amity // phan

twenty-two.

-dan-

Twenty minutes after Damien called me, I showed up at the hostel where Phil was supposed to be staying. The night was soft and warm, the moon was a smudge behind thin clouds.

I peered in through the glass door, and saw the woman at the front desk. I thought about going in, I thought about asking her what room he might be in. I wondered if I was even ready to see him . . . and that was when I noticed.

It started with long legs sprawled on the ground, a lanky torso in a baggy sweater, a head of tousled black hair leaning up against the brick wall of the building. Fingers tapping the ground, eyes pressed shut.

It was Phil freaking Lester; alive, alive, alive.

Phil's chest was heaving, the way it sometimes did after fights. I stood there for a moment, just watching him. It felt like my head had been thrust underwater, like the rest of the world had been blocked out.

I didn't know what to say, I didn't know how to start.

When I walked over and sat down a few feet in front of him, Phil didn't look up. We waited, both painfully aware of each other, and the world was silent aside from the punctuation of our breathing. There was a space between us– miles and miles and miles– where there used to be nothing.

"Do you not . . ." I hesitated for a moment, then continued, softly, "Did I do something wrong?"

Then Phil's eyes flickered open, and he still didn't say anything. He was watching me carefully, wearing an expression I couldn't place. His eyes were wide and dark and clear, pupils dilated. His hair was messy, his cheeks were flushed, his lips red and slightly parted.

"This isn't about you," he said, with lips so red against his pale skin.

"So what's it about?"

Phil reached his hand towards mine. As he caught my wrist, my breath caught in my throat. Because it was the first time that he touched me since that day we were together in the classroom, the last day before he left, the last day before the world ended.

His fingers trailed over the back of my hand lightly as he spoke. "My dad isn't doing well," he said slowly. "My mom came to help– I didn't want to see her."

"And you forgot about me when you left?" I asked, my chin jutting forward. "You couldn't call?"

Phil acted like he didn't hear me, his fingers still dusting my hand, his eyes still planted on the ground. "I left because I didn't want to watch my dad kill himself," he said, voice flat. "I wasn't planning on leaving, I just . . . I needed time to think about things."

"What things?"

I could feel his hand shaking on top of mine, a tremor that came from quiet fear, otherwise unable to escape. "I'm him," Phil said quietly. "My dad– I'm him. We're the same."

"Don't say that," I said, and I hated how young I sounded, my voice small and shaky. "You aren't like him."

Phil just blew out a breath, then he looked up at the sky, his eyes bright and clashing. I squeezed his hand, and I wanted things to go back to the way they were. I wanted him to go back to being loud and confident, a boy under bleachers, someone who knew all the answers.

"Don't lie for me." Phil's voice was practically a whisper. "This is what I am. It's not gonna get better."

"You aren't like him," I repeated, because it was all I could say.

"You should leave," he said. "I'm sorry that I didn't call, but you should really leave."

He spoke quietly, ferociously. Because he was the sort of creature that crawled up from the dark spaces people didn't like to look, the kind of creature that learned to speak in the cracks of a sidewalk, the kind of creature that grew up thinking dandelions weren't weeds.

This is what I am.

The bags under his eyes shone blue under the flickering light overhead, and I wanted nothing more than to make things better for him. And he wanted nothing more to do with me.

"Did you think about me at all?" I asked.

"Couldn't stop."

"I love you," I said, and I leaned closer to him.

We kissed, and he tasted sickly sweet, tasted of blood and spoiled fruit.

We kissed, but it was a wretched, ugly thing.

We kissed, but there was no romance, only empty hunger.

"You should really go," he said, and his hand was flat on my chest, pushing me away. And I could see it clearly then, the way he stood on the edge of the world with his arms pulled above his head and his shoelaces untied.

I used to admire that beautiful, reckless side of him.

But that night, with his hungry red lips and apathetic eyes, I couldn't tell anymore if he wanted to be pulled back from the edge, or if he just wanted someone to see it when he finally fell.

- - -

an///

Wow I'm back hi hello!

Haha remember last chapter when i said i was going to update soon . . . sorry about that.

ANYWAYS what did you think about this chapter?????? Slightly different style, but I'm actually pretty proud of it. Let me know ur thoughts.

Ill see you soon, hopefully before another month goes by lmao

ily!