I've always been told I couldn't be a writer. My parents, though not exactly unsupportive, weren't exactly fond of the idea. In a stupid and obnoxious sounding way, they thought I had been born for better things.

How wrong they were.

Writing isn't something you can choose, it's part of you. There's no going back once you start. The words flow out of you and they never stop and even when I was just walking from place to place when I was younger, I used to make up mini little descriptions or little narrations that could explain my thoughts and things.

I remember I used to have to make this long walk up and down these hills to get to the home of my parents, and sometimes in the winter, it'd get so dark that all the little lights of the town were visible to me from the the top of the hill, and as I walked further down it, I could see even less of these people's lives.

It all seemed like such a story to me. You can look from higher up, like a narrator does, and see everything, but then, towards the end of a book, the narrator moves further down, and all you can see is the character's individual lives, and you care less about the world but rather, you care about whether the characters will live good lives, or bad ones, whether they will face the odds and live on.

That seems horrifically sad to me. The whole point of books is that they are not like real life, and so shouldn't they teach us that the world itself is just as important as we are? Of course it shouldn't, otherwise it would be boring.

Or at least, that was what my English teacher told me. The world seems to agree with her.

As I am writing this, I am approximately sitting as far away from the love of my life as you are from the pages I write. I can hear his breath, feel his warmth. Yet you cannot feel any of these things from me, unless you're some sort of stalker in which case... Let's talk about that later

The thing about Simon, was he was always the main character of mine story.

He was, in my opinion, the most unreal person that existed. It doesn't surprise me that he died of course.

All the best people die. And all people die eventually anyway. Makes you wonder why we're alive in the first place if that's all we're destined for... Don't think about that too much. You'll end up staring at the ceiling for hours on end, wondering if there is anyone else out there awake, and then you realise and think, of course there are, there are people all across the world who are the same as me, or they're awake in Australia or America or somewhere! And you don't feel quite so alone.

I remember when I was a teenager, I used to wonder if hearts beat in time, or did you just randomly start the rhythm of your heart by yourself? I can now confess that neither is true, that instead, environmental features affect the beat of your heart, and that is, therefore, how Simon and I have hearts that beat in time.

Literally.

And now that he's dying, I owe it to you to tell you his story, and there will probably be a bit of mine in there too.

Mostly because I'm a person very obsessed with his own importance, though that's probably not new to you (it isn't to me).

I first met Simon Snow on a wintry evening around the 9th of September, but I can't remember the exact date, I do remember the weather. It was snowing- perhaps that's why I remember it so well. I was just leaving the school grounds. It had taken me a while, since my black polished school shoes had apparently decided of their own accord that they definitely did not, under any circumstances, want to enter the snow. This led me to jumping from patch to patch of ground that was not covered by snow in the hopes of pleasing them. Needless to say, I looked like a twit.

As per freaking usual.

It was actually going quite well, until I took the wrong step and began falling backwards, and fell in the snow roughly, after having slipped on a patch of melting snow. I sat there for about a minute, having an inner dialogue of how absolutely mortifying it would be if I had to stand up in front of my peers and walk home in a soaking wet uniform. Not to mention the scolding I would get from my mother.

Though when was I not in trouble with my parents at the time? Pretty much never. I suppose maybe I was just a difficult kid, I don't know.

Some more seconds start and end before I finally push myself up, to find a kid watching me intently, a smile on his face. I can't remember whether it was a smile or a smirk, but I still believe Simon is too much of a dufus to actually know how to smirk, since that's technically my forte.

I scowl at him, and begin the walk of shame that leads to my home and a firm scolding from my mother, and he joins me at my side, and introduces himself, roughly gripping my hand and grinning, before shaking it firmly.

"Simon Snow," He said, "Though you can just call me Simon if you like. I just moved here."

"No kidding." I remember mumbling, yanking my hand back, and staring straight ahead. Moody git.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Simon, very obviously offended, looking like a kicked puppy, and eyes to match the saddened voice too.

"Well, you're just pretty cheerful that's all, no one around here is like that." I muttered. I hadn't meant to offend him, looking at how much he grinned and smiled I didn't think it was possible.

"You don't have to tell me... Why not though?" He asked, playing with the strap of his backpack, in a similar way to how I was fiddling with the clasp of my satchel.

"I don't know Snow, I just live here." I groaned. "And by the way, why does your name sound like a really cheesy book character?"

"I knew it was you! You're that guy who always risks his life reading on the walk to school aren't you? Do you have any idea how many times you've almost died?"

"If the world loved me it'd let me die." I mumbled again.

He frowned.

"You don't seem like the depressed type to me." He said, looking at me intently, his eyebrows scrunched together in seeming concentration.

"Really?" I asked, unable to mask my surprise. "That's all anyone seems to see me as." I protested.

"Well, you do sorta match the whole 'I'm an emo or a vampire' look, and you don't exactly smile that much so can you blame 'em?"

"Hm." I said. "Where are you from anyway? You're accent is a little carefree for me." I said, showing confusion rather than trying to sound offensive.

It took a lot of conscious effort back then to show the difference.

"Well, I um... I'm a foster kid, the family that sent me to stay here has a bit of an autstralian accent though, and I've been around them for a while so maybe that's why." He said, looking down at his shoes all of a sudden.

"So, you're a full time boarder? You live at the school?" I asked.

"Yeah." He answered.

"So how did you know I'm the kid who walks home with my face in a book?" I asked.

He blushed. "My friend... um... Penny.. is kind of obsessed with you, so I hear a lot about you." He answered, fiddling with the strap of his bag again.

I felt myself blushing too. "Sorry um... But I don't really like Penny like that... And um, why are you walking with me?"

"Can I come over?" He asked, in means of response, "I mean, I like you and it's not like I've anywhere to be." He said.

"I suppose." I muttered, "But, you might not like it."

"I'm sure I'll manage."

At the time, I didn't really talk to people. I would much rather live in a world of books and made up people than actual ones.

Made up people are so much more understanding than real ones, and they literally cannot ignore you.

Dragon slayers and thieves and assassins were my friends, magic cats and time travellers alike.

So imagine how quickly my life changed when Simon came into it. Not only was someone talking to me but someone went out of their way to see me, and I did the same to him. It was incredible, and a complete life changer. Sometimes, I would go to his dorm after school had finished so I didn't have to go home.

Because home was the nightmare.

Simon is of course, deteriorating, and I write this now because the doctors have estimated he has around a week, and I don't know how understandable my writing will be after he is dead.

Have you ever been in love with someone who's dying? It's destructive. It takes every part of you and makes you question whatever right you thought you had to be alive. Because you know that that person never deserved what they got and you wish you could protect them from the pain, but you can't.

So you wait. You take the angry blows they throw at you in their fury and fear of death because you love them.

You love them so desperately that it's hard to breathe, and you know this cancerous growth will spread and every minute instead of becoming precious becomes poisonous.

There's no hope. They're going to die.

And you know in that moment that you're dying. You're dying as irreversibly as they are and as irreversibly as your love for them is.

And before you know it, they're gone.

And so are you.

A/N: This is all a chapter from Simon and Baz's book. I know it's not central to the plot but I don't know if you guys want to read these as well? What do you think of them? Cute? Sad? It's been a really horrible weekend for me. And I wish I could just go to sleep and forget it all... I'm really struggling, but it doesn't matter, I'm ok. Sorry. I'll try and upload soon but um, it could be a while depending on how this week goes. I'll keep you posted, I know I'm not very reliable I'm sorry.