Because, really, it had to start somewhere, right?
Camille wasn't entirely sure when it all went downhill – her and Logan – but they hit rock bottom eventually.
As all true loves do.
It was like a roller coaster – up down, up down, up down, up down – a sick, perverse pattern.
They were trapped in a spider web of confusion, hatred, melting kisses, and true love.
But, really, Camille couldn't figure out which was which anymore.
Only the strong can survive this war on our hearts. If you're not one of them, that's not my fault.
Her heart had been torn and tortured and burnt till it was a wonder it was still beating.
She tried desperately to never let a boy in – ever – because it had been engrained into her mind that boys will use you, get what they want, and leave you hanging. That was what her mother taught her.
And Camille clung to that bit of logic like a lifeline.
But she was never that strong that her heart was completely closed off.
So, one boy – with dark brown eyes that made her heart shudder – weaved his way in, made her feel safe, found another specimen and left her. But he didn't leave her with nothing.
He left her with a baby boy that she named Logan.
After his father.
Empty promises, dull words, and scars that will never really heal.
When Camille was eight, her mother made her a promise that she would always catch her when she fell, no matter what.
When Camille was 10, her mother committed suicide with a kitchen knife, leaving a note on the counter, stained in bright red blood:
I'm sorry, baby girl. I really am.
When Camille was 15, her dad packed her up and moved her to Hollywood to start afresh, begin a new life as an actress, but he gave her one word of advice.
Don't get too caught up in the twinkly lights that you forget me. I'm always here.
When Camille was 16, her dad was killed by a robber in a convenience store because he went down the road to get milk.
When Camille was 17, she made 5 new best friends – Jo, Kendall, Carlos, James and Logan – and they all loved her.
At least, she hoped they did.
And they all promised her they'd stick around for her, they wouldn't leave her be, let her be on her own.
But, just like everyone else, they all left her, and she was alone.
Again.
When Camille was 21, the love of her life – Logan Mitchell – was murdered in a hit and run, and it was on the news.
The day of Jo Taylor's 22nd birthday, she was hanging out with her three best friends – Kendall Knight, Carlos Garcia and James Diamond – when a news bulletin appeared on the TV.
Jo screamed and burst into tears, Kendall held her close but he was barely breathing himself. James and Carlos gripped each other and let a few f.o.r.b.i.d.d.e.n tears slide down their cheeks.
Camille Roberts, renowned actress and best friend and love interest of recently deceased Logan Mitchell, today, at 2:51pm, threw herself off the highway today into the water. Her body has only recently been discovered. She did not survive.
It'd be easier to fade away than to let this pain rip me apart.
There was a reason Camille was loud and out there and ready to be heard. There was a reason she slapped people she didn't know and shouted at the top of her voice and tried so desperately to get a role.
Because she was scared that if she didn't, she'd fade away into the background.
Just another set piece. Another prop. Another design.
And just another girl easy enough to forget.
Especially to him.
He who could have any girl he wanted.
But he chose her.
She'll never understand why, but he did.
And at least, now, she has the comfort of the fact that she won't ever fade away.
Try and touch me so I can scream at you not to touch me, run out the room and I'll follow you like a lost puppy.
'Get off me!' Camille shouted, her voice cracking as she smacked at his hand.
'Camille, please listen to me!' Logan begged, but she just turned away and let a single tear drop down her cheek before she wiped it away.
'Don't talk to me! Don't touch me! I want out of this relationship!' Logan gasped and reached out a hand to grab at her hand, but she ripped away from him, grabbed her phone, jacket and keys and ran out into the berating sunshine.
The tears were dripping down her cheeks like a waterfall, and she was so caught up in trying not to show her face that she ran across the road, didn't see a car coming, didn't hear the horn, and didn't move fast enough.
She was killed the day of her 21st birthday, killed because a boy who she thought loved her slapped her.
Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Camille, happy birthday to you.
Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars?
She used to lie up on the roof of the Palmwoods and watch the stars and the moon, tracing letters with her fingertip.
