my heart, but every time I try to reach out to capture one to inspect it, I grasp at nothing and come away empty.

"I think I am losing it." Almost silent. For a second, I wonder if I am going crazy. Then I think of you, much more like that than I am, crazy, that is, so I decide that it was you speaking.

I don't turn my head to look at you, just letting the words wash over me. Losing, what? What haven't you lost, already?

I ask you if you want me to go. I feel insecure about my being here, after all. Why did I think it was such a good idea to just come over once I heard about Freddie's death and Cook's near-imprisonment?

You ignore me, as always. At least some things don't go away. It's as if I am not even here, in your room, with you.

"I think I am a mess. Everybody loves me. I can't understand why. I'm a fucking mess. I'd love to be just…not me. I don't want to be me. I'm just so tired…"

It is then when you finally turn to me, looking me squarely in the eye. Blue – ice cold, like a frozen lake, meet mine.

"Okay," I say because there is nothing else that would feel as true as this.

And it is, for a little while. It's okay, until you squeeze your eyes shut as if you couldn't afford losing any single part of you anymore. As if a tear, escaping your lids might be the thing to break you.

It's not okay anymore. I stay.

It's been months since Freddie died. It's strange to think that time just keeps passing, and every day that ends means that he is just a little bit farther away from us.

I am not sure you are capable to come to this conclusion, too. I don't know if you're capable of anything these days.

You have been drowning. I am always there, at your side. I stayed, but you are always drowning. When it's not the depth of the grief or the darkness of the mind, it's the alcohol.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" I interject, looking at your arm; the small cut on the inside of your elbow, the way your vain looks close to bursting. "Jesus fuck, what are you—"

"It's none of your business," you respond, slowly.

"No," you say, and shake your head. "Just stop it. Who do you think you fucking are, Naomi? You think you're going to be the exception, the one who proves them all wrong about what a fucking mess I am?"-

I stare at you. Again. The fighting.

"What the hell, Naomi? Do you think you can be it? The one to save me from my fucking self, drag me out of this hole? Get out, get the fuck out now – I thought you, of all the fucking people, would understand."

I've never seen you so agitated, so emotional. Effy Stonem didn't do emotions, but in that moment right there, you had more than enough of them.

I held your burning gaze, calm and collected: "No, Eff, I'm not. I can't and won't be the one to 'save' you, as you say. Fuck it, I don't even want to be that for you. I might not be able to save you, but I can be here, you know?"

Your eyes were still a raging fire, not at all placated by my words. As usual, you don't speak, and even though I hadn't really expected you to, it was frustrating.

I sigh, defeated: "Don't you get it? I am not able to save you from this mess that is life, this fucking painful hole you are in – you know why that is? I'm right there, with you. I am not talking about any fixing. I am just asking you to let me be there, at your side. That's all I want."

You tell me you feel the lightest when you're drunk. You say that these days, it's only in a drunken stupor that you can find happiness. You say, time and again, that all you crave for is happiness. That shouldn't be much to ask for, should it? The pursuit of happiness. Always a noble thing. I can almost feel your smugness about thinking you've found it. You've found it at the bottom of a bottle. Yes, you are that smug.

I have known happiness; I have seen you in that state. I have also seen you drunk. Believe me when I tell you that you are mixing things up. What alcohol does is blur the world so that you can pretend that, when you squint just hard enough, the things you see have another shape than they really do. You let fog cover your unhappiness. It is easy, isn't it? To fall into the trap of mistaking this contorted view for bliss?

It is not. It is not what you're looking for. How can it, really, when you yearn for something as big as that? How could it possibly fit into a single bottle of alcohol?

For a very long time, I thought I had given up on you. After all, how could I possibly make you see the difference? You cannot explain your world to someone who is not prepared to take a step back from what theirs has become.

All we did was stumbling through life, fighting. Yelling. We hurt each other. Deliberately, unintentionally; deeply.

I thought that it maybe was the biggest mistake of all: Sticking together. But in all the months after this, I have come now to a different conclusion. It's not about being together at all. We were hurting each other because, no matter how close we were physically, we never were on the same page. We were yelling about being lonely.

We are still lonely, and I don't know if it is because or despite the fact that I stayed.

You are doing it again. You're so far gone that I don't know what else it is you have taken today. Some MDMA, maybe?

You look terrible. Beautifully fucked-up. Your make-up has run and it looks like your ice-blue eyes are staring out of a dark frame. It suits you. Your beauty deserves to be framed, and even now, when all your pain is numbed by the fog engulfing your mind, toning down the life in your eyes, you are beautiful.

You have been dealt shitty cards in life, but you are still beautiful. I know there is a part of you that will never be affected by your traumatic experiences and your bad decisions. A part which remains pure, unaltered, you. If I only knew how to reach it.

"This isn't your problem. Why, Naomi? Why sign up for burning with me?"

"I think you can't do it alone," I reply seriously. There was no need to pretend anymore, no need to keep up the appearances of them being independent and strong. Whatever exactly it was that you couldn't do on your own was never said out loud, but that didn't lessen the impact of those words at all.

