A/N: The last chapter. I have been waiting and waiting to use this book title.

Cutting scenes, but not graphic. Not as bad as chapter fourteen, don't worry.

Luciano da Silva - a fan character for Brazil.

Dear Life – Alice Munro

"I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it." ― Groucho Marx, The Essential Groucho: Writings For By And About Groucho Marx

Antonio

Nobody was looking forward to the anthology. The culture fest, we were informed, was called Minerva, after the Roman goddess of wisdom, the sponsor of arts, trade, and technology. And as February came around, everyone was suddenly thrown into the mad rush to get things organised. All of us were forced to work with the older students, helping them put things together. We had to make banners, post advertisements, get sponsors, contribute to thinking up topics for the writing competition, stuff like that. Emil became part of the student body behind all this work, some sort of shady enterprise with its fingers all over college and some watered-down of Hitler's S.S keeping an eye on everyone. It would have been comical, really, if any of us were in a humourous mood.

Lovi became five times crankier because they had to put up an art show and he had to paint some twelve different paintings in different styles. Gilbert and Alfred were losing their hair, sleep, and sanity as they struggled to make short film after short film, while Francis and Jeanne were found constantly quoting their lines or brandishing wooden swords or doing trust exercises.

"You writers have it fucking easy," Lovi told me in a deep grumble one day. "Stop bitching so much about writing your anthology entry and just do it."

I laughed when he said it, but in hindsight, it wasn't that funny. Our class was subdued. Our critiques became less energetic, while our writing became heavy and sad. Nobody said anything unless they had to. Ivan's absence was still painfully obvious, still very, very new.

It was Emma who brought it up. It was all her idea. It was April, and between editing our novels (I'd finished mine two months ago, in record time), our assignments, class work, and Minerva-related activities, nobody had the time or the inclination to work on the anthology piece. Added to that, we had to attend guest speeches and seminars, and read heavy books that we hadn't heard of. We had to write essays analysing different forms of writing, and even the college counsellor came to speak with all of us regarding our 'grief for the death of a dear friend'. It was madness.

Emma said, "I know the four of you have been struggling with your anthology pieces. But I was thinking…well, each class gets a segment, right? I was wondering if we could make it into a dedication to Ivan."

Her suggestion was met with a small silence, and then Arthur asked, "How?" We didn't mention Ivan in class much. It was too painful.

"Well, let's all write something about Ivan. As your teacher, I have to write the introduction to the segment anyway, so we could use that as a forum to talk about who Ivan was to us. And then you guys can showcase your work. I think it would be very tasteful."

"Only if we're not whining about missing him," Emil said quietly. "Grief is beautiful to write about, but it can be a chore to read."

"I agree with Emil," Mei said. "We should make it…positive, somehow."

"And I think we should add one small piece that Ivan wrote," I said finally. "He always wrote a lot of small pieces. Professor, I'm sure you have them with you?"

She nodded. "They're on my computer, yes. But all of them are so sad. Do we want to portray our Ivan as being so unhappy?"

"I mean, he did kill himself," Arthur mumbled, looking away, his eyes clouding up.

"But nothing gives us the right to portray him as sad," I declared, my voice uncharacteristically firm.

"That's true," said Emma.

We spent the next two weeks pouring over Ivan's stories, looking for something that wasn't haunting, cruel pain. He never mentioned cutting or self-harm even once in his work, but the depression bit was obvious. It was so strange to read all of his stories now. We hadn't touched his stuff since his death. And now we were looking at it all with new insight. Devastating new insight. I imagined Ivan's voice every time I read what he'd written. It made me want to cry. Or hurt myself.

I'd taken to snapping rubber bands lately. I'd done it out of desperation. The cutting urges were making me go crazy. So I'd looked it up. Forums and stuff. And apparently, snapping bands helped. But I hated it. The sting was disgusting. It hurt, but not in a good way. And I'd get these ugly raised welts across my wrist. But eventually, I even got addicted to it. I didn't even like it, but I had to have the rubber band with me. The first time Lovi caught me doing it, I was having a bad day. I was feeling horribly nervous, and the band kept going snap-snap-snap-snap until he finally looked up from his painting, frowned at me, and asked, "What the hell are you doing?"

But then his eyes lit up in understanding. Of course. He'd read up about depression and self-harm and all of that after his grandmother had died, right? He knew the instant he saw the rubber band around my wrist. "Oh."

"It helps," I said quickly, too quickly.

"Okay…" He narrowed his eyes at me but said nothing more.

I spoke to Henrique a lot more. And to my parents. It made them happy, and absently, I noticed, it made me happy too.

