Stop Calling me That (mcyt + ftm reader) -Book 1/2-

-34.5- (Bonus Chapter)

It wasn't like it used to be, not matched with sharp breaths, or panic. It was quiet, remorseful, regretful, but not frantic.

He cried for Phil and Kristin, knowing how much he was betraying all of the hope they'd placed in him. Cried for Cole, and for not being able to do what she'd done, not being able to save himself no matter how much she had tried to help. He cried for how much of a fool he felt he'd become, and for ever letting himself get this far. For all the times he'd let people use him, for how desperate he'd become to find anything or anyone who could make him for just a moment feel less repulsive.

He wrapped his arms around his shoulders, rocking slowly in his shitty desk chair, blurry vision unfocused as he let himself truly think about himself again. Not about how he looked, or how much he felt he should lose, not about his body or ways he could change it. Himself.

And he cried for the person he'd let himself lose.

For the toddler whose drawings had decorated the fridge years after he forgot having made them. For the ten year old who'd re-watched the first Harry Potter movie more times than he could ever hope to count, until he'd memorized every line. For the Wilbur who'd told his parents he wanted to become an author, who'd filled notebook after notebook with (admittedly shitty) stories and been so proud. For the teenager who'd finally managed to work up the guts to ask out the girl he'd been crushing on for weeks, only for her to move schools a few weeks after they started dating.

For the kid whose body had changed when he wasn't expecting it, who'd been met with jokes and snarky remarks from family and friends rather than support and reassurance. He wished he could take it all back, everything he'd done, everything he'd been through. He wished he could save that kid. Wished he could somehow save him from every one of the jabs about how 'hard to imagine you used to be the skinny one, look at you now,' and 'someone's put on weight.'

Wished he could take back everything that came after, every one of the comments about how 'all that really went to height, eh?' or 'is that all you're eating? No wonder you look like that, eating like some anorexic chick.'

He cried for what he'd done to that lonely kid who just wanted to feel loved. For letting himself become reliant on this mental illness and for fostering a nicotine addiction he should have never let happen.

He hated himself for it, but he couldn't bring himself to hate that kid, the one he knew that somehow, somewhere, still lived inside of him. He wanted him back. Wanted himself back.

He picked up the page, shoving it deep into his desk drawer. He took a deep breath and huffed it out, wiping his eyes and sniffing as he tried to compose himself. He looked over to his phone, sitting on the edge of his desk. Biting his lip, he picked it up and unlocked it, opening up his messages with Phil. He scrolled through for a moment, cringing at every lie he'd sent, and almost relented to what he'd become.

But then he thought about how disappointed he would have been, at 15, to learn that he never shared his songs with the world like he'd dreamt he someday might. To see that he'd never traveled outside of the UK, swam in a lake at night, watched the stars out in a forest where no other lights could reach, or watched the sun rise over the hills with someone he loved.

He thought about how crushed 17 year old Wilbur would be to learn that he never managed to love himself, and called Phil to tell him he needed to go to inpatient.

((Vote if you cried /j))

((On a serious note, living with this kind of stuff is horrendous and something no one deserves. It isn't quirky, or aesthetic, and not something that should be romanticized, and I try to avoid doing so. If you're struggling, please reach out. Things can get better, and even though it might feel like it, I promise that your mental illness does not define you. It might not be today, or tomorrow, or the next day, but things are going to be ok. Hang in there <3))













((RECAP: Wilbur writes a letter apologizing to the people he loves, both for not being able to overcome his disorder, and the fact that it is killing him slowly. It's a goodbye of sorts. This comes from his most major relapse, a couple years before the current events of the book. He realizes partly through that he doesn't want to live like this, he misses the person he lost in himself, and calls Phil to force him into treatment))

This is a note you don't gotta read, just about where I've been:

When I first posted the last note, I didn't intend to drop out of writing for a month. I thought it'd be a couple days, to be honest. I think that recognizing, accepting, and listening to my burnout really let everything sink in and crash down. Writing has been hard, but I can tell you that I am working on chapter 35, as well as doing a lot of planning for foreshadowing, the sequel, hints at different characters past/present experiences, etc.

I wish I could tell you I'm doing better on a personal level than I was when I posted that, but that wouldn't be honest. I am, however, starting to use writing for coping and because I like it again, rather than forcing myself, so that's nice at least.

Care for yourself best you can, dear degenerates, for the person you have been, are, and will be.

And... go drink some water, you goons <3