Bright lights always fascinated her.
She couldn't tell you any of the astronomical things, like the shapes of the stars, but she knew hidden words in them, and she knew that all of them would burst into a tiny ball of flame one day.
Fire always intrigued her and scared her.
Sometimes, Logan likes to come out and join her. But he doesn't speak, and neither does she. Because there's not much left to say.
Sometimes, he'll open his mouth and suck in a breath, as though he's about to talk to her, but then he clamps his jaw shut, her heart deflates, and they're back to silence.
And then, one night, he stops coming.
She calls James and asks him if he knows where Logan is. She hears him draw in a sharp breath, and then he tells her cautiously and sadly: 'he's on a date with Peggy.'
She can hear the apology in his voice, because he knows how much she cares about him, but she just thanks him sharply, hangs up and throws her phone over the roof.
An airplane flies across the night sky, blinking little red lights down at her, and Camille closes her eyes and mouths four little words no one will ever hear.
I wish he knew.
I can be manipulated only so many times before even I love you starts to sound like a lie.
No one will ever truly understand, but Camille has secrets.
She has dark moments and times and hush-hush seconds that she wants to forget.
But she just can't.
And, every once in a while, she'll have a panic attack. It's happened twice down at the Palmwoods pool, for the entire hotel to view. And only because Jo accidentally tipped a smoothie into her lap and because James accidentally knocked into her.
Numbly, she could hear them both apologizing profusely, but she was too far gone to realize or speak.
When Jo spilled the smoothie on her, it dribbled down her arms and reminded her of bright red, sticky b.l.o.o.d. that used to cover her arms when her dad used to cut her, and she screamed and threw herself to the ground.
'Please, please don't hurt me!' She shouts, covering her arm with her hand. Everyone in the pool immediately stops and stares at her – Jo gasps, Carlos, James and Kendall immediately leap to their feet and step toward her, but nobody knows what to do, so they just have to wait it out.
When Camille returns to normal – it takes almost 15 minutes – she gets to her feet with tears tracking their way down her cheeks, and she looks around, realizes what happened, and runs.
The next time, James accidentally bumps into her and steps on her feet and his hand brushes a bruise flowering on her back that she's forgotten was even there, and immediately, he apologizes.
But it doesn't stop the attack.
It's much like last time – she screams and shouts and begs not to be hurt because she can see her father looming over her instead of James.
She can see hatred bubbling in dark blue eyes instead of fear, love and concern in dark hazel.
She can hear a harsh, rasping voice calling her names she didn't even know instead of fearful, melodic voices calling out her own name.
And then, there's the sweetest sound: Logan's voice as he whispers in her ear, as his arms close over her in a loving, familiar embrace.
'Camille, it's Logan Mitchell, your best friend. You're in Hollywood, in the Palmwoods hotel, at the Palmwoods pool. It's 2:21pm, it's a really hot day, everyone is sweating; you're safe. You're here with your five best friends, please, wherever you are in your mind, you're not really there.'
She eventually fell out of the attack and sobbed into Logan's chest, her tears seeping into his shirt. But he didn't speak – just pulled her onto his lap and rocked her back and forth comfortingly.
He was always there for her panic attacks, and she knew that.
But she was still afraid that one day, he would snap – just like her father – and hurt her.
Just like her father.
Look. Watch the water in that porcelain bowl. Watch it change colour.
Every night, Camille would hover over the bowl in her bathroom with a razor clutched in one hand. She would look up at herself in the mirror, eyes dull and lifeless, hair limp and thick.
And, even though a ribbon of guilt would creep into her heart whenever she marred her own pearly-white skin with train track cuts, she never stopped.
And she'd watch, almost in a daze, as the water changed colour.
From clear.
To red.
To brown.
To dirty, filthy black.
And she'd scrub and scrub and scrub at the blood that dried – cracked – against her skin.
Because, already, that guilt was settling in heavier and heavier.
