A/N: This story is extremely grave and mature. It's heavy-duty; definitely a lot to take, so if you think you can't handle stories that deal with suicide, I am warning you now that this one does.

This was originally a oneshot, than a twoshot, but now I think it's gonna be more.

This is different than what I've done before, but I wanted to give it a try. This idea was one of those random ones that just pops into your head at an unexpected, irrelevant time. It wasn't one of those burning, itching, omg-I-have-to-write-this-down-now-or-else ideas. Just kind of something I thought of and then a few days later was bored so I started. That doesn't mean I didn't try as hard on it as I would on something else; but I just thought it was interesting how I could still get a (possibly?) satisfactory product from a spark that maybe wasn't so bright. I've been working on this for a quite a while; it's been sitting in my documents for a really long time, so now it deserves its time to shine. (That rhymed, hehe.) I've honestly been working really hard on this. There were points in the plot that I just didn't know in which direction to go; I spent like a week thinking and analyzing over all the different paths to go with this. So I hope all this work pays off and y'all enjoy it!

Anyway, thank you for the support and my loyal readers. :D

This is dedicated to runninequalslife. Hun, you are the best, most loyal insightful awesome beta an author could ask for. We are an amazing team and I cherish our friendship so dearly. I know how much you love this story, and so this is for you. :D Your enthusiasm for this story was really my motivation to write this; trust me, knowing myself, if it weren't for you, half of this first chapter would still be sulking in my documents folder. Love you!

I don't really care for the Jonas Brothers much, but the part that I'm quoting just fitted in so perfectly with the plot that I just couldn't miss the oppurtunity.

Disclaimer: I do not own Disney or High School Musical, or anything affiliated with either one.

Don't want to fall asleep

Who knows if I'll get up?

I don't want to cause a scene

But I'm dying without your love

Begging to hear your voice

Tell me you love me too

And I'd rather just be alone

If I know that I can't have you.

~Jonas Brothers, "Can't Have You"

"Maybe I should just spear this knife through the pulse in my neck…or just incise my chest near my heart…" She musedcontemplatively, the spotless, silver blade of the knife gleaming malevolently in her clenched hand.

Roughly, she ripped her long black dress over head, the silky material rippling through her thin fingers before she carelessly flung it aside. The air yanked it back and suspended it momentarily in the atmosphere; the expensive, sleek dress gracefully floated like a parachute, settling onto the small patch of lavender-colored rug beside her bed.

Troy found his mouth completely arid, as parched as the desert, the dryness of his throat the principle barrier that held him from objecting. He swallowed forcibly in pathetic place of speaking, staring fixedly at her gorgeous, nearly naked form as she gripped the weapon more firmly in her tiny, pale hand. She apprehensively knelt down to her floor, quite unsuccessfully covert over the fact that she was petrified out of her mind at what she aspired to do, not even conscious that she was clad in only her underwear. Her heart was thumping deliriously inside her chest, her whole body restlessly vibrating in uncontrollable reluctance and nervousness. She was scared; so hopelessly afraid, but she was coward to admit in to herself. Her mind was reeling with irrelevant thoughts at an unprecedented rate—just random rambles racing violently through her mind because of her extreme, unshakable tension.

There was a profound, concentrated silence that neither teenager dared to rupture. The environment of the small, flowery vicinity—which all of a sudden seemed claustrophobic and so dreadfully grim—was unbearably thick with fierce pressure, and the brick wall between the two neighbors elevated, widened, and strengthened more than ever. They mutually felt at sudden unease in each other's looming presence, and were suddenly relieved that their positions were a good five and a half feet away from each other.

