Author's Note: Hey, guys. After chapter 12, I won't be updating for quite a while, probably until August. I'm going to be away a lot, and just won't have the time. See ya then! Much love! 3

You pester him relentlessly.

TG: I'm sorry.

You can't keep yourself from spending nearly every waking moment checking your computer or your phone.

TG: I'm so sorry.

You almost give up.

TG: John?

But you don't.

Tuesday after school, as so many days before, you are at his house. Right on time, predictably, like the chiming of a grandfather clock. You carry nothing with you. No bag, no substantial present, nothing hidden in your pockets, or, as John would say, up your sleeve. You feel light as air, almost like you might float away. But not from the lack of objects holding you down, but rather, the presence of things that urge you to let go. You are so, so nervous, and it's making you a bit lightheaded and nauseous.

The doorbell rings. No answer.

It rings again. Nothing.

Third time's the charm, you pray, though you are not a religious person. But you may have just been converted because, glory of God, there John stands before you, telling you off. Of course, you remember. Day Eleven is the beginning of Stage Three, your personal least favorite: complete and total Rejection. Just imagining the word stings, like the point of the swooping J is tipped with a poison arrow, piercing the fleshy parts of your chest between your rib bones and spreading toxic chemicals through your body.

You can't really hear John. You can't really hear anything. The world seems muted, like you are experiencing it through a particularly fluffy pair of earmuffs. Hoping for the best but fearing the worst, you suck in a deep breath of air, lean forward and –

You kiss him.

Right on the lips.

It only lasts a moment, before he places both hands on your chest to push you away, but you kissed him.

Your ecstatic celebration, however, is short-lived. You swallow, and as if unplugging your ears, the sound rushes back into them. He is practically screaming, yelling about this and that and something about trust, before the flat surface of the door is the only face you can see. And you expect it will be for a while.

You spend the next few minutes becoming especially acquainted with that door, partly for good measure, and partly because you don't really have the strength to walk away anyhow.