A/N This was originally a short story for my University's literary magazine, but I realized it was very Eclare. So I changed some names and lines and made it work for Eclare! Who was I kidding it was them all along. But I did change Clare's background a little. I hope you like it, it is my fanfiction debut after all.

Secret #1: You aren't meant to be happy.

Mom's a free-spirit and Dad's moved by rock and roll. They like for me to call them Cece and Bullfrog. They leave me alone on weekends with wads of 20s urging me to have fun, while they go see another tribute band filled with old guys who shouldn't wear vinyl pants. They love me, I know it, but they love themselves more. Despite needing them, I don't show it. They should just know. They're not there; it's just me and an empty house.

I remember when I loved their vacancy. She would come over and stay the night. A trace of her perfume always lingered on my pillowcase and she liked to leave her lacy bras on my headboard. She'd streak through the door humming a Kooks song and ask me to dance. Every Friday afternoon was the same. I'd try not to step on her toes and I'd dip her slowly and kiss her neck. She'd eat peanut butter and kiss me, knowing I hated the stuff but would never not kiss her.

Every Friday night was different. Her secrets came out when the moon did. She told me that her mom was dead and her dad was in and out of prison all the time for petty theft. She was always left in the custody of her step-mom. Her step-mom had a bit of a coke problem; her step-mom's biggest problems were the men she brought home. Her step-mom couldn't take lonely nights without her dad and filled it with men who should never be trusted. They lingered a bit too long in her doorway and she could feel them watching her. It's why she liked my house so much. It was an escape. According to her, I was the only good thing in her life.

The first time I met her (in line for the water fountain at school) I would never have guessed that behind her beautiful smile lay someone hurting.

Now that she's gone, I'm the one hurting.

When my parents come home Sunday nights now, my dad doesn't chuckle at the sight of her lingerie and joke, "I bet you and Julia had a good weekend." Instead, I know they walk in thinking they'll find me like Julia was found.

They don't. Instead they find me reading her favorite Paulo Coelho book and drinking the chamomile tea Julia liked so much.

She's gone and so is her smile. So is mine.

Secret #7: In the mirror, that's not you. It's a monster.

I started my new school today. Degrassi Community School is the leading local public school in classroom innovation. Well, that's what their website says anyway. Their brochure can tell me all about their gifted program and extracurriculars, but I've heard about this school. It has drama. They use words like innovative like it means something, it means nothing. It's bullshit to sound better.

I don't feel better.

Classes started on Tuesday, so I had to suffer through Physics, Calculus, Gym, and History. It wasn't so bad. The thing I really suffered through, what I deserved to suffer through was the way everyone stared. One look at me and they knew who I was, what I had done. They could tell I had to leave Bardell because everyone hated me. I wondered if the kids here would whisper like the old ones did. Would they avoid looking me in the face, forever afraid I'd hurt them like I hurt Julia?

Probably.

It didn't matter where I ran to or how long I ran. Julia, what I did and what we were, would always haunt me. I should apologize to my parents for forcing them to let me change schools and pay the out of district fee for Degrassi. They thought it would fix me. For a moment, I thought it might fix me too. Nothing can fix me, I was born this way- born to break and be broken.

The strangers in the hall have nothing to worry about. I could never hurt them worse than I hurt myself.

Secret #13: No one will ever understand.

On Wednesday I had the only class I was most excited about for the semester, Advanced Engllish.

The moment I walked in, however, I was afraid.

My locker had gotten stuck and I couldn't find my textbook, so I was late. And because it was the first time this class was meeting, people had bothered to show up early for seats. So with a minute to the bell I walked in to find only one seat open. There was one desk in front of the scariest thing in the world to me- a pretty girl reading Kurt Vonnegut.

It was bad enough all eyes were already on me, but she made things worse. Nothing could attract me more than a girl who could appreciate Kurt's words. Then I looked past her book and saw that she wore a blue floral dress that fell to her knees, the color of the material matching her eyes, the ones that dared to look up off at the pages and at me.

Before I could even fight myself on if I should speak to her, the teacher came in with the bell.

Ms. Dawes, according to herself, is a has-been hippie still waiting to publish the great Canadian novel. She didn't think referencing Shakespeare every time you raised your hand was impressive, and didn't encourage you to do so. She thought creative writing was baring your soul for the world and she wanted us to "cultivate trusting classroom relationships so we weren't afraid to share through our writing." It was a nice sentiment, but completely lost on me. The second I attempt to trust someone and let them in, they find a quick way out and away from the mess that I am. They should run. I should run. I can't though. I'm not a lucky one who gets to stay away. I'm stuck.