Because, she wasn't an idiot. She knew the consequences of her actions. But she never stopped.
And eventually, one day, she collapsed from blood lose.
She blinked up at the ceiling – shifting, swirling, changing colours – and she closed her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips.
She stopped breathing, her hand covering the most recent marks on her skin because it was her secret, and she didn't want anyone to see it.
But the letters – in clear red – spelt against her skin a five letter name.
L O G A N.
Look at all the pretty lights, darlin'. Don't they remind you of fairies? Don't you wish you could shine that bright, even in the dark?
Her mother, when Camille was little, used to take her out to the balcony and hold her on her lap.
It became a ritual, a time for Camille and her mother to talk about anything and everything, things they didn't tell her father – hush, hush – or their friends, or anyone but each other.
And when her mother died, Camille still sat on the balcony, but this time, with no one to talk to; she'd find other ways of occupying times. Normally through drawings.
She used to draw the city lights reflecting on the water, she used to draw her mother's eyes, her mother's smile, and her mother's hair. She used to draw plants and the sky and the moon and every other goddamn thing she could get her hands on because drawing was how she kept sane.
And when she leaves it down by the Palmwoods pool pressed against his leg, she's not surprised – it's an accident, accident, accident, she tells herself – when it turns up at her door the next day, with only one drawing ripped out.
The one of the city lights on the water that she labelled: Fairies trapped under the ice.
She flips through her drawings – bad, crap, bad, suckish, what the hell is that supposed to be? – And without even realizing it, marches out to the balcony, shreds the book into little t.i.n.y pieces and watches it flutter to the ground.
She doesn't look back when she slams the door.
Pretty little fairy lights.
Would it make you feel better to watch me while I bleed?
She'd never tell anyone, but her real father and mother abandoned her when she was 6 days old. One day, they were there, and the next, they weren't.
Shh.
She'd never tell anyone, but she was tossed from foster home to foster home, all because they found so many reasons not to like her – too loud, too noisy, too quiet, too willing, too gothic, too pink, too bright, too dark. She never seemed to be able to please any of them.
So by the time she was 8 years old, she'd had almost 10 sets of parents and too many fake-siblings to count.
Shh.
She'd never tell anyone, but the first boy she ever fell in love with was a monster – monstermonstermonstermonster – and she has the scars to prove it, zigzagging their way up her arms like a. pretty. little. spider web.
She knows that the bruises that crisscross against the pale skin of her back won't really fade – and she doesn't want them to, because they remind her – and that's why she doesn't wear bikinis down to the pool and almost screams every time someone touches her in those s a c r e d l i t t l e p l a c e s.
Shh.
She'd never tell anyone, but some mornings when she's in Hollywood – because she never really liked Connecticut – she'll lie awake with her hands laced behind her head and she'll watch the sunlight swirlswirlswirl – all the pretty lights – and she'll trace the scars against her stomach.
Shh.
In Hollywood, she is loved. In Hollywood, she is treasured. In Hollywood, she is special. In Hollywood, she is different. In Hollywood, she belongs. In Hollywood, she has 5 best friends – Jo Taylor, Logan Mitchell, Kendall Knight, James Diamond and Carlos Garcia – and she is valued as a person instead of an actress.
But the scars and bruises are still there. A pretty little map of her past and distant memories.
They'll never really fade, not really.
Shh.
She'd never tell anyone, but when she was 16, she saw her best friend murdered. Not killed, not a suicidal attempt, but murdered.
They went down the road together, laughing and singing and joking and poking fun at people who had no clue how to dress, and when they crossed the threshold of the convenience store, there was the sound like a whip being drawn through the air, and the next she knew, her hands were soaked in blood, her best friend was lying on the ground next to her, and the tears wouldn't stop.
Ever since then, red has been her least favourite colour. When someone wears it, she almost has a panic attack because all she can see is .
And she's scared.
Shh.
She's an actress.
She can keep secrets.
Dammit, she does.
