/ Okay, another one from me. But I'm not too confident of this one. It's not supposed to be depressing, just a little something to justify the end. It's not my best, but I hope people would like it anyway. If you have some time, please review.! /

ALONE

England laid on his bed, his eyes never leaving the ceiling. He felt exhausted, tired. He didn't know why he felt that way. He hadn't done anything all month. He didn't go to the world meetings. He didn't even get up. He just laid there on his bed, thinking about his life.

What am I doing? he thought, his gaze still glued to the ceiling. He didn't know why he kept looking at the white paint above. The answer to his question wasn't written there. Nor was it anywhere, for that matter. He didn't know what he was doing, he didn't know why hadn't gotten up for the past month.

England closed his eyes. He wondered if anybody noticed that he hadn't attended meetings for an entire month. Or maybe they're too busy arguing to notice, he thought. Or having fun without me.

The last thought gave him a hollow feeling in his gut. Maybe it was true. He never actually had friends, and everyone he cared for had left him. England wanted to cry, but no tears would come out. And he didn't feel sad or depressed. He just felt hollow, empty.

England opened his eyes and sat up. I should do something, he told himself. I shouldn't just lie here.

He shuffled out of his room and into the kitchen to make himself some tea. As he waited for the water to boil, he realized that he didn't know what date it was. Is there a meeting today? he wondered. I should ask. I might be able to make it.

He turned the stove off and went to the living room in search of his phone. His hands felt dust everywhere, but he didn't care. It was strange, him not caring about all the accumulated dirt in his house. He was always so tidy and organized. He tried to remember what had happened a month ago. Why did he suddenly decide to lie in bed for a month?

His mind kept searching for the answer in his memories until his hands brushed against his phone. He called France and waited patiently for the ringing to stop, but his ears met an answering machine.

"Bonjour! This is moi. I'm probably at a meeting right now, so feel free to leave a message and I'll call you back later."

England hung up. Why hadn't France told him that there was a meeting? Why hadn't anyone called him for that matter? He threw his phone at the wall opposite him. It broke, but England couldn't care less. Nobody cared that he was gone, nobody cared that he had just disappeared.

He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his head in his arms. He felt so alone. He knew he didn't have friends, but the bickering with France and America had at least given him some sort of warmth. But now he was truly alone. There was nobody with him in his dusty old house. It was just him.

He stayed like that for hours, and when he raised his head, he could see the moonlight streaming from the window and into the living room. England stood and slowly made his way to the veranda. He stared at the full moon, his knuckles white and tightly gripping the railing.

England slowly reached out a hand towards the moon. "Can you be my friend?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. "I've got nobody else."

The wind blew against his face, ruffling his hair. The trees underneath him swayed, and England took this as an affirmative.

"Can I touch you?" England whispered as another breeze came in.

He put his weight on his left arm, his feet leaving the ground. His right arm was still stretched out, still reaching. "Do I have to get closer?" he whispered again. The cold night air seemingly whispered affirmatives in his ear, and he stepped on top of the railing.

He balanced himself and reached out again. "I still can't reach you," he said, his right arm stretching as far as it could. "Do I have to take a step closer?"

The wind blew stronger and the trees swayed more. That was a yes, England thought. The moon wants me to step closer.

So he took a step…

And fell.

England still reached out to the moon. "Why?" he asked, tears finally making their way out of his eyes. "You said if I took a step I'd be closer to you. But I can see you going farther away…"

He closed his eyes and retracted his hand. "Even the moon doesn't want me," he whispered to himself. "I'm really alone…"

His last words were carried by the cold night wind as his head finally hit the pavement, and his body joined the shadows on the ground.