Despite Ms. Dawes' ideals being irrelevant to me, I was still trapped as a participant in her trust exercises. What she wanted us to do was simple, easy. All we had to do was stand up, say our name, and a little something about ourselves. Any little thing would be just fine. I was terrified to do it. I already felt like everyone stared at me, talking means they're definitely staring.

I could already hear the thoughts inside their heads.

What's his damage?

He likes the color black a little too much, don't you think?

He looks like he cuts himself to Dashboard Confessional.

I wanted to avoid them thinking about me, looking at me. Hell, for their own good they should ignore my existence. Especially the girl in the dress. I'm too messed up for her to even sit next to me in class. So as much as I hate that they never really see me, only the bad I give off, I'm happy about it too. It's better this way.

I heard laughter and a mixture of voices that never stopped. Others talked and shared themselves, but I was so afraid of me I didn't hear a word. Then suddenly, the tall blonde kid in front of me was on his feet and speaking. As soon as he sat, it was spotlight on me. I rose from my seat- but I could do nothing.

They saw me, the boy dressed in all black, freeze. Despite what they thought they saw, I wasn't edged or rough. I could never be too cool for school. I was scared. My mouth couldn't move, my lungs didn't know oxygen- they were strangers. Strangers, like the owners of these eyes staring back at me.

I was able to gulp out, "My name's Eli." That was going to be it for me, but then the girl, the one reading Vonnegut, smiled. I don't what the hell it was, but the room brightened (or was it just my heart losing a tint of its blackness?). All I know is my lips twitched, I found air, and my heart met my stomach as my eyes met hers.

"I like to read Chuck Palahniuk and drink black coffee as I write." Satisfied with what I had said, I sat down and she stood to speak.

"Hi, I'm Clare. I spend excessive amounts of time in the library and not enough time sleeping."

It sounded like me; I avoided my nightmares by avoiding sleep. Maybe she could understand, was my only thought. More people talked and Mrs. Dawes got the floor back and said something about a paper. It was all a blur, except for Clare. She was solid.

Next thing I knew the bell had rung and everyone filed out. Clare, for some godforsaken reason, smiled again at me as she left.

I never wanted to lose that smile. I had already lost mine, maybe I could share hers.

My mind screamed not to drag her down with me; I couldn't eclipse her life with everything I am. My soul, though, my heart as well, had me thumping my combat boots against the linoleum chasing after the pretty girl in her dainty dress.

When I called for her to wait, and she did, I was terrified that she wasn't terrified of me. But another look at her and how okay, maybe excited, she seemed, I was too.

She could never know the truth of who I was, what I'd done. But she could know the little of what's left of me. The little good in me could shine with the good of her.

Secret #17: Everything about her is beautiful.

Every day begins with a joke now. They're utterly lame and laughable only because they're so bad. The jokes are a trademark joy of Clare, she texts me one every day.

What did the apple say to the banana? Nothing stupid, apples don't talk.

They sound so bad, but they're great. Like her.

I'm going to try and refrain from sounding sappy, but she… is… sunlight. She's so bright that you're drawn to her; sometimes it can be overwhelming because you're not used to it, so you want to look away. But you don't, because you love the warmth. You recognize you need it- so you soak it in.

There's an old diner on the other side of town that we like to go to. It's called Jack's Flap Shack and its open 24 hours. We're usually there every night after 10. Our days together are filled with school, drives in my car, bookstores and libraries, cafes, and enough happiness that if I was even further into darkness I'd choke. After all of that, we end up at the diner with its sticky tables, endless cups of coffee, dim lighting, and our ever present waitress Mary. We're the only regulars when we're there; sometimes we're the only people there.

The emptiness of the place might explain why it's where we really talk. Everywhere else we create memories. Memories of arguing about literature and music, singing obnoxiously loud, people watching and life commentary. Clare liked most books, loved few, and hated even fewer. We both avoided the radio and its 4 chord songs; she listened to indie rock and had a soft spot for Taylor Swift's lyrics. Her favorite thing to do was to sit outside this one coffee shop and see people and guess what their lives were like.

"Business guy with the Blackberry spends too much time in bars and in his bed with women whose names he won't remember. He has an insatiable need to impress his parents, but it can't happen because he's not happy with his life. He wants to do something more creative than that."

