2 years later - Tyler is alone, trying to sleep.
I had found him.
I had found him on the bathroom floor.
Wishing it was a dream, I had collapsed onto my knees in silence and squeezed my eyes shut.
My throat was too tight to make a sound, my body was too cold to move.
Had it been real?
His hair had fallen slightly to the side, as it would if he were dancing around the room to Beyonce or if he were tilting his head to the right as he
sang.
His mouth was parted a little, as if he were asleep or gazing at the sunset in the distance.
His arms were wrapped around his body as if to protect himself.
And his eyes were shut.
Who was he protecting himself from? Me? Was he afraid of me, for something? Had I caused this? Was this my fault? Or was he protecting
himself from the world? Was he protecting himself from everything that those idiots had said? Was he protecting himself from us?
Question after question filled my head, until I realised.
He wasn't protecting himself from something.
He was protecting everyone from himself. His arms were so rigid, sheathing him, caging him even.
Finally, my mouth obeyed my brain, and I screamed.
Mom and Laurelle had both ran in together, their eyes filled with panic.
And then they saw him.
Slowly, I lifted my eyes from Troye to survey the room.
My ears ceased to function. I could see Mom cry out, Laurelle stand still, as still as he was. This was like a movie, everything slow and so... real.
This was happening. This had happened.
Something blinded me, warping everything into a world of blue and white.
It was my own tears.
I smiled at his words.
The first thing he had said had been about me. Despite the pain in my chest, I giggled at the pure adorableness of the fact he had thought
about me first.
Of course I had replied with "I love you more."
That was what we said, that was our little greeting and farewell.
Whoever said it first wins.
He won, I guess.
As he whispered "I love you most" it had hit me.
That was his farewell.
He knew there was no going back.
As his eyes closed, I saw the last rise and fall of his chest, the last open of his mouth, the last movement of his hand.
Onto mine.
I had screamed, the nurses had to drag me away from him.
He was still.
Troye.
My Troye.
Was gone.
The nurses sat me down on the bed next to his, drew around the curtain and wrapped me in a blanket as I wailed.
One stayed, her hand on mine, which had curled into a fist and was shaking with uncontrollable fear. Or was it pain? Or anger?
This mix of emotions felt wrong.
Should I have felt anger towards him? Should I still feel angry about what he did?
He ended his own life.
No warning, no signs.
But is the anger for myself? For the fact I should have known something was wrong, I should have helped him.
This has all happened so quickly.
Just so quickly.
I lost control.
I hit her hand away, it was cold, almost as cold as his had been.
I didn't want to think about it.
I didn't want to think about it.