Gabriella gazed down unemotionally at the knife in her lifeless hand, her dulled eyes unyielding and her intent mind completely immersed in her consuming thoughts. Questions blared through her mind ceaselessly like vociferous sirens, one important inquiry wrestling another for her undivided attention and answer. Troy merely watched her—he watched how her enormous, swirling eyes delicately flickered when she blinked; how her almost wholly exposed chest slowly moved up and down with every breath she inhaled; how ungodly breathtaking she looked when she thought so closely. How she seemed to have this unique, exuberant glow about her, even when she was as despondent as she was then. He thought how there were so many things she did not know—how internally and externally beautiful she was; how he was so utterly enamored with her; how it was his tacit duty to rescue her from her mistaken, self-decided fate.

Troy's distraught cyan eyes lingered despairingly on her morose form, crouched weakly on the floor beneath him. He finally mustered up all the courage and strength he could unearth, bravely declaring, "You're going to regret this."

Gabriella felt wildly restless now. Her undersized bones felt solidly stiff inside her body yet they urged to move, jittery and knocking ruthlessly against her skin. She knew if she did not think about it and simply did it, everything would go right. She had known beforehand that if she had been hesitant and thought before doing, her intricately fabricated plan would collapse. Fuck, she cursed heatedly in her head. She had done everything she had intended not to.

"I can't regret something once I'm already dead," Gabriella whispered solemnly, in such a illuminated way that Troy's hopes rocketed to the sky, praying that she had privately admitted her irrationality. But her spirits suddenly plummeted once more, Troy realizing that she had spoken in an epiphany sort of way. She seemed to suddenly discover a reason all the more to gruesomely commit suicide. As if once she were dead, she could not regret anything she had ever done.

"You need to—" Troy stammered tryingly, but sighed resignedly as he trailed off. He meant to teasingly reply with how she needed to come up with a response more original, but he knew now was not a fit time for their usual lighthearted joking and mockery. It was so just so instinctive to joke around like they usually did, like brother and sister. "—see the light," he finished faintly with a mumble some awkward seconds later. "You can't—you can't do this."

"I can. People have done it before." Gabriella knew playing smart-ass was not going to lift her out of the hole she had frantically dug. Her frail fingers powerlessly squeezed the handle of the knife still clutched tightly in her hand.

Troy remained quiet. For some godforsaken reason, he kept his mouth clamped securely shut. Gabriella kept hers sealed too, the ghosted manner about her—which was so unlike her—intensifying to the point where she hardly recognized herself. That frightened her even more.

The consistently increasing strain multiplied with each second that ticked by, the ongoing silence not an aid.

Gabriella abruptly stood, striding over to her closet in surprisingly bold paces and impatiently jimmying open the door. Her mocha eyes skimmed her options for a moment, and then she fished out a pastel tank top and a pair of tight-fitted jeans, pulling them on easily.

"What?" Troy asked numbly, his feet hopelessly anchored to the ground.

Gabriella remained mute, stingily snatching the knife on the floor once more and advancing to her neatly made bed. She plopped down on it nonchalantly, grasping the knife firmly in her hand and carefully steadying it over her left wrist, the bright blue veins in her arm popping out, effortlessly visible.

"Oh God, no…" Troy maundered hazily without even realizing he was speaking, haphazardly trampling over to the bed as quickly as he could and trying to seize the knife from her hand. She held it away from his reach, glaring up at him deviously. Her exotic chocolate eyes smoked over completely, unreadable.

"You can't choose for me, Troy Bolton," Gabriella grinned in a hauntingly vicious way, not knowing how truly cruel she was being to him. Troy felt his stomach plunge, his throbbing heart cracking and sinking, his face avalanching and flashing white. Gabriella smirked evilly, continuing tauntingly, "It's my life. My ending. I get to choose my ending."

Troy had never felt so desperate in his life. His chest ached agonizingly with longing and heavy hope, his throat dryer than he thought was possible. He aggressively thrust his arm over her for the outrageously unsafe, razor-sharp blade, but Gabriella had it too far away. He knew toying with pointed objects was never safe, but he could not decide what the most dangerous situation was in the room at that instant. Him getting sliced with a knife, or Gabriella slicing herself with the knife and dying.

