(Don't) Leave Me Alone •twenty one pilots-Tyler Joseph•

thirteen//my trial was filed as a crazy suicidal headcase

Okay, so since Tay Jardine is essentially Robin in this book, we'll just pretend that WATIC(Tay's band, We Are The In Crowd) doesn't exist, 'kay? 'Kay. There's also a piano piece above that really freaking hurts so listen to that to like get in the mood of this chapter. And there's a bit of PS. I Love You in here.

||Charlotte Robin Dun|| First Person||

"Ryan," I whisper into the solitude of my dark bedroom, my eyes cast down to the scribble of words that I jotted down in my notebook. A letter. The lights were off and the door was locked once again, an attempt to try and block out the streams of light pouring through from the hallway. My curtains, a thick and heavy material that some how hasn't broken the curtain bar, cover the jets of light peering in through my window, leaving me in near darkness, or at least something close to it. My earphones are tucked into my ears with When It Rains by Paramore playing softly in them. The chords and the melody of the song adds an eerie effect to my room, making me shiver from my spot on the bean bag chair that I dragged from the corner of my room in its place in front of my bed. "Ryan, you probably can't hear me, but I guess it's worth a shot.

"It has been three whole weeks. Are you aware of that- the time? Or is that an exclusive to the living, the whole concept of days and weeks? But it's been twenty one days since you were last alive. It has been so long since I was last with you, and I don't want to make you think about how perfect everything was when you were alive because that would be selfish of me. It would be selfish of me to remind you of your last living moments, because we can't get those back, can we?
This is one of the last few letters, Ry. I don't think I can put myself through this anymore. Everyone thinks I'm crazy, Ry, and I bet I am.
I went to your funeral- your mom and dad were so broken up. They were crying like the world was ending, which makes sense, because I know what that feels like. Everything is so... terrible without you. I can't eat, Ry. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't even close my eyes without seeing your bloody grin. And it scares me that I won't be able to get over this." I read quietly, praying to God that somehow, Ryan can hear my distressed and practically incoherent words. Hayley Williams is singing still, expressing her own sort of pain in the form of her music. "Would I be a bad person if I... if I somehow got over this? Because grief has become this sort of anchor to me, the one thing that has kept me here. Am I supposed to spend the rest of my existence crying over the fact that I'll never be able to hug you again? Or am I supposed to find some sort of solace in the sorrow? Because it's been this long, and not a thing has changed. I'm not so sure of what I'm waiting for anymore.
What I'm trying to say is that grief has taken your place, and I want it gone. I can't wallow anymore Ryan, because even though I'll never get you back, I have enough sense to know that this isn't what you would want for me. But then I remember that... that if I truly cared for you, I should continue to grieve, because everyone knows that you aren't just some person to get over. I love you, Ry. I love you so much that I ponder the thought of joining you, wherever it is that you are, because if I cared for you as much as I say I do, I shouldn't even think about this... Getting better... Getting over you." I have to pause because my hand is flying up to my cheek to wipe the tears tickling it. I take in a shuddering deep breath and clench my fingers around the paper. "I just need to know, Ryan. I just need to know that it's a normal thing, getting over someone that you lost. Because I know I'm a long way from it, but I can't help but feel the pain in my chest lessen by a fraction every morning I wake up. It pains me to admit that I think about you more now than I did when you were alive. I stare into your negative space and fear that one day I will go twenty-four hours without pausing to remember you. As the sound of your voice grows more distant, leaving parts of you behind seems inevitable. And everyday, one less tear stains my pillow case than yesterday. So does that make me a bad person? Because I'm deathly terrified of it... forgetting about what happened. Forgetting about you."