"Found it!" I cried out with energy I didn't know I had. I was staring at my laptop, a document lying open before me. An Ode to Sunflowers And Other Rare Things by Ivan Braginsky. It was short. A little over a thousand words. But the usage of language was so effortless. It calmed you down, like the glow of a furnace on a wintery night, or a hug from someone who loved you. It was perhaps the only positive thing Ivan had ever written. And it was absolutely beautiful.

Arthur read it first, and didn't say anything except, "I'm astounded."

Emil, Mei, and Emma had similar reactions. "This is it, then," Emma declared with an air of finality. "We'll go with this one. Anyone have any objections?"

No, we didn't. This was how we wanted to remember Ivan. With sunflowers and summer days.

In my piece about Ivan, I wrote about how he helped me feel less alone. His mere presence (although triggering – I didn't mention that), made me feel safer. As though someone understood me. Halfway through writing it, I started to cry and Lovi had to convince me to get some air with him.

I kept apologising to Lovi for feeling so dependent. For being such a burden. But he just shook his head and told me to stop being a moron. I wasn't a burden. Far from it. I was the love of his life, so calm the fuck down, Antonio, goddammit. His words, of course.

That didn't stop the self-harm urges, though. The snapping and scratching increased. I was scratching and clutching as much as I had been before, and I was snapping so much I ran through an entire box of rubber bands in only a month and a half. That was when Lovi staged an intervention.

"I'm happy you're not cutting, Antonio, but snapping rubber bands and scratching is still self-harm."

"I know," I mumbled, looking away. "Can we not talk about this?"

"No, we're going to. I understand that the snapping helps, but you should start weaning yourself off that now."

"I don't know how."

He chewed his bottom lip. "How quickly do you use up the rubber bands?"

"I need a new one every two days."

"Fuck. Okay. Let's try this. Make one rubber band last for five days. How about it?"

It. Was. Impossible.

I hated snapping rubber bands, I hated it so much. But I couldn't stop. I needed one around my wrist at all times, especially if I wasn't in the apartment. Outside, the big bad world was full of stressors. Editing the novel stressed me out too. There were a couple of extremely graphic cutting scenes which triggered me so badly I almost used the blade again. I didn't even know how I managed to stop myself. After that, I only edited when there were other people around me. I couldn't have a breakdown in front of them. And if I did, it was usually with Lovi, or Gilbert, or Francis. I was safe with them.

Rubber bands stretched out too quickly. And once that happened, they were essentially useless. I needed to feel that sting, uncomfortable and disgusting though it was. A new rubber band's sting was perfect. Well, it was as perfect as it could be, anyway. Nothing would compare with cutting, of course.

But I tried. I succeeded for the first three days, and then I had to replace it. Again, that only lasted for three days. It seemed to be my limit.

On some level, I didn't want to stop hurting. I wanted to be in pain. It was indescribable. But I didn't know how to be anything else but sad. It had taken over my mind. It was always there, a looming monster. And I wanted it there. I couldn't imagine my life without it anymore. And I didn't even want to. I was happy being sad.

What was that? Stockholm Syndrome?

Sort of?

I didn't tell Lovi any of this. I didn't want to bother him any further. He kept prying, though. Especially when I became too quiet. He always seemed to know. And when I'd protest and say I didn't want to talk, he'd always retort with, "That's exactly when you should."

Minerva took place a week before our final assignment submission. June. In summer. The timing was perfect in terms of the weather, but most inopportune with regards to everything else. The stress. The stress. The stress.

There was too much to do. First, I had to wrap up all the editing for my novel. A difficult task, since editing never stopped. There was always stuff you could improve on. Always a flaw you could find. Especially me. I was an expert in finding the smallest imperfections and agonising over them until I was clutching and scratching and begging to make the pain stop, make it stop, make it stop, please.

And we had to work out all the last minute mayhem that came with Minerva. Turns out, our banner had been misplaced so all five of us were scrambling and panicky in search of it, until Mei opened a cupboard and it practically fell on top of her. The publisher Emma had spoken to about the anthology still hadn't sent in the five-hundred copies we'd asked for. This was after they'd delayed it because their cover artist was on holiday in the Bahamas.

I was snapping so much that my wrists were permanently red and full of welts. I needed a new rubber band every day. I was clutching and scratching to the point where I'd made scabs on my skin. And still, the cutting urges didn't go away. They were still there, reminding me about the blade I had with me. All I had to do was slink into the apartment and slice slice slice until I could breathe again. It was so difficult to focus on anything.

And though Lovi and Francis and Gilbert knew I was hurting, there was very little they could do. They were absolutely swamped with work. I didn't really want to bother them, either. They had enough to worry about with me and my problems. Although at every chance Lovi got, we'd go for walks or go out to eat, or just cuddle. I liked cuddling the best. He kept me safe.

