A/N: hello, my fellow writers! :D So sorry I haven't updated in a long time, but I've been so incredibly busy it's ridiculous. XD Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own Ouran HSHC, although I must admit I really want to. And I do not own the following song.

"Broken pieces of a barely breathing story, where there once was love…now, there's only me….and the lonely…."

-Christina Perri, "The Lonely"

"Psst."

I look up, slightly confused. I thought someone was talking to me. I shrug to myself and continue reading the book we are currently reading in English. I've already read it before, so I don't mind reading it again. It's one of my favorites.

"Psst! Hey. You." A poke in my left shoulder. I put the book down and turn around, annoyed. The redhead sitting behind me puts a finger to her lips and hands me a folded note.

"Not sure who it's from," Redhead whispers as I take the note from her fingers. "Someone handed it to me and told me to give it to you."

I nod thanks, then turn back around and prop up the book against my chest. Quietly, behind the safety of Lord of the Flies, I open the note. It's only three or four sentences long and it definitely looks like a guy wrote it. It read:

Please come to Music Room #3 directly after school today for an interview with the Host Club of Ouran High School. You'll see what it is about when you get there. ;)

No signature. I sigh as I stuff the note into my pocket and look over at Kyoya. He has his chin in hand, looking totally and utterly bored, his eyes moving slowly across the pages. This note could from him; well, then again, it could be from Hyperactive-Blondie, AKA

Tamaki. Oh well. Looks like I'm going there after school today.

I walk down the hallways after school, trying to squeeze past the cluster of people. When I finally reach Music Room #3 I open the door and walk inside. Kyoya's sitting on the couch, writing something on a clipboard. He looks up when he hears the door shut behind me. He puts on a fake smile and stands up.

"Hello," he says, putting the clipboard down for a moment and sticking out his hand. "I'm Kyoya." He said, smiling. "You must be Emiko."

I nod and shake his hand; it's warm against my cold fingertips. He lets go after a moment and sits back down, motioning me to do the same. I slowly sit down on a comfortable armchair and put my bag down next to me.

"Is everyone else going to be here too…?" I ask. Since when did my voice get so quiet? Kyoya shook his head.

"Everyone else is busy; they asked me to fill in for it." He said. My breath hitches in my throat and I nod again. Why can't I say anything? It's like I have some kind of spastic laryngitis.

"Well, let's begin," he said, picking up his clipboard and smoothly taking out a pencil from behind his ear. "Full name?"

"Emiko Shizune…" I say my voice still mouse-quiet. He writes something down on his clipboard and then continues:

"What kind of things do you like?" I don't answer for a while. I've never really thought about things like that.

"Um…" I say. Since when was I this articulate? "Why do you want to know?" Kyoya shrugs. I sigh and continue: "anything to do with water." He puts on another plastic smile and writes it down. He asks me a few more questions that are really quite stupid and pointless, then finishes with the one I dread the most:

"What's your family like? Any siblings?" I freeze but then melt just as fast so he doesn't suspect anything. I force myself to put on a smile.

"Two parents and I have an older sister." HAD an older sister, I correct myself silently. Kyoya smiles softly.

"Really? What's her name?" he asks.

"Natsuko." I say, smiling. "She graduated here a year or two ago." Why am I telling lies about my sister, convincing him that she's still alive? He nods. There's a few more questions and then he stands up again.

"Well, Emiko, it's been a pleasure." He says a stupid plastic smile still on his face. I smile back because it's polite, nod, and leave, all the while beating the snot out of myself in my head because I was telling lies. I hate lying, I really do, but sometimes it's the best thing to do. No one wants to hear the truth.

When I get back to my house, no one's there; this is a good thing. I go upstairs and put my bag in my room. I open up my music box that I got for Christmas some 4-odd years ago and take out the razor. I take off my jacket and unbutton my shirt, pulling my sleeves up. My arms are covered in scars and there's some small burn marks here and there.

I take a deep breath and drag the razor across my forearm; three perfect cuts in a row, letting the ghosts and whispers and pain leak out of my skin.

You might think I would've first done this when Natsuko died, but that wasn't the case: I did some of these long before she died. Like the evening she graduated from High School I played sick and got to stay home. While they were cheering her on and giving her multiple hugs I was in my bedroom with a razor blade in my hand and tears running down my cheeks. Yes, it did get worse after she died; it got a lot worse, and since my parents glide around like zombies they don't notice that for the rest of August I wore long sleeved-shirts even though it was roasting outside.

I got to the bathroom, rinse the razor out and put it away where it belonged, in the bathroom drawer. I put my hand over my weeping cuts until they stop bleeding. When I take it away my hand is smeared with red. I pour peroxide over them and put a large band-aid over them after the peroxide sting goes away.