Bloodshot Eyes

"I saw John coming out of your room this morning."

I kid you not when I say that I'd just opened the door to Andy's room. His face was still pointed towards the book in his lap, but his eyes were trained on me. Roger, his old roommate and our best friend, sat on Andy's bed, the look of disappointment on his face mirroring Andy's.

Oh, great. I'm in trouble.

Andy closed his book and placed his feet on the floor, "Well? Care to explain what the f**k happened last night?"

The door slammed behind me, signaling that it was safe to talk, but I didn't say anything. I just stood before them, awkwardly shifting my feet. My best friends obviously thought that I was sleeping with John--it's hard for it to not look like that--which gave them every reason to be upset with me. Disappointment was something that I could deal with. But I didn't like lying to either of them; it wasn't something I did very often, mainly because lying to your best friends destroys the base of the friendship.

Andy, Roger, and I had known each other since high school; we met at a sporting during our junior year, and kept a close bond. For some reason, we decided that college together would be a good idea. It may sound weird that, even though I have these two really close friends, I still want to kill myself, but that's one thing that doesn't always matter. You can think that you love someone enough to never leave them, but then, one day, you wake up and you realize that their lives would be better without you in it.

I couldn't tell them that he was in my room last night because he was making sure I wouldn't kill myself. Nothing happened, but still, they would get hurt by that, and I couldn't hurt them like that. Isn't that the most hurtful thing to tell someone? That they're not good enough to keep you alive?

"I'm not sleeping with him," I told them.

"Then why was he in your room?"

It seemed that, no matter what, I was going to have to lie to them. Lying to save their feelings was alright, right?

I shrugged, "He just needed to get something for a project; he'd been up all night doing it and called me at, like, five or something asking for supplies."

Andy glared at me. I am so f*****g bad at lying.

____________________________________________

It took a little bit longer to convince them that nothing happened, but they eventually believed me. From what they said, John left my room around nine in the morning; I'd fallen asleep somewhere around six, so that meant he'd stayed with me for three hours while I slept. I wasn't quite sure if that was sweet, or if that made him like Edward Cullen.

After he'd talked me down from the edge, he walked with me back to my dorm. He and I sat on my bed, talking about different things, not touching. I kept my hands shoved into the pocket of my hoodie, and he kept his linked together on his lap. It mirrors another night we'd spent together, the night we got together, before my depression and suicidal tendencies got worse, when I was just starting to see how bad his were.

He'd always been so different to me; in my eyes, he was one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen. Not just physically, though he definitely was one of the best looking guys I'd known, but with who he was. He was ridiculously smart and kind, and he was so creative. The way he wrote, the way he created a story and made it into something magical, was just so new to me. I'd read most everything he wrote, and would die if I couldn't get anything more.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake them up. I didn't sleep very much, so I can only imagine how much John had gotten. It's not like I slept that much, anyway. I was in college, and my manic episodes were becoming more and more frequent; maybe I should be going to the counselor's office?

I guess it doesn't matter either way. I'm just going to make an attempt on my life again, anyway.