*A/N: Hello, all. This is my first and only TFIOS fanfiction. I haven't written a fic for this fandom before, nor will I do it again. I just can't get the style right.

Regardless, I thought I'd post this short little piece. I'm not particularly proud of it, but hopefully someone will like it. Enjoy. :)

Disclaimer: JG owns all TFIOS characters, etc. *insert witty comment here*

This Silence Without You

Hello, love.

Of all the letters I've written you, I fear this is my last. Five years without you, and I've finally come full circle- I'm back in the hospital, dying. I wish I had your way with words- then maybe I could make this all sound easier, lighter, and not as depressing.

Too bad I'm the realist, right?

I suppose, as the realist, it's my job to tell you that my parents are understandably distraught. It's wonderful to know they love me, and that I'll be mourned, but it makes me get this ugly kind of clenching fear deep inside. They said once they'd "overcome their grief" once I've "passed on", and I hope that's true. This grenade isn't worth the victims.

There's another fear, too, a terror that makes this ugly lump in my throat and makes it hard(er) to breathe. I'm afraid to die, Gus. Isn't that horrible? I've had years, so many years, to come to terms with the unavoidable. And yet here I am. This letter might not be a long one, love- my vision is blurring and I don't think it's from the tears. But if I stop writing, I'll fall apart, and that solves nothing.

Talking about myself isn't helping much, is it? I'll talk about Isaac, instead. Five years has not succumbed to science and handed over "robot eyes", as he puts it, but he's adjusted to being blind. Time heals all wounds, I suppose. (Oh why wouldn't it heal mine?)

Speaking of healed wounds, he's moved on since Monica. Found himself a new girl at Support Group one day- she has an older sibling who's blind, so she has the spirit to stick with Isaac that Monica lacked. They're really happy together, but it makes me miss you more.

I suppose they'll read the eulogy you wrote for me at my funeral- and there I go again, talking about myself. Funny how dying does that to you. Did you wonder these things when you got sick? Did you fear the inevitable, speculate at the afterlife, and count your remaining seconds?

I suppose you did. Death is death, no matter who's doing the dying. (But Gus, my love, how I hate to think of you going through this.)

I don't think I can write any longer. My hand is too shaky, and I'm seeing double and feeling rather light headed. I'm tempted to keep writing, up until the moment the letter just stops- but I won't. Maybe if I wrap it up now, I can die with some sense of closure. (I try not to think about all the little unfinished things that will remind everyone of me- the unfinished homework on my laptop. The half-read book on my bedside table. The extra oxygen tanks under my bed.)

I hope you were right. I hope there is an afterlife. Seeing you again helps me think of things as a transition, and not as the end of it all. It helps push down the fear, a little.

But Augustus, my love,

The silence without you has been deafening.

-Hazel Grace Lancaster