hink! A/N: This the first chapter of Blaine's recovery and just remember, it has to get worse before it gets better. There's one song in here (Against All Odds), but I'm sure you're all familiar with that one. Title taken from the Jane Austen quote "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope." Also I'm introducing two OC'S (One physically, the other's just referenced) and please love them like you love Kurt and Blaine because honestly, they're the best.

I appreciate constructive criticism or nice comments (like a lot actually, they make my day), but if you don't like the story or the way Kurt or Blaine are written, feel free to stop reading.

Chapter 8: Half Agony, Half Hope

(Blaine, June 2014 - July 2014)

"I didn't realize it, but the days came along one after another, and then two years were gone, and everything was gone, and I was gone." – F. Scott Fitzgerald, Babylon Revisited and Other Stories

June, 2014

A week after my intervention – after I finally admitted that I had to get help, after I let all of the secrets building inside of me out – I called a psychiatrist.

Rachel and Cooper had been helping me research for a few days, trying to help me find someone who specialized in what I needed. This was a life-changing decision; I couldn't just see anyone, I had to make sure that they would be right for me. We were led to a webpage for a private practice where Dr. Henley Lovette worked (to which Cooper had replied "Like Sweeny Todd?" at the same time that Rachel said "Like the shirt?") and it mentioned that she experienced with depression and self harm, which was immediately interesting to me. I didn't know how a person would want to actively spend their lives dealing with people like us, but as I continued to read, I began to understand why.

My name is Dr. Henley Lovette. I "specialize" in self harm and depression, but I'm qualified to treat people with all types of mental illnesses. I know you're scared, and it's okay. I can help you help yourself, if you let me. If you're on this page, that means you're probably interested in finding a psychiatrist and hopefully, I'll be seeing you shortly. And even if I don't, you should be proud of yourself for reaching out and seeking help; it's the bravest thing a person can do.

Let me tell you a little bit more about myself. I was inspired to become a psychiatrist about twelve years ago by my best friend and partner Charlotte. For almost her entire life, she struggled with depression, and along with that came an array of other problems, most notably (and most commonly) self harm and suicidal thoughts. I would always try to help her, but it was usually in limited success. Once I realized that it wasn't my job to "fix her" – or more accurately, that I couldn't help her because I wasn't qualified – I started researching ways that I could help. I saw a few things that I could do, but none of them had the effect I wanted on her. Once we moved to New York after graduation and she started seeing a psychiatrist and going on medication, the change was miraculous. She went from someone who was withdrawn, hurting, and always looking for a way out to a person who was bright, bubbly, and ready to finally live her life in a little over a year. That's when I decided that I wanted to help those like her, so I switched my major, and ten years later, here I am. Here we are. That can be you. With the right treatment (whether cognitive, medical, or otherwise), you can get better. You can succeed and overcome your illness. I've seen it first-hand, in her and in the many patients that I've treated since working in this practice. It is possible, if you dedicate yourself to it and give it time.

Therapy is nothing to be ashamed about, it's something to be proud of.

"That's the one, Blaine," Cooper urged, putting his hands on my shoulders. "That's her."

"I know," I breathed out. I could feel my heart begin to pick up speed in my chest, both from nervousness and anticipation. This could be the first step in changing my entire life. It could be the beginning of the end of the misery, the heartache, the long-waged battle with cutting, something I'd only ever dreamed but never dared to believe could happen. It was terrifying. This was all I'd ever known; for so long, it was like I had a second skin always waiting for me, or like there were little monsters living inside of my brain. I knew that no matter how happy I was, it was only temporary. And now, I had the opportunity to make that a permanent reality. As much as I didn't want to go to therapy, I knew I had to start coming to terms with everything that was causing my unhappiness, and I couldn't lie – the chance to start over and have a new life? I yearned for it.

I gave her a call, filled out the necessary personal data inventory forms, and set my appointment.

July 7th, 2014 – Therapy

"Hi, Blaine, I'm Henley. It's so nice to meet you," she said warmly, a glowing smile lighting up her face. She reached her hand out to shake mine before she shut the door behind me, and then gestured to the room. "You can have a seat on the couch or the chair, whichever you prefer."