"Give it to me," he growled callously in a thundering voice. The unexpected change of authority and force in Troy greatly startled Gabriella. His attractive face molded into a harder, more confident one, his serious cobalt eyes drilling holes into Gabriella's crumpled form. "You give me that knife. Now."

Something about his rapid metamorphism made Gabriella instinctively mount to complete composure, struggling for ultimate command all of a sudden. She loathed being the inferior one; control was unfailingly comforting.

"Who are you to tell me that?" Gabriella whispered sturdily with an abrupt, deceiving alteration of emotion, yet a hint of fear still ringing in her pure voice. She could not put up the act for long. Her hands shook dangerously for a tense, chewed moment, her mysteriously ambiguous eyes glancing down vacantly at her pale left arm. Her right arm rose, bringing the knife up with it, levitating it in the preferred spot.

She had insensately sliced her flesh before he could strangle out another pitiful word.

Gabriella stared down with unreserved repulsion into the grubby ceramic toilet, filthy with years worth of grime, her knobby knees knocking nervously against the dusty, atrociously tiled floors of the first floor girl's lavatory.

"You know he doesn't love you."

Uncontrollable anxiety rocketing madly through her veins, she numbly dug her chin into the cold, glassy surface of the rim of the toilet, her eyes dilating in unconditional fear.

"You know it's true. You know he's secretly hated you. He's just been trying to keep it to himself; you know, mislead you; laugh at how you actually believe his little act. And he's been doing this since you moved here that horrible, horrible year…"

Sharpay wore a heartlessly wicked expression, one that made anyone fall weak at the knees. Her dark eyebrows narrowed, reeking total malevolence. Her utter disgust for Gabriella was such a strong force that a spiteful atmosphere automatically ensued any time they were in the same room together.

"Do you need me to remind you what happened?" Gabriella waited for the cackle that she was convinced would ensure. She somehow uncovered the consciousness to dizzily shake her head no.

"Good. It even hurts me to retell the tale…"

Sharpay was pacing now in a tight diameter of six or so feet, her brightly manicured hands stiff and set on her curved hips.

"Do us all a favor. Succumb," Sharpay spat, her advice easily able to be mistaken for an order. "You'll see how much happier the world will be without a waste of space like you." She took an intimidatingly confident step forward into the stall in which Gabriella fearfully crouched, her shadow immediately dimming the cramped space and intoxicating it with her evil. "Stop with the pathetic fight, Gabriella Elena Montez. It's over. It's been over since that year. That year that you are dying to forget. Succumb and it will be over. Succumb and you won't have to try anymore. You won't have to be frantically clawing at empty air while you plummet to the bottom, like you are now. You will make this world a better place by leaving it. So please. It's easy."

Her fogged eyes balled into beady ones with the last firm, terse word.

"Succumb."

According to the American Heritage Dictionary, the word "succumb" had a straightforward, concise meaning.

To die.

"Are they gone yet?"

Her dreary, desiccated words were painfully succinct and hung sullenly, inanimately,in the unusually impenetrable spring air. The bitter syllables drifted somberly to his ears like wispy, forgotten vapors, her typical crushingly energetic effervescency lacking tremendously to the point where it made his soul crumble at the comparison of the two very opposite Gabriellas. Gabriella was beginning to detect his escalating pain, hint by clue, but was too consumed by her own ashamed, stabbing hurting to notice anything more. Every single word she forced out of her mouth; every broken word was another needle, pricking, poking through her. She was just barely able to suppress the threatening, sensitive tears in her quivering voice. Gabriella Montez could not remember the last time she had cried. She could not remember a single time in her life when she had been so emotionally vulnerable. She hardly obtained the heart left to be embarrassed.

"No," Troy responded candidly, his masculine voice unintentionally dark.

She swallowed. Her throat felt sore.

She blinked.

Once.

Twice.

She stared up hollowly at the ceiling, her troubled mind completely blank and frozen, her body unconsciously sucking in a craved lungful of oxygen.

What her life had become.

It killed her.

She would not cry. She would not scream. She would not complain. She would not shatter.