It's amazing what you can hide just by putting on a smile.
There are days when Camille smiles so much it hurts her cheeks. Because it feels so forced and stiff.
And there are days when she can't help but smile because the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and she's still her.
How cliché.
And there are days when she just wants to sit in her room and cry – let the tears cascade down pearly-white skin like pretty shards of glass and let all this hatred and love and depression escape.
But she can't.
There are days when she wants to rip her hair out from the roots – scream and cry and shout to the sky because nothing is going her way {nothing ever does, mind you} and this rage has just been bottled up inside for far too long.
And there are days when those i.t.t.y.b.i.t.t.y scars on her wrist still sssttttiiiinnnngggg a little, and when a single drop of blood o o z e s out and she can't wipe it away lest anyone see it.
And there are days when she just wants to curl up in a ball and die right then and there – let the world claim her for its own.
But, through all this mental war and raging, she still smiles.
Pearly white teeth like stars, bright red lips that are ohsokissable, and aching cheeks.
But she still smiles even though inside she is broken and torn and destroyed.
Because, without her smile, who is she really?
Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood, miss knowing it's all good, it didn't slow me down.
When Camille was 5 ½, her dad left.
She can still remember it like it happened only yesterday – she got home from school at 4:21pm, walked in the door, put her bag down, shut her door and listened to her parents shouting at each other.
She fell asleep like that, because when she woke up it was raining, and her mother was still screaming – but she was screaming at no one – and she had blood running down her cheeks from a cut under her eye and the storm started.
It lit the sky like a huge spotlight – and the loud, resounding cracks! Scared her and the bolts of lightning sent fire and ice running through her veins.
When she was 17, the worst storm Hollywood had ever seen hit – and she was a l o n e. She was sitting in her apartment at the Palmwoods, all her windows locked down and her door shut, but it was still freezing in the apartment, and none of the electricity was working.
She was in the dark.
She had no means of entertainment and merely had to wait the storm out. She didn't even have a flashlight! But she had her pillow, her soft toy, and about 5 layers of jackets, and was quite content to sit in the corner and watch the lightning dance across the sky like she did when she was little.
And then, there was a loud, incessant knocking on her door, one so loud she nearly screamed from fear.
She scrambled to her feet, opened the door and blinked, because she was suddenly bathed in light from a ridiculously bright flashlight.
Hey Camille! Logan said, and three other familiar voices – they were reflected in the light – chorused behind him. She let them in and watched from the corner as they all made themselves quite comfortable in her lounge.
Come sit with us, Millie. James pleaded, patting the spot between him and Carlos, who held his arms out like she was 8. But she shook her head and stayed in her little corner, shivering.
And then, a bolt of lightning so bright it lit up the night sky, followed by a crack of thunder so loud it shook her to the bones, sent tears sliding down her cheeks. James was the first to notice something, and he leapt to his feet, screaming when another boom shook the walls.
Camille almost dived toward her lounge, sobbing uncontrollably. She crawled into Logan's lap – his arms enclosed around her – hers wrapped around his neck and she let the tears flow freely into his neck.
She was passed from boy to boy like a ragdoll, and each whispered calming words in her ear and held her close and possible, giving her a feeling of being loved – they told her she was – and eventually she ended up in Logan's arms again.
She fell asleep like that, listening to him singing 'Count on You' as she lolled into a peaceful sleep.
When she woke the next morning, she was still on Logan's lap, his arms were still around her, and the other boys were still there.
She curled into his neck and let his scent wash over her, thinking about the storm.
She used to hate storms when she was little – because they reminded her of her father leaving – but she was pretty sure she could fall in love with storms.
Because she knew Logan would always be there to calm her down.
You had a lot of moments that didn't last forever, now you're in this corner trying to put it together, how to love.
The music was vibrating – p u l s i n g – under her skin, breaking through her ears. Jo, Kendall, James and Carlos had left her after 10 minutes of begging her to come onto the dance floor with them. She had declined each and every one of them.