On the day Minerva was to take place, nobody – absolutely nobody – had slept a wink. The fest started at nine in the morning, and there was complete chaos. Things had to be just so. Mei, Arthur and I would be manning our stall while Emil and some of the seniors handled the writing competition. Some people were volunteers. Others were judges. Some of the seniors had even invited a big writer from South America to do a reading and talk to the students.

Lovi, his artist friends, and the upperclassmen had set up this large open-air art show. Lovi was moderating a speed-painting competition, and Madeline and some of her classmates were manning their art stall. They even had portrait and tattoo stalls. It was very cool.

Gilbert and the other film-making students were airing their short films. Alfred was in charge of conducting a film-making workshop for children. Francis and Jeanne were doing plays. Lots of plays. There were music concerts in the auditorium, too. And the music students had their own stalls where they sold CDs of their work.

On the morning of Minerva, Lovi and I snacked on a few biscuit packets and Styrofoam cups of bad coffee that had been kept there for all the volunteers. Nobody spoke much as they ate. We were all too tired, and the day had barely begun.

Around nine, people started arriving. It was exciting at first, but then it gradually started becoming a bore. We had it easy. People were flocking to the arts and music counter. We, the writers, just sat at our stall and played cards (I won three games) until someone stumbled up to us to ask us what we were selling.

It was pretty easy in the beginning. Arthur and I were able to charm a lot of people into buying copies of the anthology, while Mei handled the money. We'd decided early on that we sucked at finances and Mei could take care of the transactions.

I didn't know when it started to chip away at me. All of it. The lights. The sounds. The people. So many people.

Perhaps it started when that famous writer arrived. The second he was introduced onto the specially-constructed stage, the crowd went a bit berserk. We had to peer over the counter to see them cheer for him as he read out from his latest novel. And then he mentioned the college's writing department and its esteemed faculty. He mentioned the hard work of the talented students. And without warning, the floodgates had been opened.

Within minutes, the crowd had descended upon our stall, screaming for their copy of the book. Somehow, word had gotten around about the tragic suicide of a young student and how his story was in the book, and the people manning the stall were his classmates. It seemed to be a huge selling point.

We were disgusted.

But it had worked. In one hour, we were completely sold out, and Arthur had to go back to the college to haul another box of books. I'd offered to help, but Mei had begged me to stay. After that creep who tried to grab her breast, I didn't argue. Instead, I took to handling the customers as Mei went to get some water and food for us. It was almost lunchtime and we were starving.

"Hey, kid, is it true about that dude offing himself?"

"Has he seriously been published? Fuck!"

"I bet it's like, total dark emo stuff, huh?"

I gritted my teeth. "Yes, Ivan Braginsky killed himself. Yes, one of his stories has been published. No, it's not dark."

"Where the fuck are the books, though?"

"I want my copy! Now! I've been standing here for twenty minutes!"

"Forget it, let's just leave."

"If you wait a few more minutes, we'll be back with more copies," I said, making my voice as sweet and appeasing as I could. There was a conflict brewing here. I hated conflict.

"You morons should have been better prepared!"

"Sir, there's no need to get abusive." I could hear my heartbeat in my head. Snap snap went the rubber band on my wrist.

"Here!" Arthur shouted. "Incoming! Excuse me! Terribly sorry!" He pushed past everyone and deposited a box of books on the countertop. "Sell these," he told me quickly, "I'm bringing more." I nodded wordlessly. The demand had completely overwhelmed us.

It got worse.

As soon as the books came, there was a rush. The crowd roared, pressing against the stall and grabbing for the box before I could even tear off the tape. Deep breaths, Antonio. Count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight – no, I couldn't do this. I couldn't. I couldn't.

I yelled out in frenzy as people tore at the box. I yanked it off the counter and dropped it to the grass at my feet. I was on the verge of hyperventilation. My hands fumbled desperately as I looked for the thermocol cutter we'd been using to open the tape on these boxes. I reached for it, pulled it out, and tore the box open. As they saw the books, people became even more desperate.

The thing was, it wasn't just Ivan. Ivan's death had been a news story, but it hadn't gathered much attention. This book had been signed by Emma and some of the other teachers. Big writers. Award-winning novelists. And we only had a limited number of copies. That didn't help the problem. Not at all.

"Crap," Mei cried out, and it was only then that I looked up and noticed her carrying some sandwiches wrapped in foil. "Antonio, what –"

"Ugh, help me undo this thing!" I shouted, my hands shaking as I pulled out the first set of books. "Just sell them, just freaking sell them."

Arthur chose that exact moment to show up, another box in his hands. He almost got lynched this time. When he jumped over the counter to help us, I heard him say, "That's the last of it. We're out of copies."

I couldn't breathe. I was on the verge of having a panic attack. Arthur must have noticed because he asked me to step out and 'get another box'.