She merely kept her impassive, unfilled eyes glued to the ceiling, motionless and stubborn.

She felt empty. Cracked.

Broken.

She would not cry.

Gabriella lay rigidly flat on her back, her tiny arms spread openly to her sides, looking completely dead, for they merely laid there. Her left forearm was tightly and carefully wrapped with a now incarnadined towel, most of the vivid red blood still wet but some other parts beginning to dry. It had taken a modest amount of time for Troy to register what she had been doing—it was so surreal for him that she would actually proceed with her foolishly unreasonable fantasy. But when the horrific information settled into his brain, he reacted rapidly, and had violently slapped her ashen hand to the side before she could slit her wrist, causing Gabriella to create a deep, dangerous gash near her elbow on her forearm. Troy had frenziedly raced around the room, deliriously dodging around like a maniac while Gabriella had withdrawn guiltily on her bed, cradling the injured arm in her other, her discolored face buried in her own shoulder; awkwardly silent. She had mutely observed Troy snatch a white towel from her adjoined bathroom, scurrying back to her and meticulously attending to her wounded arm, Gabriella robotically doing what he had asked; not objecting. She didn't have the energy to.

Troy allowed her to be silent for a while. He sat plainly at her desk chair from across the room, gazing absorbedly at her, entranced. He wondered how such a person could have so much torment in their lives. He considered what the system was; who and how it was decided who received what pain and what happiness. It made his head pound in frustration just to think about it. But he knew—he knew that if given the choice, he would have taken all Gabriella's hurt and pile it right on him. He would make this devoted decision in a nanosecond.

"Troy?" Gabriella managed to call softly from her unmoving position on her bed; in such a gentle, powerless manner that Troy swore he felt tears rise in his eyes at her immeasurable ache. Her feathery voice was increasingly fragile, and as light and transparent as the invisible girl that secretly cowered within her.

"Yeah?" Troy responded breathily, his heart hammering madly in his chest with every word. His hands were embarrassingly clammy. Gabriella was staring attentively at him from across the room, her mocha eyes intent and focused on his form. She didn't know why; but she suddenly found him breathtakingly beautiful. Was it just the light? She wasn't so certain. It was just some aura unexplainable about her neighbor that she just wanted to drink in all at once; it seemed so rich, so inviting, so comforting, and she wanted his presence suddenly. The abrupt revolution of belief startled her, but she could not help but desire his company. Her chest moved up and down with every desperate gasp of air she gulped, the fingers of her unharmed arm weakly curling in absentmindedness. Troy tentatively stood and paced over to her heartbreakingly limp figure, quietly sitting down at the edge of her bed.

Her fingers suggestively coiled again.

Troy understood what she sought after, his heart still frantically thrashing. His hand twitched nervously, and then following his instincts, he affectionately enveloped her miniature, cold hand in his. His hefty hand seemed to swallow her tiny one whole, and he squeezed it soothingly, letting her know he was right there. His alluring, sapphire eyes were consolingly warm on hers, making her just want to fall into them. They were familiar, and she felt an urgent need for their pacification and relief.

It was all so horribly surreal.

How her father had died, in the cruel nightmare of a car accident, just sheer blocks away from her house.

How her burdened mother had hysterically wept, even through their dreadful, brutal divorce and their strict, long-lasting period of silent treatment and mutual excommunication.

How her unpredictable mother had decided to hold the funeral at her father's house because it held so many memories of him. Yet that hurt the most, striking her square in the heart. How it hurt her to step on the floor her father had once stepped.

How at the moment there were uncontainable hordes of people gathered in her father's backyard, a vast many not even having known the famous businessman that her motivated father had been. Some fallaciously tearful mourners were randomly scattered around the first floor of her massive house, insistently helping Gabriella's despondent, seemingly inconsolable family. Sobbing people had been hugging her emotionless structure left and right, draping themselves on her unbending shape with excruciating weight, as if they needed her more than she needed them.