I sat hesitantly in the chair, sucking in a breath as I took in my surroundings. The room was painted a light yellow, almost-tan color, which was supposed to make us all calmer, I figured. There was a small desk in the corner, artwork from various cities around the world on the wall, and another chair in front of where I was sitting, where she was.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and they're just to get a feel for your situation, alright? If you don't want to answer them or feel like it's too much at the moment, let me know and we'll move on, okay?" Her voice was soft and concerned, and I knew that she could tell I was nervous. "Everything you say is completely private, and I'm a strict believer in patient confidentiality, so feel free to be as truthful as you can. Once I familiarize myself with what's going on in your life, I'll be able to assess things better. I read over the sheet you filled out, but I want to hear about it from you."

"Okay."

"Can you tell me about why you came in to see me? What was the one moment that made you think, 'I need to get help'?" She pulled out a small notepad and a pen.

Ignore that. Be honest. Don't lie. This is why you made the appointment, to get help.

"This is just for future reference, don't worry," she assured me after she saw my eyes stare at the paper nervously. "I promise I'm not going to go make copies and hang it on every building in New York."

That got a small laugh out of me and a little of fear in my chest alleviated.

"I don't exactly know where to start," I told her. "It's kind of a long story."

"That's totally normal. We'll get more in-depth with that and the details of it all throughout the coming weeks, but just start at the end of the story and work backwards. It's usually easier that way."

"Okay. Um, a little over two years ago, my boyfriend left," I said quietly, and I wrung my hands in my lap.

"So that's where your trouble stems from?" she asked, and I nodded. "How did you cope with that?"

My jaw clenched, and I looked away. I squeezed my fingers together, nails pushing into my palm. "Yeah, that and… a lot of other things."

"It's only your first appointment, it's okay to be nervous," she reassured me.

"I just don't want to say too much too soon. It's just… it's hard. I don't open up easily. Especially about this."

"With me, you can't ever say too much. This is a safe place where you can say what you want. I know it's not easy for you, but that's why you came here, right? To work through your problems." I nodded my head in agreement. "Once you're comfortable with me, and if you want to continue with me, the novelty will wear off. This is always the worst visit, because I have to gather facts so that I can see what you're dealing with. You're all new to this, and revealing personal things to a stranger is difficult for almost everyone. Typically, most of my patient's find that it's easier to communicate with me once they get everything out on the table."

"Do I have to tell you everything today?"

"Of course not. You don't even have to tell me everything within the first month, or couple of months, if you don't want to. You tell me whatever you want to tell me. If it's going to help you to get it off of your chest, talk about it. But if you aren't ready, don't force yourself. In time, the goal is to be able to get yourself to a place where you can freely communicate to me the things that are bothering you."

"Alright," I replied. "So, do I just… start?"

"Sure, go ahead."

I shifted in my seat, uncomfortable that all of the attention was now being directed at me. "Okay, well, his name was Kurt. I met him when I was sixteen, and when I got to talking with him, I realized that we weren't so different. We both needed a friend at the time, and once we'd found each other, our friendship blossomed quickly from there. Within a couple of months, we'd started dating, and then it didn't take long for me to realize that I was in love with him."

"How long were you two together?" she asked me, writing on her notepad.

"A little under two years. It doesn't seem like a lot, but when two people go through what we went through, it just – it bonds you together in a way that's hard to explain. We helped each other and we were latched so tightly onto our relationship. We were both in really bad places, and neither of us were very good at loving ourselves. I had my issues and he had his, but we tried to be there for each other."

"Did you think that you would be able to change him?"