"How do you know that?" I incredulously asked, bumping my shoulder against hers before sipping my coffee. "The first part is guessable, but the last part?"

"Did you see his hands? If he was just business driven they wouldn't have been that rough and calloused. He's clearly doing something else." She rolled her eyes and jokingly huffed.

"He was like 30 feet away, how did you even notice the details in his hands?"

"I'm awesome, that's how. And I'm just great at reading people."

It was a curious statement for her to say. Could she read me? Did she have a clue? Despite throwing ourselves together, I still kept so much of myself apart. If she heard the name Julia she wouldn't know that's who my girlfriend was, she'd think of the Beatles song with that title and rush into a discussion about The White Album. But maybe, possibly, she had some grasp on what I'm hiding.

"What about me? What do you read?"

"Silly boy," she laughed, grabbing my hand, "that's an easy one. You're special and great, but you don't see it. You're blind."

"I'm blind? That's not true." I argued. There was nothing neither special nor great about me; her positive outlook was misdirected towards my problems.

"It isn't?"

"No," I shook my head and tightened my grip on her hand. "I can see you, can't I?"

"Yeah, but sooner or later you're going to have to see yourself."

The afternoon noise could do nothing to combat the stillness Clare had created inside me. I would gladly pick seeing her over seeing me every time I was asked to. She was imperfect because she embraced and understood the imperfect parts of her life.

The first day we hung out, after school after that English class, I asked her about her sleeping thing and why she never did it. I wasn't expecting her answer; I mean I wasn't delusional to think she had no problems, but I wasn't expecting the ones she had.

Clare's mom had died last year, an onset brain aneurysm. Clare wasn't there, she was at summer camp and never got to say goodbye. Her dad never said goodbye either, he had been struggling at work and was afraid of being fired. His wife died at the grocery store on a bright Saturday morning in July while he filed a report for marketing. He had gotten it inside his head that if he hadn't been at work something might have been different. His wife's brain may have functioned differently if he was there. It was a ridiculous belief, but one he punished himself for.

He is barely a dad to Clare. He's able to get up and function and go to work, but other than that he struggles to pull his life together. Her dad spends copious amounts of time with a glass of whiskey in his hand, numb to the world. He is disconnected from Clare, because he tries so hard to stay connected to his dead wife. Clare tells me that sometimes when she comes home and he's passed out on the couch, she can hear him mumble Helen, her mom's name. Every single time, Clare cries. Every single morning after, Clare is up early with coffee and water and a kiss for her dad's cheek, telling him how much she loves him. She does love him, so she doesn't give up on him, and she can see how he hasn't given up on himself. Every so often she finds business cards for alcohol outreach programs and she knows. Clare knows he went out of his way to get them, and the simple act of trying is enough for her.

It's probably why she bothers with me. I've shared a little. I've tried.

She knows about my parents, and knows I left my old school because of bullying. She just thinks its run of the mill bullying, not you'll suffer for what you did to Julia bullying. As much as I would like to tell her one day, I know I can't.

I can't taint her and weigh her down. She has her dad, and crappy girlfriends who weren't there for her when her mom died. They cared about lip gloss and homecoming and not about catching Clare's tears and giving a shit. She has a sister that left for Kenya and never came home, not even for the funeral of their dead mom. I can't take away the hope she clings on to. The way her nose scrunches up when she says things like, "Maybe I've suffered, sure. But that's okay, that's what life is. You suffer and then you recover, you cry and then you stop. You move on. My old friends may have sucked, but if they were great and there for me, we may not be friends. I might not have let you in. I'm glad they sucked, because you don't."

Yeah, even her words are beautiful.

Secret #23: Always run away before others do.

I haven't talked to Clare in 5 days. I almost kissed her and I ran before I could.

Like, literally ran away. We were an inch apart and I could feel her breathe on my face, her porch light above us flickered. My hand shook as I placed it on the small of her back and in an exhale she said, "I thought this would never happen."

Suddenly, it was a flashback to a ripped page with smeared blue ink and the swaying of Julia and my tears, which I tasted as they ran to my mouth. It was a reminder of why it couldn't happen. Then I was turning away, pulling away, running off her porch and tripping on a garden hose. I'm not sure how fast I was even moving, but I was gone.