"But you just said –"

He gave me a meaningful look and I bolted.

I actually ran. Like I was being chased. Bright sunlight hit me in the face as I tore for the nearest open space. There was an unoccupied patch of grass at the corner of the campus and I made for it. It was a small, shaded corner. I slumped against the wall and panted. Breathe. In, out, in, out. Count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Snap snap snap snap snap went my rubber band. But my hands were trembling so badly that I couldn't pull the elastic back as much as I would have liked, and it didn't hurt. It did literally nothing to quell the cutting urge. I clutched instead. There was always that to fall back on. I clutched very, very deeply. I actually split skin at a couple of areas.

But I was breathing normally again.

I was fine. I was fine. Totally fine.

My hands shaking, I took out my phone. Maybe texting Lovi would help, although I knew he was busy. My fingers hovered over the keys before guilt overtook me. I was being so selfish. My friends were at the stall, fighting an army of crazy shoppers. Lovino was working too. And here I was, slacking off.

I pocketed my phone and walked back to the stall.

But there was not a single customer there.

Arthur and Mei were sitting in their chairs, both of them with their heads on the counter.

"What happened?" I asked, though my voice sounded hoarse.

"They left. When we ran out of copies, they abused us a bit and then they left," Mei explained. "Arthur was a saint, though. I don't know how he managed it."

Arthur took that moment to raise his head. "Well, I don't know. I did threaten that guy."

"Because he tried to reach out over the counter, yeah," Mei said with a nod. She looked at me curiously. "Where did you go?"

"He went to get help," Arthur replied quickly. "I guess it's not required now."

I stared at him, and him at me. "Yes," I said quietly. "What Arthur said."

"Whatever," Mei mumbled, reaching for a sandwich. "Let's just eat."

I wasn't too hungry, though. I just picked at mine distractedly, nibbling at the corners. Then I threw it away.

Emma walked up to us ten minutes later, a bit confused. She had a sunhat and a green dress on, and when she saw us, she lowered her shades and gave us a quizzical look. "Why aren't you guys working?"

We were playing another game of cards. Arthur glanced up, bored, and with a confident smirk, replied, "We're sold out."

"What? We can't be."

"Sold. Out," Mei declared, making some weird hand gestures with each word.

"Did you check the classrooms? There were more books there," Emma told us.

"Yes, yes, they're all gone."

She blinked. "How is that even possible? They're not even Harry Potter books or anything."

"The Ivan thing," Arthur replied darkly, frowning as he turned back to the card game. "Plus, the star-cast of signatures on the cover of each copy. And that South American writer – by the way, who was he? – talked about the book with a lot of fanfare."

"Luciano da Silva," Emma explained. "Won the Pulitzer last year."

"Jesus," Arthur muttered. "I think I've heard of him, yes."

"Don't know how the seniors even got him here," Emma said with a shake of her head, pride obvious in her voice. "But anyway, if you three have nothing better to do, go help Emil out with that writing competition. It's about to start."

Mei groaned.

"No, no, no," Emma said with a chuckle. "Get to work, guys. Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Yes."

"Antonio's lying, he didn't touch his sandwiches."

"I ate!" I protested. "I'm just not that hungry."

Emma turned the full force of her frown on me. "Antonio, please take care of yourself. It's going to be a long day. I don't want anyone fainting."

I blinked at her. "That's not going to happen, don't worry. If I get hungry, I'll eat."

She narrowed her eyes at me, almost in warning. And then she shook her head, muttered something under her breath in a language I couldn't recognise, and said, "Anyway, guys, up you get. Go help Emil."

The writing contest was also outdoors, under a canvas shade. There were blankets on the floor where kids as young as ten and as old as fifteen sat cross-legged, sipping glasses of Coke or eating crisps. Emil's platinum blonde hair seemed to be turning several shades whiter as he begged for the children to 'shut up' and 'sit straight' and 'please don't throw juice on each other'.

As we approached, he darkly muttered, "I hate kids."

"Where are the seniors? You're not supposed to be handling this on your own," Arthur asked.

"Hell if I know. They disappeared."

Mei got straight to work. She was terrifying.

"Okay, you loud brats! Sit straight and be quiet, or I swear I'll tell your parents what you've been up to!"

Nothing about what she'd said was that scary, but something about her tone of voice or the fiery look in her eyes made everyone quietly organise themselves. Arthur and Emil glanced at each other.

"Right," Emil mumbled. He reached out for several sheets of paper on the table, and divided them between Arthur and Mei.

"Hey," I said, "Let me hel –"

"What about the pens?" Arthur interrupted, glancing around the table. "Or did the kids bring their own stationery?"