"No, not at first. I just wanted to help him and make him see that he was beautiful, because to me, he was. It hurt me to see him hurt himself, and I did everything I possibly could to fight away his demons. He eventually agreed to go on anti-depressants and write in a journal, and after months and months of him being on medication and trying to get better, things finally felt like they would be okay because he was so much happier and he didn't hurt himself as much. I knew that his depression wouldn't go away completely, but I knew we could manage it. But then, things started to feel… different. I could tell that something was wrong. It was like being on a never-ending rollercoaster – one day he would be okay, smiling and laughing, and then the next he wouldn't get out of bed. It continued to get worse, and then I asked him – I asked him about it, and I had to go over to his house because I was terrified that he'd done something to himself." I stopped, taking a breath. Never, not once, would I be able to talk about that night without feeling sick. Without crying, or remembering all of the blood that was on his arms, or feeling his body collapse into mine. The sound of his sobs filled my ears and I felt a tightness crawl up my throat. I couldn't tell her about this. It wasn't my story to tell, it was Kurt's. I shook my head to clear the thoughts away, continuing with a thick voice. "I woke up one day, and he was just… gone."

"And how did you cope after?" she asked me as she shifted in her seat. "Is says on the sheet that you self-harmed, but is there anything else you did?"

"I…" I bit my lip as I locked my fingers together tightly. She gave me an encouraging nod when I looked at her, and she didn't seem irritated at my inability to speak coherently about Kurt. She seemed to understand, and I appreciated that she didn't rush or force me to talk. I knew that I needed to get these things off of my chest, and the best way to do that was to just spit it all out. I needed to rip the band-aid off so that she was able to see my wound, and I could feel the words pushing against my insides. They were all rushing to my mouth, waiting for me to open it so they could finally be free. "I really didn't know what to do. I just didn't understand why he did what he did, and I spent weeks wandering around, waiting for him to come back. I didn't eat or sleep. I wrote a lot in my journal. I was still in high school at the time, and as the months went on, I started to retain less and I was unable to concentrate on anything. The fact that Kurt had left wasn't sinking in, and I tried to —" I paused again, swallowing hard, fumbling for the words I needed to explain. In a snap decision, I decided to just say what I needed to say, my words hurried and nervous and blending together. "Itriedtokillmyself."

"Are you still experiencing suicidal tendencies?"

"Not really, no. I don't think so. When I got to New York, at first I was surrounded by grief and the memories of him, because we had plans to settle down here. But then… it was just too much. So I got busy. I immersed myself in schoolwork and got a job and started running. It was easier that way."

"When he left, how did you feel?"

"Betrayed." The word, bitter on my lips, slipped out, shocking myself.

"Why did you feel that way?"

"Because he was supposed to love me enough to stay. My parents – everyone else in my life left and he was supposed to stay."

"People leave for all kinds of reasons, but it doesn't necessarily mean that they don't love you. In fact, it might mean that they actually love you too much, or maybe they don't love themselves enough."

"What do you mean?"

"People that are in hard situations like Kurt, they don't think right," she began, using her hands to gesture. "Everything in their head is twisted and backwards. He might have left because he didn't want to cause you any more pain, or because he felt that he wasn't good enough. A lot of the patients that I've dealt with before feel like they don't deserve to have someone like that in their life, or that whoever is dealing with them at the moment will leave one day. To him, your separation may have been inevitable, and he just wanted to leave you before you left him."

"We were forever," I replied with gritted teeth and tears stinging behind my eyes. "I never would have done that to him."

"He couldn't have been sure of that, though," she said softly. "Sometimes, people with depression or self-harm issues can't wrap their head around the idea of love. You can always try to get them to understand, but at the end of the day, it's up to that person to want to feel loved. They have to accept your love."

"So what, you're saying that I didn't make him feel loved enough? I didn't try hard enough?"

"I'm not saying that at all. I'm just saying that there wasn't anything more you could've done for him. You couldn't force him to believe you or to believe in your relationship, and you can't blame yourself for his leaving."

"But he knew that I loved him," I countered, fingers angrily wiping the tears that fell from my eyes. "He had to have."

"And maybe he did," she responded delicately, leaning closer to me. "I'm just speculating. You know Kurt better than I do, so you have a better idea of how he felt."

