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dear ross,
it has already been 22 days since you've been gone. guess where i'm going tomorrow. the psychiatrist.
a few days ago, my parents noticed something was wrong with me. they finally realized that what we had wasn't only young, foolish love that would last for a week. mom tried to talk to me, but she kept pestering me about you. she told me that you weren't worth the pain. no, you were worth so much more.
they took me to a hospital and i got diagnosed with depression and narcolepsy. my parents, they didn't want anyone to know, so they found a solution.
pills.
why are they the solution to everything? no matter how much pills they shove down in my throat, it will never cure the agonizing pain i feel in my heart.
everyday, i lock myself in my bedroom and wonder what would happen if i hung myself too. if i killed myself, would my parents miss me? would my friends cry and treasure every moment we passed together? no, my parents don't love me. all they want is money and a high status. they want me to get a perfect score in school and get into a prestigious high school because they want to brag, not because they love me. they want me to become the next company ruler, but i don't want that. my friends, they only stayed around me because i was popular and i had rich parents. i know they talk behind my back and spread false rumours about me everywhere.
i wanted to make music with you. i want to run away and forget about all the past, and i wanted to hug you while we play on the piano, our hands slightly touching as we pressed down on the keys. i wanted to be with you.