There was a box of new pens on the chair. I stepped forward when I saw it. "Those are probably -"

"Found them!" Mei cried, picking up the box. "Emil, could you distribute the pens, please?"

"Or I could –" I began.

"Sure," Emil said, taking the box from her. "Thanks, I thought I'd lost this."

I watched them as they worked, standing their awkwardly at the front of the area. The kids were looking at me. My nails were digging into my arms as I hugged myself. I'd made a fool of myself. Stupid me. I should have kept my mouth shut. They completely overlooked me. It was so mortifying. What had I done wrong? Maybe I should have spoken up more. Maybe if I wasn't such an idiot, they'd let me help them.

I was so scared of being ignored. I'd spent too much time in school being completely overlooked. I couldn't handle it. It made me feel so vulnerable.

While the others weren't looking, I slinked off. I could hear my heartbeat in my head. I was exhausted. I didn't know where I was going until I found myself outside my apartment door, my feet having carried me their off their own accord.

I unlocked it, feeling slow and sort of disconnected.

I felt so stupid.

I was so, so stupid.

I went to my bedroom. Found the blade. Rolled up a shirtsleeve.

Cut.

Thrice.

And when it was over, I just sat there, on the edge of my bed, staring at the blood trickle. I hadn't gone too deep. I couldn't, for some reason. Even the last time I'd cut, I thought I'd really done enough to scar myself, but apparently not. Those injuries had healed a long time ago, and there was nothing left of them except for a few small white lines, barely visible.

I was far more focused as I sorted myself out. I washed the blood off my arm in the sink, careful not to get a single drop on my shirt or the floor. I felt completely empty. I didn't have to cut. I just wanted to. It felt nice. I liked it.

I put some band-aids on. I didn't need too many, I hadn't cut that much. Lovi didn't know I'd bought a new box. If he did, he'd have known exactly why I wanted them around. I wasn't done with cutting. And I liked the thought of that.

Afterwards, I just fell onto my bed. I'd put the blade away. Now, I just wanted to rest. Too much had happened today. The horrible, horrible book sale, and being ignored…

I cringed. The thought of being overlooked always made me cringe. I curled into myself to dispel the cutting urge that flourished suddenly. I snapped the rubber-band to make it go away. It worked. But not for long. Once more, I felt my body tense up. Little shots of energy, like vodka, ripped through my bloodstream, filling me up with fear and nervousness, feeding my self-hate.

Half an hour. I spent half an hour trying to fall asleep, and when the snapping, the scratching, the clutching didn't work, I went back to the blade and used it three more times. Still shallow, but it was fine. For now.

I was in a bizarre mood. Like when you're not entirely hungry, but you wouldn't mind nibbling at something? I was like that about the cutting. I just wanted to do it, for no particular reason at all. I'd been feeling like this for months, really. But the triggers today had done it. I didn't care about trying to keep my resolve up any more. Just a little bit, just some more cutting, and I'd be fine. I'd be able to face the next few weeks without a problem.

I was somewhere between exhaustion and nervousness, too. I was stressed out, but also strangely calm. It made no sense, and the confusion only added to everything. I was an emotional cocktail in the worst of ways.

I tried to sleep again, but once more, I failed. The third time I used the blade, I tried it on my hip. I couldn't keep cutting the arm. It was summer, and I couldn't wear sweaters. People would notice the marks. But cutting there wasn't half as good as cutting the arm, so I gave up and just went for the usual. I'd deal with the negative attention later.

I felt so mild. Like I was doing something perfectly ordinary, perhaps running the washing machine or making coffee. The last time I'd cut, I'd been full of terror and blind panic and shock over Ivan's death. Now I just felt normal. Perfectly normal.

Bizarre.

So bizarre.

As I was putting the blade back in the cupboard, Ivan's letter caught my eye. For the first time in months. And in that strange mood I was in, I dropped the blade back into the drawer and pulled out the letter instead.

I sat on my bed, my newly-tended to arms stinging to hell, and I stared at the envelope for a bit. It had become a little yellow, but otherwise, it was exactly how I remembered it. Small, unmarked, its opening taped together.

I pulled off the sticky tape, crushed it into a ball, and dropped it onto the floor. And then, feeling my heart jump to my throat, I pulled the letter out. I held it in my hands for a few seconds, not daring to unfold it and read.

But eventually, I did. I unfolded it and straightened each crease as best as I could. And then, slowly, I ran my eyes over Ivan's neat handwriting.

Dear Toni,

If you're reading this, you know what's happened to me. It means my attempt at suicide was successful. It's odd, perhaps, but being a writer, after all, I wonder what tense I should use? I'm writing in the present about a future event which, when you read it, will be in the past. So confusing. But anyway.

How do I begin?

I thought I had this all planned, but I guess not, huh?