"I don't understand." My words were quiet and weak, and as soon as I said them, I let my head fall. I could feel the pressure building in my chest, and I knew it was only a matter of moments before I gave into it. "I don't understand why he left me. I spent every day for two years trying – trying to make him feel important and loved. And he was good enough, he was, and he was worth – worth loving. Was it me? Did I – did I do something wrong?" I felt a hand touch mine, clasping over it. My wet eyes met hers and I heaved a breath, blinking slowly.

"Don't ever say that," Henley told me fiercely, sincerely. "I'm going to help you, Blaine. You're going to get through this. Okay? I promise."

I shoved the doors open, throwing a hand to my face to wipe the tears that steadily dripped from them. After I told her about Kurt, the crying didn't stop. It slowly escalated, and then I couldn't breathe. I panicked, the dread crawling its way through me, telling her I had to leave and got up without asking if it was okay. I felt like I had a dozen voices telling me a million different things at the same time, suffocating and choking me. Fragments of thoughts popped into my head, one after another, colliding with each other before they even had a chance to develop.

Kurt.

He left.

Blood.

Need to cut.

Kurt.

Gone.

Why.

Kurt.

Kurt.

My wrists itched, desperately craving the feeling of the cold, sharp metal that could make my pain go away. I dug my fingers into my palm to keep them away from my arm, feeling my nails sink tightly into my skin, and I knew I wouldn't be able to make it home before I did something I would regret. I took off without bothering to change my shoes or think about what I was doing, letting the rhythmic feel of my feet hitting the pavement try to stifle the hunger and desire to see blood dripping from my veins.

I ran for hours, going down street after street, past bridges and signs and buildings. I ran after the sun went down and into the darkness, with the stars and the moon high above me. I ran until my feet bled, until my side ached with cramps and I could no longer breathe. The emotional pain transformed into physical hurt, and that was something I could deal with because it would go away and heal. Everything around me became blurry and far away, and the lines on the pavement and the square sidewalk tiles were the only things I saw. I pushed myself to go faster, harder, trying to beat the throbbing ache out of my body. I ran until the urge to cut slowly faded into the background, overtaken by the sound of the city whipping past my ears. And when I finally stopped and went home, panting as my lungs burned with the lack of oxygen, I should have known that sneaking in unnoticed would have been impossible.

"Where the hell have you been?" Rachel yelled the second I opened the door to our apartment, standing from her chair as she came towards me with her arms flung into the air, Cooper close behind.

"At my appointment."

"It ended five hours ago, and it's been dark for three of them. I've been worried sick! You didn't answer your phone and I had no way of knowing where you were! You could have been mugged, or lying in a ditch somewhere, or—"

"I'm fine, Rachel," I said tiredly as I try to walk past them. It took all of my effort to put one foot in front of the other and I was so exhausted that it felt like any wrong word would send me into hysterics.

"No you're not." She observed me closer, noticed for the first time my flushed cheeks, wind-blown hair, and labored breathing. Her face instantly softened. She strode over to me, pulling me close to her gingerly. I heard her sigh quietly, felt her rub her hand lightly over my back.

"I'm not okay," I agreed, wrapping my arms around her, and then the tears came.

July 10th, 2014 – Blaine's Journal

"Against All Odds" – Blaine Anderson

How can I just let you walk away?
Just let you leave without a trace
When I stand here taking every breath with you
You're the only one who really knew me at all

How can you just walk away from me?
When all I can do is watch you leave
'Cause we've shared the laughter and the pain, and even shared the tears
You're the only one who really knew me at all

So take a look at me now, now there's just an empty space
And there's nothin' left here to remind me,
Just the memory of your face

Oh, take a look at me now, well there's just an empty space
And you coming back to me is against the odds
And that's what I've got to face

I wish I could just make you turn around
Turn around and see me cry
There's so much I need to say to you, so many reasons why
You're the only one who really knew me at all

Oh, so take a look at me now, well there's just an empty space
And there's nothin' left here to remind me, just the memory of your face
Now take a look at me now, 'cause there's just an empty space
But to wait for you is all I can do and that's what I've got to face

Take a good look at me now, 'cause I'll still be standing here
And you coming back to me is against all odds
It's the chance I've gotta take

Take a look at me now

July 14th, 2014 – Therapy

The first thing I did at my next session was apologize for running out like I had the previous week. I felt embarrassed and self-conscious and generally just… weak. The reason you went to therapy was to talk about your problems, not run out just because you're actually doing what you're supposed to be doing.

