"Rylan, open this fucking door. Open it right now. I've got something to tell you. I-" The door swings open before I can finish my sentence, and I'm faced with Rylan's very confused mother.

"Violet?" I'm surprised she knows me, but then again, Rylan must've informed his mother of the project he'd been working on. His depressed little girlfriend—if he could even call me that. The smile I plaster on next is fake and my grin is hurting my cheeks as she looks down at me. "Rylan is... He's not here," she finishes finally.

My grin falls, but only the slightest bit. "That's bullshit, Mrs. Wake. I know he is. And I know he's got that tramp in his room." Her eyes widen, but she nods, and allows me in.

Can she tell that I care? Can she tell that I'm not only here for my own sake? I hope she can, even though that's something I'd never tell her, or anyone. Not even Rylan. (Especially not Rylan.)

I knock on his door, nothing but expectant as I hear distant laughs echo through the walls.

He sounds happy. I feel almost as if I should leave. And I want to, once I see one of the two open the door. The girl he's been with, she's there. Right in front of me. The girl he's been lying to me about. I catch his eyes, those guilty little orbs that widen rampantly at the sight of mine, and I bite my lower lip.

"Vi," he says, and he knows I know. I walk over to him, stopping before his lowered body that sits comfortably on top of his made bed. His cheek stings and his face flies at the impact of my palm. A red mark blushes on his left cheek and I shake my head. His expression remains stoic. His eyes catch my bloody wrists and he KNOWS but doesn't understand, of course, since that had always been our problem. His lack of understanding.

"Ry," I say back. But I lack emotion (like always, but it's different this time). It's because I am hurt and do not trust him. Not anymore. Not after this.

"Violet, I can explain," he says, but I am already walking out the door.

"Explain what?" I hear the other girl say, and she must be really oblivious to not already grasp who I am and my purpose in that very room where I had once given myself up to the very same guy. I gave myself up when I showed him my scarred wrists and told him why, and tried with everything in me to help him understand. But I had been too numb, I'm sure. And he had gotten tired of bland conversation and my inability to speak freely about feelings other than sadness.

"I was just protecting myself!" he says loudly, and I'm not sure if it's because I'm walking away quickly or because I'm not listening.

"Protecting yourself from what?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I've turned on my heel and I'm facing him, arms down at my side. "From me? You're sick."

"No. You are sick," he replies, urgency in his eyes, "and I don't understand it."

"Get a fucking grip, Rylan. You're nothing." I practically spit my words at him, and I'm so mad, it's hard to breathe properly, especially when he looks at me like that, so desperate and needy I kind of want to tell him that it's going to be okay.

But it won't. Will it?

He cringes at my harsh words. "You weren't talking to me..." he begins to say, but never finishes his sentence. "You were so quiet, and none of it was making any sense—and, God, Vi, you have to believe me." His eyes close. He looks like he wants to grab me. "Please believe me."

I snarl, though my insides grow somewhat warm and tingly. "Give it a rest," I say. "Give it a fucking rest. It's you and me; you know that. You've always known that, and you're being stupid!"

"It's not like that," he interjects, but I cut him off.

"It is," I say. "It is, because I've always cared, while I may have not shown it. But did I need to? Did you not know?" I scoff bitterly before him and his glassy green eyes that soak in this moment like it's the most horrendous thing he's seen. "You must've known. You must've seen it in my eyes that night. Didn't you? When I told you how sad I was without you? I never told you I cared, but I told you that." I swallow the lump that's grown in my throat just from looking at him. I decide to not do that anymore, and I turn.

"You know, Vi, I think I might've loved you." He offers this sentence like it should make me no longer want to cry.

It doesn't. It makes the urge worse.

"This is what happens when you leave," I say, and my arms fall limp. My wrist and its little red lines show, and he finally understands why I'm sad, why I'm alone, why I'm numb. "Why do you leave?" I ask, refusing to look at him. He stiffens behind me, and I feel his breath on the back of my neck. "You're so stupid," I say with a small sniff. It doesn't contain the malice I had once intended to always speak with. "You're so fucking stupid."

"I'm sorry I'm like this," he says quietly. I nod.

"I know."

"Do you think I can change? For the better, you know?"

"I don't know. People don't seem to do that much anymore."

My arms are crossed, and we're still not looking at each other.

Well, he's looking at my back. And he's close. But I still refuse to meet his eyes, of course. I just hope his hand touches mine soon, because it's starting to tremble.

I allow my arms to fall back to my sides. I give him the opportunity. He moves slightly, but decides against it. I sigh, turning. "You know what, Rylan?"

"What?" He's confused—I can tell. His eyes dart through and across mine, looking for an answer. Does he know what I'm about to do? Can he tell that I'll regret it?

"Forget it," I snap simply. "Forget this whole thing."


"You did this-"

"Violet, you can't-"

I shake my head, cutting him off quickly. His gaze drops immediately.

"I'm sorry," I say. And the next thing I know, I'm out the door and my phone is ringing.

"Hey, Violet?" he says. "I know... I know that I loved you."

And then he hangs up.