She was quite happy in her corner, thank you.
She tried to refrain from dancing if it was possible. Especially at this club, because there were too many bad memories out in the flashing lights and the loud, pounding music.
She wasn't a good dancer, anyway.
Jo was a ballerina – she didn't look it, but she was – and the four – three, she tells herself sternly; no need to think about him – boys have to be good dancers for anything 'X' might spring on them.
She does listen when they talk – well, not really – but she'll hear snippets. So, here she was, stuck at a night club, all alone in a dingy corner, trying to figure out how everything went downhill and why she couldn't have just stayed home and watched Friends reruns on Go! But Jo – who was downright sick of Camille feeling sorry for herself – had barged into her room, turned the TV off, almost broken the remote in two, shoved clothes onto Camille and dragged her out the door.
You know whatever.
She picked at her blood red dress, pulling at the hem. Already three guys had come up to her and asked her if she wanted to dance – no way dude, keep walking.
She sounded like a Jennifer. Without even thinking, she raised a hand, put a nasty little smirk on her face and mouthed 'no chance, nerdy'.
It didn't feel right. It actually felt so stupid and ridiculous and laughable. So she sat down against the wall, her legs crossed in that tight little dress and waited the night out.
When they got back in the car, she gave noncommittal answers as to what she had been doing – drinking sodas, playing games on her phone, sleeping – and none of these were strictly wrong. But they just weren't strictly right either.
What she wouldn't tell you was that she was waiting for a certain boy to ask her to dance. A boy with almostblack hair and almostblack eyes and a smile that would melt a snow cone.
But, he never did. She waited the night out in silence.
Because, really, no one ever taught her how to love properly.
That was something she'd have to figure out on her own.
And I'll never be quite the same as I was before this.
Every time he saw her wearing that pretty little blue dress, he wanted to take her into his arms and kiss her till her lips were chapped and she couldn't breathe. But that wasn't going to happen.
Why, you ask?
Because Camille Roberts was married. Well, really, her name wasn't Camille Roberts anymore.
Nope, it was Camille Diamond.
She was married with two little twins – Logan and Carlos – a daughter – Katelyn – and a handsome, good looking melt-a-girl's-heart-in-an-instant husband.
Trophy husband, Logan would label his best friend bitterly when James wasn't there, because he wanted to kick the heart throb boy because James had stolen his girl. Even though, technically, Camille wasn't his girl.
Hadn't been for a little over 10 years now.
He wasn't really that surprised that she had gotten over him because that was the whole intention of the split – 99% of first loves end in break-ups; he told her when they split. So, she had found a new love in the form of James Diamond, and they were happy.
And Logan was married to Jennifer 2, because Carlos was married to Jennifer 1, Kendall was married to Jo, and James, well…he had Camille.
She was happy – there was a glow in her eyes, always a smile on her lips, a loving lilt to her voice whenever she spoke about James – and that little giggle she made whenever he kissed her – that told Logan she really was in love.
He didn't love his wife – lord no, she was whiny – but he wished he did, because it would make this easier. But Camille was like a shadow – following him and haunting him and making him wish he could retrace his steps.
But it was too late. He should have spoken sooner.
He was always too late.
Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind. Or forgotten.
When Camille's best friend, Jo, moved to New Zealand for a three movie deal, it destroyed Camille inside. She loved Jo as a best friend – they had shared so many moments together, and then it was over like that.
She felt like she had been left behind while Jo moved on. And it tore her apart.
But, she still had four great best friends – guys, of course – who loved her to no end, and she loved them to no end. They were family – Kendall and James were her big brothers, and they protected her, and almost every time she went on a date she had to tell them who the guy was, make sure she had a thousand things with her, and had to be home by 11 and report to them.
She felt like Katie sometimes, honestly.
Carlos was like her energetic little brother with too much energy for his own good, but he loved her too and made her laugh like crazy – sometimes so hard she snorted. And Logan was a completely different story. She really loved him, like lovelove thing that you see in the movies.