I need to stay that way. I've fooled myself these past two months thinking I deserved someone like her. That I deserved for her to say my name, let alone know it. What I deserve is my memory of Julia at 8:39 p.m. not one of Clare at 2:31 a.m. where I get to kiss her. That's a daydream and I need to stick to nightmares.

It's hard to avoid her. I've had to switch seats in English, avoid the cafeteria, and park my car somewhere else in the parking lot. Clare waits by my locker and I outwait her from around the corner, lingering until her shadow is out of the hallway. I have to block out her voice as she calls for me to wait, like I did on that first day of writing class. Only, I don't hang around. I'm not like her. I don't get to be.

Friday night, my parents are gone again at some leg of someone's reunion tour. I can't sit in the house- every time I blink I'm at my old house and Julia's there, every second my eyes are open I imagine Clare next to me on the couch laughing at the Marx Brothers. Neither is true, only one makes me happy.

I realized I wasn't in love with Julia a week after I met Clare. That's the only true thing I know right now. Without the love for her, I only have loss. I don't know what to feel for Clare, how much I should feel. Do I feel anything at all?

I would venture that yes I do, because I wound up at the diner drinking the same old coffee and praying Clare wouldn't show up, but knowing she would. So at 1:12 a.m. when Clare walked in and the bell above the door chimed, I wasn't shocked or thrown off guard. I was petrified I couldn't keep my wall up. That I would go weak at the sight of her curly hair framing her face and the tinted chapstick she had taken to wearing. I did go weak- it was inevitable her beauty would wear me down. Clare got me to trade a failing smirk for her forced smile, but that was all I could manage before she jumped down my throat.

"You can't avoid me forever, Eli."

"I'm not." Lies, lies, lies. I was almost as good at those as I was secrets.

"Yes you are," Clare groaned, sliding into the booth. "You're afraid of us becoming real and you're afraid of letting me in. You don't need to be."

She slid her hand across the table and tried to hold on to mine, but I couldn't let her have a hold on me. Not one greater than she already had, anyway. "You should be afraid of me."

"Oh god," she pulled her arm back and crossed them into her chest. "You sound like a vampire from Fortnight. You've really reached a new low."

I wanted to crack, I wanted to smile. I wanted to pull her to me and breathe in her air of cinnamon and vanilla. I wanted to dare, once again, to move my lips towards hers. Only this time, they'd meet. It would be dizzy and for a moment it would be like everything had stopped. And when we came apart we'd realize everything had just restarted, and it was better now because we had each other. Lips and secrets.

Clare said it though, I had reached an all time low. I was broken. Everything I touched broke, except her. She was still intact, a few pieces chipped away, but whole enough to be happy. So I needed to get away from her, before she crumbled.

With a wordless walk and five dollars on the table, I was out into the city streets. I had pulled away from her, pulled so hard I knew I would snap soon. At least when I snap, finally and forever, it can't hurt her. As long as tonight I only had the stars clouded by the smog and the lights of the city, she'd be fine. All I wanted to hear were the noises of the endless darkness and the slight buzzing in my ear.

That wasn't all I heard. Clare's voice came out from behind, crawling inside me.

"You have secrets that are killing you, right? Tell me them, they can't kill me too."

Was this her gift of reading people coming in to play? Did she know what to say to get me to snap? Because I did snap and she had to stand in the wake of it.

"Killing me? Of course they are killing me," I yelled, turning around to face her. Seeing how Clare would change her view of me was something I needed, to validate pushing her away. "I killed her, Clare. I killed Julia."

She should have fear flooding her right now, or at least tears. I can feel some pooling in my eyes. I don't see anything from her. Instead, I see a bittersweet smile and her actually moving closer where she should be moving farther apart. In a second, her warm hand is on my cold, cold cheek. And in what I call her blink of insanity, she kissed me. Clare puts her soft lips on my chapped ones and in some magical ways breathes life in them. She pulls me to sit on a sidewalk wooden bench and whispers, "Now tell me the real story, you're too gentle to be a killer."

I snap, again.

Maybe I am gentle. Maybe I'm just the victim in a tragedy of chance. It's all a possibility now; I'm still broken, but maybe's there's hope.

So I let her in.

Secret #24: Telling Clare about Julia is the scariest thing I've ever done.

The feel of Clare's fingers clutching on to my wrist is something I can still feel. She dug deeper and deeper in to her grip with every word I spoke; I dug deeper into the world of candor.

Here's the truth.