"I'm glad that you decided to come back and make a second appointment," she told me, with a sad smile. "I know last time was really hard on you—"

"I'm so sorry," I said earnestly. "It was just, it was really hard, and Kurt —"

"Blaine, it's okay. I understand. It was your first visit, and you're right, it is a lot to take in at one time," she replied, looking at me with kind eyes. "However, that being said, you can't just run out every time something gets tough. As the sessions go on, we'll go more in depth, and it will get harder. The point of therapy is to deal with the problem and learn how to manage it, not to run away from it. Does that make sense?"

"Yes." I locked my fingers together, shifting in my seat.

"If it gets to be too much, just tell me and we'll move on to something else, okay?"

"Okay. I'll just have to… learn to talk about him. Without running away. Or crying."

"Crying is perfectly normal. It's the body's natural instinct in times of pain."

"I hate it."

"Most people do," she replied. "But to me, just so you know, I think it makes people brave." She gave me a tiny smile, almost hidden in her face, as she reached back over her desk to retrieve a paper.

"What's that?" I asked her when she set it on her lap.

"It's… a contract of sorts. Nothing legal, of course, but I find that it helps a lot of my patients."

"A contract for what?"

"It's kind of a 'this is my goal for therapy and this is how I plan on achieving it' type thing," she explained. "You're going to write down things you want to see changed and what you think you can do to get there and then you're going to sign it. I'll give you an envelope and you'll fold it up and put it right in. I won't ever see it."

"I don't really know how I plan on achieving… whatever goal I have. Right now, my goal is to just get through the day," I said quietly.

"That's still a goal, Blaine. Some goals are small – get out of bed, eat breakfast, go to the store – and some are large, like to stop cutting or to learn to manage your depression. I see many types of people and everyone's goal is different. You have to start out somewhere, right? Think of them like stepping stones. Why would you put them miles apart? You have to put them close together, and each time you grow, you can move them further and further, and that's when your goals can get bigger."

"But it's not even a goal," I insisted, because it wasn't. It was ignoring the problem, miniscule and tiny and absolutely ridiculous. "Getting through the day? Then it's like I'm not even in therapy." Seriously, whose goal was that?

"Goals change every single day, Blaine, whether you know it or not. Hour by hour, even. When you were ten, your goal was to not fail the science test you had so that you could get that video game. When you were fifteen, it was getting your permit so you could learn how to drive. Now, it's getting through the day." She said it simply, like it was a matter of fact, like it was okay to have such an insignificant goal. "In a week, or a month, it'll be different. You might wake up tomorrow and think, "I can do this", and then change your goal to something else. And then you might decide that it's too hard, at least for right then, and take a few steps back. That's alright, too. Maybe being here will make getting through the day easier, so it isn't such a burden. It isn't for nothing. And it may not seem like things are changing now, but when you look back in six months, everything will be different. I promise."

"What if it isn't?" I challenged quietly. "What if nothing ever works?"

"If you try hard enough, and if you dedicate yourself to getting better, everything will be okay. Don't give up before you've given yourself a chance."

In the back of my mind, I desperately wanted to believe her. I wanted to know that I would turn out fine, that I could be happy and loved and worth it. That I could still have the things I wanted, the life I'd imagined for myself. I still had dreams, somewhere deep inside of me, and I ached for them, to have something good in my life.

But the logical part of me understood that I was done for. I knew myself and I knew my limits and my walls. I knew that what I had to work with wasn't very much and that there was a slim to none chance of me getting over this. And I knew that if I ever miraculously did that I'd be drastically changed in a way that was irreversible. I had opened my heart up to someone for the first time only to have it crushed and broken and left to bleed. I didn't think I would ever be able to trust anyone again – and that was one of the worst parts about Kurt leaving.

I was pulled from my thoughts by the sound of papers ruffling. Henley grabbed a pen from her desk, handing them both to me.