I'll start with the beginning, I guess.

For three years now, I've wanted to die. At sixteen, I was clinically depressed and I knew it. I never got myself diagnosed, but I just knew. Nothing else could explain how terrible I felt all the time. I'd cry myself to sleep every night. Self-harm became a natural part of my life. And I'd decided I was sick of it. I would end my life at nineteen, before the New Year began.

Suicide, they say, is the coward's way out. Antonio, I am a coward. I've never, ever denied it. But why would you want to fight for life when all you feel is emptiness? Sadness? Exhaustion? And the only way out is physical, self-inflicted pain? Initially I'd tried to convince myself that there was something worth living for. And in truth, there was plenty to live for. But my arguments became weaker and weaker each time, until I'd made up my mind. I didn't want to live. I was seventeen. At seventeen, I was SURE I wanted to die. It was a conscious decision. I could have chosen to live. I just didn't.

So why nineteen? Why before the New Year? Simple. I wanted to die before I was twenty. And before January 1st. Being twenty is a beginning. So is a new year. I didn't want to die at a beginning, see.

But enough about me, Toni.

I want to talk to you about you.

Because we never spoke about this while I was alive.

You're like me, aren't you? Well, certainly not as bad. Or at least, I hope not. But you don't like yourself very much, do you, Toni?

My first clue was that day. The day you accidentally saw my scars. I saw your expression. I'd anticipated the horror on your face, but what I also saw was something else. Something close to jealousy. (You want my scars, don't you?) And as the days passed, I expected something. I'd expected you to approach me to talk about it. Or to approach a teacher, or the college counsellor, or someone who you thought could help me. But you did not. That was my second hint. I don't think the thought even crossed your mind.

But I won't let this note take an acrimonious tone. I'm actually glad you told no-one. I'd have wanted it to be our little secret.

Understand this, Toni. You are NOT to blame for my death. It has nothing to do with you. I knew I kept carelessly dropping hints, because on some level, I guess I wanted to tell you. How many times I came close to saying, "Antonio, I'm going to kill myself." But even if you had known, it wouldn't have mattered. My mind was made up. I just wanted to have an audience. Selfish, isn't it? I apologise. I had no business doing that to you.

But I saw a kindred spirit. I wish we'd met sooner. Before I'd made up my mind. I'd have lived for you. We'd have helped each other. But it's too late for that now. Hopefully, this letter will help you. Somehow.

My next clue was the Gatorade. You're a terrible liar, Toni. I don't know if you've ever been told that, but it's a fact. You told me you drank the Gatorade for low immunity, but I've never seen you sick. Not once. But I've seen you depressed a few times. You'd get low moments during class itself. And then the marks on your arm. Scratching, I assume? That's how I started out, too. It's never quite satisfying, is it?

Antonio, please read this carefully. Please listen to every word I'm about to tell you, because I really, desperately want you to understand this.

Don't become like me. I know you want to. I could see it in your eyes. And I get that. I understand the desire to be depressed. It's difficult to explain. On one hand you feel empowered, but you're actually desperately needy. It's the neediness that makes you feel empowered, I think. What a contradiction. Beautiful, isn't it? Plus, being writers, we're naturally dramatic people. Depression is very 'pretty' to us. I don't mean to demean the condition. It's pretty to me too. I'm happy when I'm depressed. Does that even make sense?

But it's not worth it. Whatever excuse you tell yourself, it's not worth it.

Don't cut. Don't do it. Just don't.

Once you start, it's difficult to stop. It's such a powerful addiction. And it's such a scary one, too, since so few people understand what it's like. Once you start self-harming, Antonio, your world becomes a world of "Can't"s. You CAN'T show your skin, you CAN'T go anywhere without a rubber band on your wrist or a blade in your bag. You CAN'T handle situations that normal people can. Can't, can't, can't! Your life, and all its possibilities, collapse before you.

Please don't get addicted to this, Antonio. I can see it in you. You have exactly the sort of personality that will start self-harming and never stop. Don't do that to yourself. You have so much to offer.

I know it's really hypocritical coming from me. But learn from my mistakes.

There's one thing you must do for me.

Well, not for me, really, but for yourself.

Fight. I chose to give up, but I want you to fight. I want you to get over this. I want you to live. I want you to be able to wake up every morning, smile at the new sun, and believe that the day will be beautiful. I want you to be able to handle situations that scare you without having to hurt yourself to breathe. I want you to see how wonderful a writer you are, because goodness, Toni, you are. I want you to change the world with your stories, because I know you can. I want you to be happy in love, to have many children, a pet dog (or cat), a large house with a view of the sea or the mountains. I want you to do everything you ever dreamed of doing. Because you can. You still can.