But she was an actress, and she didn't tell him – nor would she ever – that seeing him every day reminded her of what she had lost. So, she hung around with them and let James and Kendall scoop her into their arms and throw her into the pool fully clothed, and she let Carlos spin her around and hold her close and make her scream with laughter, all the while feeling Logan's eyes on her.
And then, when the boys went on an 'all around the world' tour, they all sat her down in 2J and told her, grinning from ear to ear. She was happy for them, really, she was, but the tears that tracked their way down her cheeks showed that she was being left behind.
Again.
'Why are you crying, Millie?' Carlos asked, pulling her close so that she was sitting on his lap. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes.
'You guys are leaving me.' She whispered, her voice breaking. The four best friends exchanged a look, and then, almost out of nowhere, Kendall swooped in, grabbed her bridal style and paraded her around the room, letting her laugh and giggle with glee.
'You know, Millie, we're family, right?' James asked her when Kendall had finally deposited her on the lounge and she was lying with her head on Carlos's lap. She nodded, still smiling.
'Then, you know that family means nobody gets left behind, or forgotten.' Logan told her, kneeling next to her and threading his fingers with hers. Like they're dating again.
She nodded again, and shrieked and lashed out when James tickled her foot. 'I have to go home.' She said mockingly as she stood up, pulled her clothes down and started to march out the door. But James's voice stopped her.
'Millie, you're coming on tour with us.'
She whirled around, her eyes wide and her jaw dropped as she stared at her four best friends who were all grinning at her like madmen. And then, she did a very Camille-ish thing to do and screamed, running and leaping over the couch right into Logan. She tackled him to the ground and kissed him full on the lips – like they were dating again – and when she had to stop to breathe she just hovered over him and he had the look of a fish out of water.
And then, he suddenly blinked and smirked huge. 'Why'd you stop? I haven't kissed you in ages. You have some making up to do.' So she leant down and kissed him again, ignoring the whoops and catcalls from the other three.
Every night they were on tour, she and Jo skyped. They'd talk for hours on end about anything and everything. She cooked dinner for the boys, watched TV with them, hung around with them – she didn't clean after them, god no – and she really was part of the family. But the best part was the relationship between her and Logan.
She was a part of the family, and she didn't want that to change.
And if the boys had anything to do with it, it wouldn't.
You and me...it was such a long time ago, and we were just a couple of kids...but we really did love each other, didn't we?
She hadn't seen Logan in a little over 10 years. They had stopped talking to each other after a particularly nasty fight where Logan had dredged up her mother's death and Camille had called him a rat bastard.
The other guys still called and were always pleasant to her – she and Carlos almost always met up for lunch on a Saturday afternoon – and Jo and Stephanie were right there on speed dial, and she called them as often as possible.
But Logan. For all she knew he could have been dead.
And then, of course, one day, she ran into him at the markets while she was trying to figure out what dress to wear to the opening of her newest movie 'Julietta.' Logan had walked in, eyes downcast, hands shoved into his pockets, and if she hadn't accidentally run into him, she wouldn't have even known he was there.
She was wearing a feather-light strapless dress that brushed just above her knees and hugged her in all the right places, and she was standing in front of the mirror, plucking and pulling at it and trying to figure out if it looked good when she spun around and ran right into a boy.
She almost toppled backward, but he caught her arm and righted her. 'Thanks.' She said breathlessly, looking down at her waist. And then she looked up sharply when he spoke.
'Camille?' her eyes widened as she took him in, and she stepped back, her mouth hanging open.
'Logan.' She whispered through her fingers, because she knew it was him. He smiled hesitantly, but she didn't return it, instead fled into the dressing room, shut the door and collapsed on the ground. Her heels cut into her thighs and she could feel little droplets of blood, but she didn't move, instead watched as his shoes – ohsofamiliar – drew closer to her dressing room, and then they stopped, paused, and walked away.