"If you could imagine yourself anywhere in a year, where would it be, mentally? What do you hope to achieve in therapy?" she asked. "What's one thing that you wish, with everything you have, that could change? I know there's something, otherwise you wouldn't be here. Don't think about how impossible it seems or anything like that, okay? Just write."

I wish I could be brave, strong.

I wish I wouldn't be crippled by Kurt's leaving me.

I wish I wouldn't have the desire to cut.

I wish I wouldn't be such a coward.

I wish my parents would love me.

I wish I'll finally be able to accept that my parents won't ever love me.

I wish I could have Kurt back.

I wish I could accept that I can't have Kurt.

I wish, I wish, I wish. There are so many things I wanted, so many things I hoped for my future, things that I could achieve with therapy, if I tried. But I knew that any goals that I had weren't attainable because I was weak.

So instead, I ignored my thoughts and quickly scrawled out "I want to be alive" on the page before folding it with shaky hands and stuffing it into the envelope. I took a deep breath, handing it back to her.

"No, you keep it," she told me. "Put it in a safe place, and in a year, you can open it up and see if you've achieved your goals." I set it back on my lap, playing with the edges.

"What are you thinking about?"

I let out a hollow laugh, shaking my head. "I'm not even sure if I know the answer to that."

"Then is there anything in particular you'd like to discuss today?"

"I don't really know how to do… this."

"That's okay, because there isn't a specific way of doing therapy," she told me. "You don't do therapy, you go through it. It changes you. Everybody's experiences in it are different, because we're all different."

"No, we're all crazy. That's why we come here. We're weak. We need somebody we barely know to tell us things that we're never going to believe and you give us pills to be normal even though we aren't."

"Did you think that Kurt was crazy when you tried to get him to go to therapy?" she asked after a moment.

"Of course not," I scoffed.

"Was he weak for going on medication?"

"No, but—"

"Then how come you're crazy?" she countered. "Why do you feel that you are and he isn't?"

"Because it's different!" I shouted, frustrated, hands flying in the air. "It's different, okay? It's Kurt."

"How is it different, Blaine?"

"It just is."

"You're not crazy. You're still in the process of dealing with the feelings and emotions of him leaving. You're getting help. There's a difference."

"Is there?" I replied, eyes narrowing. I suddenly felt so angry and I didn't know why. She continued to tell me that I was justified in my feelings and that I wasn't out of my mind, but I was and she was lying. "It's been two years and I'm not over it."

"People work through traumatizing situations at their own pace," she said. "And you've told me that you both latched on to your relationship, correct?"

"Yes."

"You were invested in something that you became dependent on. You both leaned on each other, relied on each other, and when he wasn't there any more, you didn't know what to do." I wiped the tears off of my cheeks sharply, focusing on the wall. "We just have to find a healthy way to help you work through what you're feeling. You said you had issues with self-harm in the past and we can't let you go to that place again, because that definitely won't help anything."

Past, present… I thought to myself. Therapy was triggering. It was very, very triggering, and I knew that I would have to turn to cutting to get through it. It was kind of a relief, in a way, knowing that I had another solution, something that would actually take away the pain. She didn't know what she was talking about, because it would help. It would release all of my pent up anger and desperation and every other goddamn emotion that Kurt had left in my heart.

"Do you want to talk about that? Why you did it?"

"No," I said defensively, voice thick. I crossed my arms over my chest. "Not today."

"Okay, that's fine too."

We were both quiet for a few minutes. I wasn't in the mood to talk and she wasn't going to force me. I unwrapped my arms, fingers subconsciously tracing over the long, prominent scar that had once led me so close to peace. I felt her watching me, observing the way I let my thumb press deeply into my skin with my nail. I ached to feel the slightest hint of blood.

"It wasn't your job to know, Blaine," she told me gently, and I finally met her eyes. I dropped my hand, taking a breath.

"What?"

"With Kurt. Do you blame yourself for what happened?" I swallowed, a tear dripping from the corner of my eye and making its way down my face. My silence was answer enough for her. "It wasn't your fault."

