Clary

I grab my sketch pad and a pencil with my shaking hands. Shaking because of the fear. Never have I ever been this scared. Bracing my hand, I start writing.

Baby, I haven't seen you for a while. How's California? I hope you're enjoying your trip. I saw the picture you posted on the Instagram. And the girl. I don't blame you, everyone's greedy. No one is ever satisfied. But I'm still mad. You see, I don't like liars, nor cheaters. You promised Jace, remember?

Pausing to take a deep breath, I allow my tears to flow. The nurse walks in to check on me.

"Doing okay?" She asks.

She has a nice voice.

"Yes," I answer weakly.

It feels like the cancer is eating me inside out.

"Is this room too hot for you?"

"I'm fine," I say.

I feel a lot worse than the last time I wrote him. I know that my last night is near.

Jace, I remember those days when I loved to sleep. I don't anymore. Because you know what? I'll be doing plenty of that after I die.

I feel the sting in the back of my eye.

Don't be upset that I didn't tell you. Time doesn't always solve everything. It was all for you, baby. Because I love you, and I want you to be happy. One day, I'll perhaps see you again. I'll be more healthy. I won't be ashamed of myself anymore. Maybe in the next life, I'll be a princess, and you'll be a prince. Maybe then, I won't have to lie to you.

If you're reading this, it probably means I'm gone. But shh, don't cry, baby. I'm here. I'm still here. And I'm so much happier. I love you, and that's all that matters. Your Clary will never, truly die.

I Lift my heavy arm in fury, deciding to write more to Jace.

Oh, Jace. Why did you? Don't you love me? But that's okay. It doesn't hurt that bad. Leaving you hurts more than seeing you with her. After all, it means you'll be able to move on after me. But it still hurts, Jace. Please don't. Don't forget about me. Just because I'm leaving you doesn't mean I want to. I love you, Jace.

They ran a few more tests on me, baby. The cancer is eating me out. But don't worry, I don't feel any pain. After all, it's nothing compared to the pain you cause.

Does that girl male you happy? I don't know if I want the answer to be yes. Because it sometimes kills me that you'll be kissing another girl, marrying one, having babies, and grow older with her, while all I can do is watch. Watch you while you slowly adapt to my absence while I don't. I can't.

I'm too tired to write. But my anger doesn't let that stop me. I open my sketchpad furiously.

You son of a bitch. How could you? How dare you? Here I am, dying on my bed, the loneliness consuming and suffocating me and you can't even think of me? I think of you everyday and every night. I love you every single minute and second. But you don't deserve my love. You're fucked up. So what are you going to do? Break up with my dead body when you come back? Are you even going to weep for me? Or maybe you'll be too busy, fucking whoever that slut is.

It feels like everyday, I'm dying a little bit. But you know what? I don't care anymore. I don't care if I die. Because it feels like you won't be even thinking of me even when I'm gone. But I hope you feel guilty, Jace. I hope you regret the girl.

Panting wildly, I put down the pencil and the sketchpad. My tears roll down on my cheeks. Damn it. I'm scared. I don't want to die yet. But it's something I need to face whether or not. So, I'll stand up proudly when the death comes to me. I will greet it in formal manners.

Beep.

Oh god, Jace.

Beep.

I think I still love you.

Beep.

Until the very moment of my last second.

Beep.

And even after then.

Jace

"So she just killed herself?" I ask.

"Yes," the nurse answers sadly.

Suddenly, my phone starts ringing.

"Excuse me," I say, hitting the call button. "Yes, baby?"

"Hey, I was wondering what time you're coming back," she says.

"I'll be back soon. Twenty minutes, perhaps?"

"Okay, love you."

"Love you too," I say, hanging up.

"I'm sorry. You said she killed herself. Why did she?"

"Maybe it was all too hard for her. It sometimes happens. She wanted you to read this," the nurse says, handing me a sketchpad. "She wrote it while she was sick."

"To me?" I ask, confused.

"Yes."

Why would she, though? I'm nothing to her. Frowning, I open it and find a bunch of messy writings on it. I read the whole thing, squinting my eyes.

"What was she diagnosed with?" I ask the nurse after I finish reading it.

"Schizophrenia," she answers swiftly.

I bet you didn't expect that. Hope you enjoyed. :)