Please write that story about self-harm. As triggering and terrifying that is, you're the only one I'd trust with something so personal. Write exactly what comes to you. Nothing more, nothing less. Be honest. Be honest about everything. But be kind to yourself, too. If it makes you want to cut, stop, distract yourself, and get back to it when you feel better. And when it's written, when you get it published, remember me. I'll be so proud of you.

You have so much talent, Antonio. Don't waste it on hurting yourself. With your words, with your nails, with strips of steel. Don't confine yourself to a world of Can'ts.

Thank you for your friendship, Toni. Thank you for your presence during my low moment. Thank you for your conversation, your critique, your encouragement. Thank you for everything. And I'm sorry to have wasted it by tearing my arms open, but I promise you, I cherish every moment we spent together. I wish for nothing but the best for you. Please give my love to Arthur, Mei, Emil, and Emma.

Warm regards,
Your friend,
Ivan.

I stared at the letter in my hands for a very long time. I didn't bother wiping my eyes. I didn't really see the point in that.

Finally, I folded it back and slipped it into the envelope. I opened the drawer and put it away safely. But not before I picked up the blade, went to the dustbin, and with a small, tired sigh, threw it away.

Lovino

I was so covered in paint. My hands were stained with red and pink and yellow. I had a fleck of green on my hair curl, purple on my right cheek, and I was pretty sure I'd inhaled some blue poster colour. My back and shoulders hurt. But at least the worst of the day was over. People were starting to leave.

After I was done moderating that damn speed-painting contest, Maddie and I had been alternating between doing tattoos and portraits, and selling paintings. She looked just as bad as me, her ponytail askew as she straightened her glasses with fingers dipped in orange. I didn't bother telling her she now had colour on the frames. She'd figure it out eventually.

"I'm so tired," she mumbled, sinking her head to the table. "I just want to have a bath and go to sleep."

"Yeah, same," I replied without looking up. I could smell my own sweat mingled with paint and the scent of grass. It was so gross.

I only lifted my head when I heard footsteps approach. It was Arthur. I quickly said, "If you want a tattoo or a portrait, Kirkland, go away. We're fucking done. We're taking a break."

"No, that's not why I'm here," he replied, putting his hands up in defence. "I wouldn't want you idiots to paint my portrait anyway."

"Don't trust us or something?" Madeline asked, giving him a weak glare, just for the sake of it. "Who do you want, then, Sir Kirkland? Jan van Eyck?"

Arthur just stared at her for a moment, and finally said, "You're snappy when you're tired."

"Yes," she retorted, her tone icy. And then she put her head to the counter again and completely ignored him.

I asked, "What do you want?"

"Where is your useless boyfriend?"

"What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, he's been missing for at least a couple of hours now."

I gaped at him.

"At first I thought he just went to the loo or something. And then I thought he'd gone to eat, because he hadn't eaten. And now, I don't know. I mean, we're completely free now. Luckily, this nightmare of a day is over for us. But Mei wanted a group photo."

"Have you…have you tried calling him?" I asked, scrambling for my phone. Please Antonio, no. Not another episode. Please. I couldn't keep up with these attacks. There were too many, all of them so frightening.

Lovino: Call me

Lovino: Now

Lovino: Where are you?

Lovino: Are you okay?

"Oh, trust me, we tried. I think his phone is switched off."

I dropped my phone to the counter in frustration. "I'm going to check on him."

Arthur looked at me curiously. "It's okay, you don't have to bother. We'll just take another photo later."

"No, I…" My eyes scoured the grassy field as I tried to spot Antonio between thinning groups of people, perhaps waiting in line at a stall or chatting with some of his friends. "I think something's wrong." Of course something was wrong. It shouldn't have come as such a goddamn surprise. Antonio had been so stressed out because of this stupid culture festival.

Madeline looked up when I said that. "What could be wrong?" she asked me, and both she and Arthur regarded me with a studying gaze. I almost caved.

Swallowing, I mumbled, "He's been under the weather. Flu, you know." I jumped over the counter, grabbing my phone. "Call me if you find him."

I didn't have to look very far. I spotted Antonio walking out of the college, his skin a sickly shade of grey, his eyes bloodshot, looking like death as he ambled up to me. He chewed his bottom lip when I approached, but before I could shout at him for giving me a heart attack, he quietly said, "Can we talk? In private?"

"I need help."

We were standing at a secluded corner of the grounds, where it was a lot quieter and a lot more personal. Antonio was wringing his hands together, looking at his feet.

"What?" I blurted, because it was the absolute last thing I'd expected him to say.

He looked up now, taking a deep breath. "I cut myself. A lot." He shifted nervously from one foot to another as he saw my expression of confusion change to absolute fury. "Lovi, don't be mad. Please?"