"If it wasn't my job to know," I began, voice cracking as my lip quivered, "then whose was it?"

"His parents or teachers. You were sixteen, Blaine. You were just a kid. You can't put that burden on yourself."

"But I loved him," I argued thickly. "I was supposed to take care of him."

"And you did. You tried your hardest to get him the help he needed. But sometimes, it just doesn't work. You have to tell them how to help themselves and hope that they do. But it's not your fault when they don't."

"It's not his fault, either."

"I never said it was."

We lapsed into silence again before she spoke up.

"We've never really talked about your coping methods. You briefly told me about it, but we haven't gone in depth."

"Yeah, well." I sniffled, wiping my arm across my face to dry my cheeks.

"You mentioned once that you run. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Anxiety is just energy, Blaine. And most people find that the best way to get that energy out is through exercise."

"I don't run because I'm anxious," I told her flatly. "I do it because I have to."

"Why do you have to?"

"Because if I don't, I'll cut."

For a few moments, the room was still, the confession echoing off of my lips and filling the space between us.

"Have you ever heard of writing therapy, Blaine?" she asked me.

"Yeah. I do it all the time."

"Does it work for you?"

"Sometimes," I responded, and then shook my head softly, lowering my voice. "I don't know. It hurts when I think about him like that."

"Like what?"

"Gone."

"Then what do you write about?"

"I keep a journal. I mostly write songs about him. A few poems," I shrugged, not knowing what else to say because to me, it was all the same. Whether it was a paragraph, or music, or poetry, it all boiled down to one thing: Kurt. My pages were lined and filled with different versions of Kurt, but they were still him. They were still about the boy I loved.

"Okay, good," she told me with a nod. "I want you to keep doing that. Pick any memory or thing you feel and write about it. You need to let these thoughts out, and if you're writing on a constant basis, hopefully it will alleviate some of them. Instead of writing about the time you two shared together, try writing about how it was after he left. Don't pick the easy stuff, because then it's not going to help you move on. You have to write about the hard, painful parts to get to what's really inside. And if you don't feel comfortable showing me what you write, then you can just describe it in your journal. Say why you wrote it, what it makes you feel, the emotion that drove the words. Or pick a quote that inspires you and write that in there. And starting now, I want you to make a list of the reasons you should recover. Each week, I want you to add one more reason to it, alright? When things get hard, that will always be there for you to read over and remember why you're doing this."

"Okay," I murmured, already knowing that this was not going to be something that came easy to me. I liked to remember the good times between us, the special times. The ones where we laid under the stars and recited every quote we could think of from any book we'd read or from any movie we'd ever seen, or when we made love, or when we had pillow fights in his bedroom at one in the morning that would cause us to collapse in a fit of giggles. That's what I remembered us being – happy. Content and lively and so, so in love. I didn't like to remember things as they actually were, hard and stressful and sometimes excruciating. I hated it, because I knew that it shouldn't be like that; I shouldn't look back on us as a regret. And I knew that if I saw us as we truly were, that maybe I would.

"I also want you to go home tonight and write a letter to him. Tell him everything you feel now, everything you felt when he left. Tell him how you've dealt with it, or anything else you want him to know. If he was here, what would you say to him? I'll never see this, unless you want to discuss it with me. This is an exercise for you, to track your progress, but so that you can let everything out, from beginning to end. That way, you'll have a better idea of the things you think you need to work on and which emotions you think are the strongest. Every few months, you'll write to him and see how your feelings change. See if you feel differently, or if things are getting better. Do you think that's something you could do?"

"Yeah," I nodded, taking a deep breath.

"We're gonna try it, okay?" she said.

So I went home and did as she asked.

July 14th, 2014 – Blaine's Journal: 1st Letter To Kurt

Dear Kurt,

How can I write this goddamn letter when my hand is shaking and my eyes are so blurry that I can't see straight?

Where do I start? I don't know what to say, and yet there are a million things running through my head. Where are you? Are you better? Did you ever love me? Did I not love you enough? Did I love you too much? Why didn't you say goodbye? Why did you leave me?

