she's my winona; brendon urie au

twenty-three

I guess everything has been sorted out now. We are not moving too fast. We have a label now. I have a boyfriend. One who is lying on the couch, shirtless and in grey sweatpants, and right next to me. I assume he plans on sleeping more, and sleep stops seeming reasonable to me after 3:00am, even though we got home at 1:00am. I guess it's kind of always been like this. Maybe it's the insomnia, or maybe it's my head. I'd like to blame it on the insomnia, to bottle it up and give it a scary-monster name. Say it's not me, I'm diseased, it's not my fault. But somewhere deep down, beyond all that, I know it's my head.

For that reason, I slowly get myself off of the couch. After showering and putting on leggings and a hoodie, I decided to check the mail Claire gave me the last time I was over. There were a few bills, some letters, but the one thing that caught my eye was the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

I had totally forgot about applying, since I applied to colleges before Cam and Chloe passed away. There was too much going on in my head at that time, let alone schools, and you know, my future. It was delivered a week ago. This letter, this small little rectangle decides the rest of my life.

Do I even have a future anymore? I know a lot of moms who go to school. Well, not personally, but nonetheless. Who will be the 24-hour guardian of Marley? I know Ryan can't do it all the time, and I know that Brendon works too. . .with the band, and at the store (which his family owns, I came to find). So does it even matter if I got in?

Well, that's where my mindset was at first, but the second I read, 'Congratulations," I was done for. It doesn't matter how much the world and odds are against me. This is my passion, and I won't give it up for anybody. I will find a way to make this work. And that is a promise.

"Brendon! Brendon, get your ass up right now!" I say, running towards his limp body on the couch.

I put my knees in the small space where his body isn't covering the couch and I shake his shoulders, saying, "Brendon, wake up."

Sooner than I expected, he was breaking from his sleep and seeming more and more surprised and confused with his current situation.

"What, what? I'm up," He grumbles, rubbing his eyes and sitting up a little more.

"Bren, guess what?" I said, cheer finding its way through my words.

"Wait, give me a minute to wake up. I want to share your excitement but I don't even remember how walking works. Wait. . ." Brendon says, giving himself a minute.

"Come on, why don't I start breakfast and you can tell me?" Brendon encourages, getting off the couch and allowing me to, as well.

When we get into the kitchen, Brendon turns on the coffee maker and I sit on the stool next to the island. I contemplated how I could tell him, and how I can make it special. Once he is leaning against the island, facing me with a childish smile, I get an idea.

"Why don't you read it for yourself?" I ask, handing him the letter with a proud and confident grip.

I watch his eyes scan the paper and his tongue wiggle inside his opened mouth. It's like his eyebrows are dying to meet each other when he reads, as the confused gaze sprouts across his face. He stares down at the paper, eyes swimming, tongue wiggling. This is all happening so quickly--and I'm trying desperately to think of a way to slow it down. I can't, though. So I altered my brain a little. Redid the wiring, and replayed the moment in my head until I couldn't. Until Brendon was bellowing the words, "You got in! My baby got in! My beautiful, smart baby got in!" while jumping up and down and spinning in circles.

I giggle at his behavior, but eventually join him on the tile, falling into a hug and then jumping around with our hands entangled. And we're jumping, and we're laughing, and we're singing. And the coffee maker is going off, beeping all wildly as if it were spiraling out of control. And I'm laughing, not thinking about any priorities, and I'm jumping, and I'm singing. And so is Brendon. Though, I really don't know what's going on in his mind.

a/n: ending this one a bit shorter than normal. i think this is a nice place to end it