I crossed and uncrossed my arms. Count. One, two, three, four, five. Breathe. In, out, in, out. Swallow the anger. Calm down. Relax. Relax, Lovino. "I'm not mad," I spoke quietly, my voice as volatile as ten kilos of dynamite. "How many times did you cut?"

"Um." He pulled at his sleeves. "A lot, I guess. I was stressed out. And feeling really…well, really weird."

"Define weird."

"It's hard to explain. Like I just…wanted to, I guess."

"You wanted to," I repeated. "You just wanted to cut. Like I want to punch you in the teeth right now."

"Um, right." He hugged himself, and I was painfully aware of his nails piercing through his shirt and into his skin.

"I thought you'd thrown that fucking blade away."

"I lied."

"Jesus."

He sighed, letting his hands fall. "I need help. Professional help."

I think my gaze softened. "What made you realise that?"

He chewed his bottom lip but didn't meet my eyes. "I read Ivan's letter."

"Oh. And?"

"And…well, that helped, I guess. I threw the blade away."

"That's a start," I said, taking his hands in mine and rubbing circles on his palms, just how I liked. I heard him sigh softly. "You want to talk to the college counsellor?"

He shrugged. "Whatever. That's as good a place as any to start with, I guess." He discreetly wiped his eyes.

I pulled him close to me, and held on. We stayed like that for what felt like a long, long time.

Despite him agreeing to see the college counsellor, it didn't happen. It was the last week of classes, and all of us were so busy. Even though the finals had ended, there was still project submission. And then we closed for summer break. But at the end of the year, when the publishers chose Antonio's novel, he wept in a combination of grief for Ivan and real joy for himself.

Summer break for me was endless, but not in a bad way. Feli and I backpacked around Italy for a few weeks. Then later, back home, he got a job training at a small family restaurant. I would go out to the piazzas and paint, selling my pictures to whoever wanted to buy them. I didn't mind even if they just watched me for a while before going away. I was still happy.

I spoke to Antonio almost every day, and we'd talk about such perfectly silly things. I'd describe the tourists. I loved doing that. Antonio would sometimes complain about how difficult editing was and how he was too bored to bother, but I could still hear the excitement barely above the surface in his voice. That would always make me smile.

Some days were bad. Antonio did cut a couple of times, but he'd always call me up after and tell me. He'd be so shaky and nervous and weepy when he did, but then he'd promise me over and over again that he'd thrown away the blade and he'd try his best not to do it again. He'd tell his brother, too. So it was okay. I knew it would be okay, somehow. Antonio wasn't alone. I'd make sure he never felt alone. He even scratched a lot. And snapped that rubber band of his. But that was better than cutting, although I did gently encourage him to stop that too.

He dedicated his novel to Ivan Braginsky. Typical Antonio. He was very melancholy after he made that decision, and we stayed up all night on the phone, mostly not saying a word.

But after we came back to college for the new year, it was Antonio who quietly reminded me about the counsellor. As always, he was so nervous, so shy, when he asked. He didn't request my company, but I came along anyway. I knew he appreciated it.

And after fifteen minutes of agonising waiting outside her office, staring at the sign on her office door, her assistant told us in a perky voice that he could go inside. I felt Antonio tense beside me, I heard his breath catch in his throat. He took my hand, and I squeezed it.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked him quietly.

He didn't look directly at me, but I could still see his eyes. I could still study them. And I watched how his emotions shifted, memories fluttering before him. I think he was remembering Ivan in that moment. And then the light in his irises changed to something else, something far more personal, and I realised he was thinking about himself now. About every little experience that had led up to this one moment of decision.

And then he looked at me, smiled bravely, and said, "Yes."

I kissed him for good luck, knowing that the person who walked out of this office today would be shaken. Knowing he'd be tired, depressed, and unresponsive. But knowing that it was all necessary. That the poison had to come out.

And in the end, I knew it would be all right. I knew he'd change the world. I knew he'd have every comfort. I knew he'd get himself out of this.

Most importantly, I knew, eventually, that he'd be happy.

And I knew that every little episode, every little slip-up, every little argument, would be worth it.

We'd be all right.

We'd be just fine.

A/N: Issues like these don't have a magic solution. I wanted to end on this note. Antonio finally striving to become happy again.

This might seem irrelevant, but I've decided I'm going to make this fic into a novel. At least, I'm going to use the general plot-line, and some of the characters' personality traits. Let's see how that goes, haha. I'm quite behind on editing the novel I've already written xD

Thank you so much for your reviews. For your support, encouragement, and patience. Especially since so many of you opened up to me. You have no idea what an honour it is. Thank you for that. And thank you for making me feel as though I was helping you in some way. It makes me feel connected to you guys.

Please review :) Stay happy.