Your blue eyes, those mysterious eyes that always seem all-knowing are piercing through my very core, searching for something. Answers, the truth? Who knows. After a few moments of silent observation, those eyes narrowed.

"We're going to make one hell of a fire, you and me," you say, your voice suddenly emotionless and cold, as if all the rage that mere seconds ago was coursing through you had disappeared into thin air, leaving you empty.

You turn and leave the room. Distancing yourself from me.

Despite that apparent distance, I know I've come closer to you than I'd ever dared to believe.

What's love? Is it when the other is weak, that you have to be the strong one, not making them pay because at some point they weren't strong enough?

You are dancing in the crowd. Sweaty bodies pressing against each other. I stand on the sidelines, watching you from afar. It's the only thing I trust myself to do nowadays. Be there for you, from afar.

I notice your body become stiff. You stop dancing. You stop breathing. Then, you take a look around the crowd, as if finally realizing where you are. Maybe you are coming down. Maybe you're still high as a kite and are seeing things that scare you. You chest starts moving again, but it's too fast. It's all too fast and uncontrolled and wrong.

I start towards the crowd. I have to get close to you. I want to be close to you.

You're having a panic attack in the middle of the dance floor. The crowd is forming a circle around you when you start to pant frantically. You throw your head around, looking for an exit. You can't find it – I see it in your eyes. You look and look and turn and turn, only to fall deeper into your fears. You start shaking.

I'm almost there. Wait for me.

I take your hand. I can feel your sweaty palms clash against mine.

"Breathe with me," I tell you. I have to shout into your ear to be heard over the music, but it doesn't help. You are still hyperventilating. You are still far away.

I do the only thing I know to try and reach you. My heart is racing, probably much like yours, but for a completely different set of reasons.

I lean forward, carefully, my hands keeping you in place, trying to still you. A second of hesitation on my part, I admit, but then I let myself fall with you.

Fall for you.

When my lips meet yours, it's no firework explosion. Your lips are chapped, and dry. I taste alcohol and drugs on your breath. It's no Hollywood kiss, but it's honest. I stop moving and let my lips still pressed against yours.

I notice that your hyperventilation stopped. You are holding your breath. You still.

Finally, I lean away. You lift your gaze and look at me. It's probably the most sober I have seen you in weeks. There's a storm in your eyes and I don't know how to read you.

Can you read me? Do you see it in my eyes? The reason I am still here, the reason I stayed?

I am lying on your bed. Sleeping in the same bed has become a habit for us, it doesn't mean anything. To you, it doesn't. I like feeling close to you, even though we are not. I like the illusion, it's soothing.

You're still not sober, but you agreed to let me take you home.

You are standing in front of me, looking at me as if I am just another stranger to you and not the person who has shared your life for more than half a year. It doesn't hurt. It's a fresh start.

"Why do we grip so tightly?" you ask into the darkness.

My eyes spring open. 3.47 a.m. Carefully, as I don't want to scare you away, I turn so I can look at your still form. The only thing I can make out are your eyes. They are restless.

Fear. Fear is all I feel. I fear for you. For what these words might mean. For what these words might do to myself, if I let myself think too much about them.

"It would be easier to let go. There would be no more pain. Why can't I just let go?."

I swallow. In a way, you are right. People cling to life with desperation. Why? What is to be said against it? I think about it for a moment while I look at you. I know.

"There is nothing else to do," I tell you, "it's a choice, but not really. We can try to let go, but that doesn't change anything, does it? We convince ourselves that there is a way out but there isn't. There is no way out of life. It's either life, or nothing. So we go on, yeah? Let's go on." My voice is hoarse from not being used for hours. It's not the tears I am trying to swallow that are making my throat close up. No.

"I'm so tired of this. People leave. People always leave… maybe, for once, I want to be the first to leave," you say and I feel my heart shattering. You are talking about me, I realize. You want to be the first to leave me.

"I…Leaving won't give you the absolution you want. It won't release you," I try to argue with you. When did I become the one to stay? When did I become the one who has to be afraid of being run out on, and not be the one who does the running?

You leave the room, letting the door slam closed behind you. I am not sure if you just shut me out of your life, too. I stay in your bed; I stay put.

I feel the fur on my right arm. It tickles. With Pato so close, I know you are soon to follow. I keep still, like a stone. Not daring to move a muscle. I feel another body's warmth beside me. Hesitantly, I put my hand on Pato, seeking comfort.

Then, another hand is placed on top of mine, weighing it down. I feel it sink into the plush animal. It's so soft and it doesn't put up much resistance. It yields. Maybe, there is nothing else to do sometimes, but to give away under pressure before it breaks you. Both our hands are sinking into the stuffed animal, together.

Maybe we can make it. Maybe we can figure it out. How to live, how to be. Together, we might.

We are so used to being fuck-ups that sometimes, we forget that things, do indeed change. Can change.

That there is hope, as small as it may appear.

You give my hand a squeeze.