John Egbert is in your fucking room trying to talk about feelings. You can't bring yourself to tell him anything remotely truthful. You can't tell him what's wrong. He's blaming himself and you don't even know if it's his fault or not.
No.
This is your fault. This is your fault for falling in love with your best friend. But he's still blaming himself and you want to tell him the real reason you're fucking everything up. The real reason you're closing yourself off and wishing you could melt into the carpet. His eyes are roaming over you and you can feel your questioning gaze on him.
"John, I'm seriously fine. You don't have to worry about m-" and suddenly John is talking over you.
"Take off your shirt, Dave." His voice is serious and holy shit. He's asking you to strip for him. You wonder idly if he knows about your sickening feelings for him and is testing you. Either way, he's looking at you expectantly and you can feel your face get hot.
"What? Wh-" and again his voice imposes over your own.
"Take it off. Now." You just stare at him. He's serious. You don't know if you can do this. You're covered in scars you don't want anyone to know about. The scars show the insecurity you don't want anyone to know about. And that insecurity shows the problem you don't want anyone to know about; but he's staring at you with those expectant eyes and you have to.
You stand, your legs protesting under the weight; even if it is a fraction of what is was a few months ago. You look at him; his blue eyes squinted in determination. He gives a fractional nod and your stomach slithers. You grasp the bottom of your shirt with uncertain fingers and nervously pull on some dry skin on your lip when you look at him again and he has the same face. You pull the fabric up and over your head as slowly as you dare, maybe he'll change his mind and you won't have to expose yourself. But he doesn't and you pull the whole shirt off and throw it on the bed.
You wait for what seems like ages and look at him. He has a horrified, disgusted look on his face and his mouth is hanging open. You didn't know that happened outside of movies until now. You watch his eyes slowly slide in their sockets, his gaze lighting your skin ablaze. You squirm and shift under his watch. You don't want him to see you like this. You watch his eyes roam over every upraised strip of skin, every one of the pink marks that cover your body. Then they make their way to your wrists and you can practically feel the horror that he shows in his face.
You pull your arms together so they're crossed over your stomach. His gaze immediately flicks up to you and you can see that his eyes are watery. Now it's your turn to be horrified.
"John- Don't. I'm not worth you crying over.." your eyelids droop as you look down at him.
"Are you kidding me Dave?" You expect the words to sound angry or even determined, but he sounds… defeated. "You're worth more than you think." He stands and looks you in the eyes. You look down into the depths of his vivid blue eyes and feel the flush in your cheeks over how close your faces were. You step back, but he grabs your arm, making you yelp at the contact with fresh wounds. His arm immediately withdrew, but not without keeping you firmly in place.
"Why can't you face me, Dave?" you could hear his concern in his voice. "I just want to help. And I can't if you don't fucking tell me what's wrong. These cuts didn't just appear on you one day, so what the hell is up?"
You flinch at his language; John doesn't swear much. And when he does, it's usually only when he's really upset.
"Well?" he's actually expecting an answer... You let out a ragged breath and look away from him; anywhere but John is a good place to look right now.
"I really can't tell you John. You're the only person on the planet I can't tell." You glimpse to him to see a look of hurt on his face and stutter to recover yourself. "I-it's not because of you! No, no, no, it's not your fault." He is quick with the reply.
"Then whose fault is it Dave? If it's not mine, then whose is it?" he's still hurt. You can hear it in the way his tone wavers and the slight sniffle of his nose afterwards.
"Mine..." you almost laugh at how cliché that was, but now doesn't seem like the time at all. It really is your fault. "If I hadn't…" you stop your sentence and let your voice fall away. You hope it tumbles down a cliff somewhere never to be heard again so you have an excuse not to come out to your friend right now. You would have been content staying in that small closet space for the rest of your life.
"If you hadn't what? What'd you do that could possibly be bad enough that you have to hurt yourself this badly?" you freeze at the fact that he even picked up on the sentence. You don't want to say anymore.
"It's nothing, John. Leave it alone already." The irritation shows in the way you back up from him and grab your shirt from the bed, but he's not about to give up.
"I will not leave until you tell me, Dave!" he's angry and the first salty tears have escaped from the corners of his puffy blue eyes. You watch them fall down his cheeks and want to wipe them away. He looks so much better when his face isn't contorted and growing damp. He can't know. You can't ruin this. You need to get out. You need time to think, time to be alone.
"Then I will." You just want to hold him tightly, but you push him away. You slip on your shirt and hurry to the door. You think you hear him yelling after you, but you don't care. You're eyes are blurred with unshed tears, but you don't care. You can barely see through them by the time you make it down the hall and to the door. You can hear him thumping after you and you speed up. He can't catch you. You won't let him. Everything is blurry and your eyes sting but you make your way to the sidewalk and look back to see if he's following you. You don't see him. And you don't see Bro chasing after you either.
And you most certainly don't see the Chevy hit you.