Troy's face was one of the few faces that Gabriella had recognized through the crowded, bustling house. She felt the most comfortable around him; he didn't try to console her or confront her the way everyone else had. He simply let her be. He made her feel strangely alive, and she wanted to be near that unknowing influence of his.

"Are you okay?" Troy whispered in such a tender, adoring voice that her insides just melted. Troy found himself fascinated by her natural charm, his blue eyes glistening marvelously as they watched hers. He didn't know what made him do it, or where the urge came from; but suddenly his free hand was fondly stroking her flowing tendrils, now rather wilted but still oh so beautiful. Gabriella felt her eyes impulsively flurry closed. The unreal, spinning sensations he was provoking inside her made her feel so treasured. Like he wanted her. Like someone actually wanted her. His large hand cupped her unblemished cheek distractedly, not realizing what he was doing as he reveled in his fantasy-like reverie about her. He was about to retract his hand when Gabriella released a slight whimper, pleading to the playmaker to keep his magical hand where it was. An elated smile snuck onto his face as his fingers began to softly run down her angelic face, so flawless. It simply amazed him. He simply amazed her.

"Hmmm…" Gabriella found herself humming lightly as his wondrous hand began gently massaging her neck. Her enormous brown eyes blinked open and scintillated pleasurably, gleefully, as she offered an unsure smile at the engrossed boy now hovering carefully above her.

Their eyes searched each other's, desperately. His radiant eyes seemed to glow stunningly, just like hers did. There was something so tantalizing and thrilling about those eyes; something so unique and engulfing. Why did he feel like he was in another world when he gazed into them? Why did she suddenly feel so safe in the unspoken embrace of his own remarkable blue eyes?

Her small hand floated up to his craned neck, gently pulling his elegant face down closer to her level. He smiled willingly as he rubbed his nose against hers, not thinking and just doing. It just felt so blissfully good. So open and free and wonderful. Gabriella prayed she could stay in his heavenly world forever.

Everything was suddenly happening so fast; at a blinding, rapid momentum that scared the two of them, yet neither could find the pause button. So they continued on heedlessly, releasing all of their imprisoned passion and energy all at once—one minute her hands were running up and down his chest, the next his hand was delving up her tank top. Before Gabriella knew it, her lips were tasting the best taste they had ever tasted.

His glorious tongue darted in and out of her mouth; her silky lips surely the softest thing he had ever felt. They were warm and as smooth as velvet; coaxing and reassuring. Gabriella produced an unintentional moan, embarrassed at herself while Troy believed it was the sexiest thing he had ever heard in his life. Both ardent teenagers were panting heavily, all logical thoughts fleeing them and solely leaving them driven by hormones.

"I…want—you," Gabriella gasped out the first words she had said in the last hour. "Give me all of you."

"I—I-I…" Troy stammered dazedly as he peppered kisses down her sweaty neck. Gabriella's hands erratically rushed up and down his muscular arms, which were propped on either side of her and encased her in paradise. Both felt violently flustered, yet they pressed on recklessly. "I—okay…Gabriella…" Her whole first name rolled off of his tongue so effortlessly.

"Hmm…" Gabriella replied haggardly, her breathing irregular as Troy sucked on that spot near her ear. "Troy…okay…"

Her jeans were unbuttoned maladroitly, pushed down to her knees in haste. Her thin tank top was hurriedly whipped over her head and flung carelessly to the floor, his own blazer and button-down shirt strewn haphazardly with it.

"Your arm…y-your arm, is it okay?" Troy grunted as hoisted himself up and sat on her fidgety, toned legs, taking a quick moment to wrench off the remainder of her jeans that had twisted at her calves. Her smooth flesh was pasty with boiling sweat, her bronzed skin flushed and her forehead scorching, and yet it all only furthered his extreme arousal.

"I'll be fine," Gabriella breathed vaguely, her voice escaping her. Her wide eyes blazed exotically with a sort of fire, an essence that was new and riveting to Troy. They simmered as they watched him, so sexily raw that that was all Troy needed to begin plunging into her warmth—when he realized.

