As the next few weeks went on, things seemed to only get worse. Ever since I posted my most recent video, I was getting questions left and right, dozens to hundreds of tweets asking if I was okay. I almost cancelled my live show because I knew what would flood the chat –surely enough, it did.

I couldn't escape questions asking if I was alright. I tried to tell them that yes, I was fine, but it was maybe the least convincing lie I'd told in a while. And at one point I almost let the truth be known, that no, I wasn't alright, I was drowning. I had to end the show early to spare all involved. They knew me as how I acted on camera: bubbly, full of life and happiness. I must've been an excellent actor, and it took all my strength to put up that front. They never needed to know me as I knew myself.

I wanted to go to bed early that night, dragging my feet to my room as I couldn't be bothered to lift my feet off the ground. I stopped at the doorway. Dan was in his own room, playing music and probably in ignorant bliss. There were always times I wanted to tell him everything –he had unwittingly saved my life before, maybe if he knew what was going on, he could do it again. I'd do almost anything for that freedom, but couldn't sacrifice Dan's happiness for my own selfish desire.

I didn't knock on his door or try to talk to him, or reply when he texted me a few minutes later but with a quick message that I was going to bed. I slumped in front of the mirror, peeling excess clothing off until I was nearly exposed to my reflection. I knelt down and plucked my worst best friend between calloused fingers. I bowed my head down as any consciousness left the muscles in my arms and thighs, and slowly my mind slipped into the routine as well.

That night in particular, I was tormented by guilt and pain. I recalled every tongue-lashing, every harsh word spoken against e; they echoed and rattled against the inside of my skull and left throbbing pain in its wake. I trudged on, though, enduring all the painful, scathing words that had been thrown my way over the years.

"Fake it to make it" to a struggling adolescent. And I tried, always teetering between hiding away and letting the real me come through. I'd been naïve: it earned me three slits.

"Ugh, you freak!" to a confused young boy. I was in love with Dan, my best friend, and it was a terrible thing to be. I'd been wrong: four more.

"Crying's for sissies and babies!" to a small, small child. I never did cry, until now, fat tears falling down my blotchy cheeks. I was weak: another six or seven.

"It's just a phase, and he'll grow out of it" to a broken young man. When? When would I no longer need to run a sharp edge through my skin to feel something but pain and guilt anymore? I was self-destructive, but I didn't mean to cut then as deep as I did.

I watched the blood flow from my arm, and I wanted to think something poetic of it, but it was almost as if for the first time, I was feeling the physical pain. As the bright redness gushed from the wound, every other scar –old and new- suddenly felt alight on fire. I let out a strangled cry as I gripped onto my arm, still bleeding.

I tried to stay calm –I thought about Dan, and his eyes and his smile and all the brightness about him. He had his days, but didn't we all. He had this aura about him that made me feel safe, even from myself. Dan might've made no use for me to hurt myself, because even platonically, I knew he loved me. For a while that hurt, because I loved him so much more than that, but his friendship was enough to get me by before: I'd stopped altogether for a time, before I fell in love. Then it was back to the blade for me.

I stared down at the small, but deep, slit in my arm. I had never cut below the designated boundary before, and it was near to my wrist. I fucked up. I fucked up bad.

My chest was tightening; I couldn't breathe. With what little air there was to use, I needed to make a hasty decision. It would likely be the wrong decision, but I'm sorry: I wasn't ready to die.

"Dan!"

There was a brief pause, then footsteps pounding on the floor, one door swinging open before my own. Dan could only stand there for a moment after letting out a choked sound, and I watched as tears sprang to his eyes. He pulled his shirt off as he rushed over to collapse to his knees at my side. By then I was on the ground, far too weak to sit back up.

He wrapped his shirt around my arm, squeezing tightly and trying to prevent any further blood loss. He whipped out his phone –he was calling an ambulance. I let my eyes slip closed for a moment, but he shouted for me to stay awake, to stay with him. I did.

I didn't expect him to go with me in the ambulance, squeezing my hand and telling me everything would be okay. I tried to believe him –I really did.

He kissed one cheek and stroked the other with his thumb, staring into my unfocused eyes. "I know. I know how you feel about me, and I'm so fucking sorry I never told you how I feel the same way. I do, though: I love you. And I'm gonna help you get better."