She watched his shoes through the cracks in the door and tried to calm her beating heart. When she was sure he was gone, she rose shakily to her feet, got dressed, slipped out of the dressing room and bought the pretty little dress. The man at the cashier counter almost died when he realized he was in the presence of Camille Roberts! And took half price off the dress.
But before she left, his voice stopped her, and the man slipped an envelope into her hand. She thanked him hurriedly, dashed outside and locked herself in the cool of her limousine. She ripped the envelope open, and out fell a silver diamond ring. She twirled it in her fingers – the metal felt cool against her skin – and read the letter that was enclosed.
Dear Camille,
I know I haven't spoken to you in ages, but I miss you. A lot. I know the guys still talk to you, and so do Jo and Steph. I want you to know that you look beautiful in that dress, and congratulations on Julietta. You're bringing Jo as your date, aren't you? Anyway, keep being amazing.
I still love you, Camille. I never stopped.
All my love,
Logan.
She stared at the note, and then crumpled it up and threw the little pieces out the window. It was her past. She had to focus on her future.
But that night, at the premier, when she walked up the red carpet with her blond best friend on her arm, the cameras took in both their outfits. But none of them noticed the little shine on her right hand ring finger.
Except one boy in the back with dark brown eyes and black hair.
He saw it through the crowds, and as he walked away, he smiled to himself.
Because, in the dark, no one can see you cry.
It's a drizzly, rainy day and the sound of sobs reach her ears – but they're not hers – and she pushes her nails into her skin and walks forward. Her knee-high boots squelch in the mud and the rain drips down her back and seeps through her clothes.
There's a bunch of roses clutched in her hands – they're black – and a bit of crinkled, damaged, ripped paper that looks like it's been through the wars.
Just like her heart.
All around her is concrete with little tiny words engraved into them, but she's got her sights only on one, down the far end of the dismal place. When she reaches the patch of earth, she stands in front of it and just stares and stares and stares.
'I hate you.' She whispers suddenly, because there's nothing else to say. 'We all hate you, secretly. Even if no one wants to admit it. We do.' She pauses, almost like she's expecting an answer, even though she knows there won't be one.
She falls to her knees and lays the roses against the headstone, choking back tears. The black roses look oddly out of the place against the whiteohsowhite concrete. The sobbing she heard on her way in is stronger, louder, more persistent, but still she ignores it.
'Everyone's saying it's time to move on. But I don't think I can. I think I'm too far caught up in you that I'll never be able to move on.' Her voice catches but she keeps talking, wiping away at invisible tears. 'You were my first true love, you know. You used to light up my world every time you smiled. People are telling me I lit up yours, but if that was true then you wouldn't have run yourself off a cliff.' She laughs bitterly, letting tears cascade down her cheeks freely now.
'There's not a day that goes by that doesn't have me wishing it could have turned out differently. You're always on my mind. I want to kick you out, make you leave, but it's like you're engrained into my skull. It sucks.' She laughs again, but it turns into more of a sob than anything.
She rises unsteadily to her feet, drops the piece of paper on top of the patch of grass and crosses her arms over her chest. 'None of us are the same without you. We'll never be, really. And I really wish you could have known Nathan.' She smiles sadly at the thought of her 2 year old son at home. 'He's just like you, he really is. Same smile and hair and eyes and everything. He hasn't inherited anything from me.' She glances down at the words carved into the gravestone, committing them to memory.
'I'll bring him around one day, when he's old enough to understand who you are. I promise. I still love you.' And with that, she walks away with her head tucked down, a pounding headache, and those little letters still fresh in her mind.
Logan Jason Mitchell
21st March 1991 – 14th September 2017
Brother, best friend, son, and lover.
'Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while'
Fin.
Longest oneshot i have ever written! none of these are connected in any way! it's my birthday today, so it'd be an awesome birthday present if all of you could review! and follow me on twitter: UrPerfectToMe. and if you could tweet Logan Henderson and ask him to wish me happy birthday, it'd make my entire month! Thanks!
HPloveofmylife