"Hey…hey, Gabi," he said abruptly as he let her toy with his leather belt. "Aren't you a virgin?"

Gabriella's face turned unexpectedly hard, though she tried hard not to show it. She sat up suddenly and began to busy herself by trying to remove Troy's stubborn belt. The only sound that echoed throughout the sad, humid room was the irritated rustling of the belt. "Does it matter?"

She finally got the belt free, tossing it aside carelessly. "I'm just…s-saying…" Troy huffed as her fingers began tracing patterns across his defined stomach muscles. "Don't you want to think about this first?"

"What is there to think about?" she demanded rigidly, her sharp words concrete. "I tried to die. I wanted to die, Troy." Her voice dropped to an undertone of a whisper, the hand on his stomach falling with it. "I want to die." Her mystical orbs dimmed instantaneously.

Troy steadied a hand flat against her burning back, pressing her tiny body to his, his irregular breaths beginning to even. "You know that I love you?" he murmured distantly, his suddenly transparent eyes staring impassively at the wall. "You know that?"

Gabriella couldn't help herself; she was surprised she had any tears left at all. They pooled helplessly in her big, lonely eyes. How could she trust him? "I want you to fuck me hard, Troy," Gabriella commanded vehemently. "I want to feel pain."

He would leave once he got what he wanted.

And then it would all be over.

She would succumb.

Gabriella watched with disgust trembling in her eyes as Avery Kennedy practiced her new routine.

Avery had everything Gabriella wanted. And she didn't even have to try. It was as if the whole world was just handed to her, and she didn't even have to fight to keep power for herself. Everything was just…for her. No one second-guessed her; no one dared to insult her within a two-mile radius of her; no one interfered with her at all. Because Avery Kennedy was just…well, Avery Kennedy. She was rude, but people still obeyed her. You had to.

She instructed her own league—something completely separate from the Ice Queen's. It was as if there were two queens of the grade, not one, and each ruler had their own prominent group of loyal followers and clones.

Sharpay had the drama geeks.

And Avery, well…she stereotypically had the cheerleaders.

In her entire lifetime, Avery Kennedy had only spoken to the invisible Gabriella Montez for a grand total of eleven seconds.

The first time was at the championship game party. She had arrived late, the bright sheen of her glossy hair the first thing Gabriella saw before quickly moving out of her way. Her golden hair was ruffled, and her excessive makeup was horribly smudged. She looked kind of drunk, although she wasn't. She impatiently asked Gabriella where the beverages were. She was not familiar with the Baylor residence, where the party was being held. "Where are the drinks?" she had demanded dizzily, not looking Gabriella in the eye.

A little under two seconds.

The second time was a week later. Gabriella and Troy were on the grass of his backyard, their things scattered all about the lush green. They were intently doing homework with one another, occasionally telling stories and muffling a giggle or two. Avery had furiously stomped out of the house, her eyes narrowed. She ordered Gabriella a moment of privacy with Troy, on "urgent matters." While their "brief moment of privacy" lasted an hour, her order had lasted much less.

Three seconds.

The third time was two days after that. Gabriella was seated comfortably in the silent school library, nibbling the back of her pencil absentmindedly as she pondered her essay question. Suddenly Gabriella heard a defiant, peremptory, "Move." Apparently Gabriella had been occupying the seat next to the window with the best view.

Not even one second.

The fourth day was today. The day of Gabriella's father's funeral. Gabriella was quite surprised to see Avery there, exquisite in a stylish black dress a great deal prettier (and expensive) than hers. She tried her best to be consoling towards Gabriella. "If you need anything," Avery gently put her hand on Gabriella's wrist, making Gabriella jump slightly, "just let me know. I wish you and your family all the best."

Six seconds.

And yet, Gabriella still hated her.

Maybe hate was too strong of a word—especially for someone who she'd only communicated with for eleven brief seconds—but there were just some things Gabriella would never forgive Avery Kennedy for.