I'll never know the answer to any of those questions, because you aren't here for me to ask them. This is what keeps me up at night, pacing and crying and having nightmares. I don't understand any of it; it doesn't make sense. What happened to our love, to us? Was I not enough for you? Did I do something wrong, to send you running off to God knows where?

I remember when we were sitting on the bench, and you told me that you loved me past all of the stars in the sky, and I believed you because I thought our love was forever and because I thought you meant what you said. But you didn't. You're a fucking liar and you left me here to deal with this alone. You filled my heart with promises and hope and always and then you ripped it all away in one fell swoop. You deleted yourself out of my life, out of Rachel's life, out of your dad's life. Where the hell did you go? Surely if you were here I would have seen you by now. I know the odds of that are nearly impossible, considering how many people there are in this city, but I've run the streets so many times over the last months that I know I'd have found you if you lived here.

I could have helped you. I tried to help you, and you wouldn't let me. What happened? I thought you were getting better, and then all of a sudden, you're lying in front of me with blood-stained wrists and pale skin. Walking in on you like that was one of the worst things I've ever experienced in my life and you'll never understand. Watching the person you love do something so self-destructive and not being able to do anything about it? It makes you feel helpless. I cleaned you up and held you in my arms and I thought my love would be able to hold you together but I guess I was wrong. Because you still left.

How am I supposed to get over you? How the hell do you expect me to do that? I can't just get over you. You were my everything. I invested so much in us, in our love, our future. And now it's all gone and I'm left with no plans and half of a shriveled, broken heart that cries for you at night. You've taken away my freedom and you kept your promise – you never told me goodbye. But you're not here and that's just a goodbye wrapped in a silver lining, because I still live with this one tiny little shred of hope that you'll come back one day.

For the first year after you left, I enjoyed nothing. I did nothing, I saw nothing, I loved nothing. I couldn't concentrate on anything because all I could think about was you, and where you were, and what I did wrong to make you leave. I almost didn't even go to college because I didn't want a future that wasn't ours, together. If Rachel and Cooper hadn't been there, who knows what would have happened to me. I probably would have ended up dead. I tried, you know. I tried to kill myself, the same way that you did. I sliced my wrists. Romantic, isn't it? I wanted to feel closer to you. I wanted to die. Instead, I cried as I dragged the blade across my wrist because everything in me ached, and then after, because I lived. Sometimes, I wish I'd succeeded, and there are a lot of days where I don't feel like living with the pain and the grief inside of me.

The second year was both better and worse. You were everywhere. You were all around me. In the walls, in my written words, in the stars, in my heart. You set up camp in the crevices of my life, the holes of my mind, and I don't think you planned on leaving. I imagined you wherever I needed you to be, and pretending became like a game for me. How long did I go on like this before I broke? The answer is ten months. I broke down in the middle of my apartment next to Rachel and Cooper because I couldn't handle it anymore. I hid behind school and work and running and words and none of it worked, not in reality. In my head, maybe. But all it really did was distract me from the truth that you were gone.

And do you want to know the worst part? I'm still hopelessly in love with you, even after everything that you've done to me. All of the pain that I've felt, all of the awful things I had to experience in my life, the hurt I've dealt with – none of it compares to what you left me with. This is so beyond anything I've ever endured. Still, to this day, over two years later, I ache. I ache for you, for what we had, for what we were supposed to be. What we could've been, if you'd only stayed. Amidst the anger and the hatred and the sadness, there's still love. I don't know if it'll ever go away, and I hate you for that. I hate you for taking away my future from me.

I don't think you understand what you did.

This wasn't how things were supposed to work out. I shouldn't have tried to kill myself and woken up in a hospital where I was told I was lucky to be alive. I shouldn't need to go to therapy because you've destroyed my life. I shouldn't be writing this letter right now. I shouldn't wake up in the morning, not able to breathe because I'm crying too hard. But I did, and I have to, and I am, and I will every single day for the rest of my life until I can learn to live with the truth.

I don't know whether to be grateful for the time we spent together or to wish I'd never met you.

A/N: Please leave a (nice or constructive) comment and let me know what you think!