Julia loved me, more than she'd ever loved another person. To her I was the only hope left. That's a scary thought isn't it? I used to be the one she came to for everything, the only one. Everyone at school loved her. She was pretty and smart, witty and charming. Yet, despite the reverence they all held for her, Julia never acted on it. She kept to herself, and eventually kept to me. In her words, she couldn't destroy their image of her with who she actually was. I, on the other hand, would love her no matter what.

And it's true. I did.

One weekend though I couldn't love her like she needed me to. Julia needed me to be home, needed to sleep over and get away from her stepmom who was angry and without cocaine. I couldn't be there. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I was visiting my grandparents that weekend, so I told Julia to lay low and keep in her room with the door locked. She didn't listen, she couldn't be alone. She went to a party and drank away her troubles. That's when the trouble started though.

Julia got drunk, really drunk. People told me that she didn't even know her name and instead called out mine. Even with the echo of my name, Eli, Eli, Eli, Julia cheated. She slept with George Stasis, a JV quarterback I should hate, but don't.

The worst part of her infidelity was that she didn't tell me. When I asked, she said her weekend was uneventful. I found out from George, who came up to my locker brimming with real remorse. It was with a wobbly voice he told me about that Saturday night. The bang of my locker slamming shut at my forceful hand scared even me. But I was smack, smack, smack down the hall and into the courtyard. Without even a hesitation, I was standing in front of Julia yelling for all to see and hear. It was hateful and spiteful. It was, "I can't believe you did this, I gave you everything. I hate you." Even worse though, the most regretted was, "You're dead to me."

Irony never tasted so bitter.

I blew off school the rest of the day and stumbled home at 8:36 p.m. At 8:39 I opened my bedroom door and nightmares came alive.

Julia had hung herself, from the wooden beams on my ceiling. I screamed for my parents, who weren't home. I tried to get her down and save her. But it was no use- she was gone. Julia was nothing more than a lifeless form that taunted me, she swayed and circled lightly. The beams creaked out, "You're dead to me." And I cried harder. I fell to the ground, unable to stand. And I found it- her note, with her very last words in her favorite blue ink.

Eli- I thought this would never happen. I thought I'd always have you, my only hope. But I don't, you're gone now. So I have to be too. I'm sorry. I love you. Always, Julia.

Everyone blamed me, said my harsh treatment and my fate making words did it. They killed her. I killed her. Soon enough, I believed them. At first, I felt like the wounded, but maybe I was the one that hurt.

Now, Clare and her hold on me and her words and her everything have me seeing a different light.

"Eli, what happened to Julia isn't your fault. You can blame yourself, but it's pointless. Things happen, words get said, actions, both right and wrong, get made. You can't dwell on every bad moment, because that's how you kill yourself. Do you understand?"

Suddenly it all clicked. I wasn't darkness or broken, or the Devil's advocate. I was a single person living my life, who had to suffer through a horrible thing. I made myself dwell in darkness and kept chipping away at my sanity. I was punishing myself for deeds not of my doing.

In that second of that night, I wasn't suddenly all rainbows and smiley faces. Instead, I was a hoarse, "Yes" to Clare and letting her put her head on my shoulder.

I shared a moment with Clare I hadn't shared in a long time. I was at peace with myself.

"You're not better yet." Clare said, twiddling her thumb around mine.

"I'm going to get there. I need to get there."

"Good," she replied, I could hear the smile in her voice. "I'm going to help you get there."

"You already are helping me."

"Well, I'm going to help you more. With everything, counseling, talking to your parents, whatever you need."

"Thanks," I tittered sincerely and kissed the top of her head. "But there's not much you can do tonight."

It was Clare though, there was always something she could do. It was her nature, it was who she was.

"Here's some advice, stay away from secrets. I think honesty will suit you much better."

Clare's words are ones that stuck to me. Allowing the tiniest bit of truth in my life, took a weight off that had been suffocating me for too long. Telling her about Julia helped. Asking my parents to be there for me, showing them how I've felt for so long, helped. Visiting my therapist once a week, and delving in to my trauma with raw frankness, helped me. Reaching out to my old friends and talking to them about Julia, about how everything happened and how they viewed things, helped.

Honesty, being honest to yourself about fault and life, is important. Clare helped me see that.

It wasn't like I thought at all. I didn't eclipse Clare with darkness. She helped me shine. She helped me find life again.

Truth #1: I'm in love with her.