Note: this chapter contains heavy depiction of suicidal thoughts; and a suicide attempt. Some readers may find this highly distressing or triggering.

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Dear Diary,

Each day that drags on is a chore, now. Each second that obnoxiously ticks by, on the clock on my mantle feels as though it lasts an hour. Each moment I'm living in this lie for, I'd give my life to escape from. Smiling is false. Breathing hurts. Simply existing is torturous. And it's all my fault.

I have had so many chances to get out of this. So many opportunities to be free of this secret of mine. All of this is a mess of my own doing. Why the fuck am I such a screw-up?

Stephanie doesn't deserve this. She never deserved me to begin with. She deserves better. But it isn't just her. Andrew deserves a better best friend. My mother and father deserve a better son. And now, I even feel guilt for my existence in relation to a man I've never even met. Levi.

All he has done, is try to help me lately. And a few days ago, I threw it in his face. He has tried to be sympathetic to my problems. He is the only person in the world who knows the truth. And yet, being the bastard I am, I took his kindness and made it into imaginary patronisation — I projected my own insecurities of rejection onto him, and painted him with the same brush as the rest of the world. I know he isn't the same as everyone else. He's one of the different ones. He accepts me for the way I am, in spite of any differences we have. He was my confidante, the one I thought I could go to when everything was too much for me. But here I am, having ruined the one place of solace I had, and now I'm back to venting to some sheets of paper, with a pen. And it's all my fault. Now, every time the phone rings, I rush to answer in the hope it's him. It never is.

Why am I still going on like this? Why am I still here? There is nothing more for me to live for. I'm no longer happy. In fact, I don't remember ever being happy. For the years that I've lived, all I recall is hiding my true self, out of fear. I thought I'd have it figured out by now. I thought I'd have got it sorted. But here I am, at the age of 23, still in this same situation I found myself in at age 15. Total fuck-up.

It feels as though this could be my final entry in this diary now, because I won't be around to write any more. There is nothing left for me anymore. I am not the person I want to be. And I'm done. I'm giving up.

So, dear diary — thank you for serving me well over the years. You've been the only one who ever knew the real, genuine, raw and authentic me. And the only one who ever will.

With deep anguish, Yog x

A sigh of unmistakeable defeat shudders from George's mouth, as he signs off his name. With quivering hands, he closes the little book — the very same one that has seen him through all his turmoil thus far — and he places it on his bedside table. He spends a moment frozen in place; numbness softens his demeanour in the most heartbreaking way. All he can feel is emptiness — and it rattles his soul from deep within; he forces himself to inhale, then exhale, just for the sake of remaining alive a little while longer. After a few moments of being stuck in this cycle, he decides that enough is enough; he reopens the diary for the purpose of ripping a single blank page out, as he evaluates he will need it later. He gets up from his shared bed, pottering hopelessly down the stairs to arrive at the kitchen. He's currently home alone, because Stephanie has gone to visit a friend in central London; so she will be gone until the evening.

George approaches the kitchen drawer — the one with random odds and ends in, that every house has; filled with instruction manuals for appliances he got rid of a year ago; screwdrivers; batteries; and a low-quality first aid kit. He shuffles his hand around, looking for something in particular; eventually, his fingers touch upon the texture of some slim plastic packaging, with a familiar foil layer at the top. He grabs it, lowering his eyes to see the paracetamol tablets he has been searching for. Not satisfied, he tosses it on the kitchen side to avoid losing it again; before his hand goes back into the drawer in search of more. If he'd have had a little more 'common sense', he would have purchased more tablets before today; alas, with how unwell he has been, the idea has never even crossed his mind.

Eventually, he finds a couple more packets of the painkillers; a small bundle forms on the countertop, which George finally feels is sufficient. He lifts one packet up, counting each sealed pod to check just how many pills he has available to him. Once he has done this for the collection he's got in front of him, he smiles to himself; this smile is perhaps one of the most chilling smiles an individual would ever see on someone's face. It is a smile of relief; of freedom — yet, for all the wrong reasons. George reaches for a glass from the cupboard, before taking it to the sink to fill with tap water. He sets the full glass on the side next to the tablets; then, he brings out the sheet of paper he ripped from his diary. From the same drawer he's just searched through, he pulls out a black pen; he removes the lid with his teeth, holding it in his mouth as he starts to draft his stomach-churning note.

My darling,

Stephanie, I'm so sorry that you have to find out this way. It was never my intention, I promise. But living the way I'm living has become too much pain for me to handle. You are a truly wonderful, fantastic person through and through, and I hope you'll always remember that.

There's something you must know. I was too much of a coward to tell you while I was alive, so I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me for it. I would also like you to tell my parents, and Andrew — in fact, anybody who may have known or loved me. The truth is, that I was not the man you thought I was. I thought the world of you, and I hope you know this until the day you die. However, it breaks my heart to confess to you, that I was a gay man. Keeping such a secret, for fear of how the world would react, is why I'm no longer here. I was not ashamed of my sexuality at all, so never think that. But, I was incredibly unhappy with how trapped I felt in the life I was leading. This felt like the only way out.

Please never forget me, as long as you live. And please never think that I hated you, because truth be told, you're the only woman I could have ever been able to live with the way I did. Thank you for all the memories we made together in our short time. Please carry them in your heart. I may not have loved you romantically in the way you believed I did, but I have always loved you for being there for me, and for helping me grow as a person. I hope you can heal from this, because you deserve it more than anything. You deserve better, and now through doing this, I'm giving that chance to you. Please tell my family and my friends how much they meant to me, too. And another request — please call the number I'll leave by the phone, and ask for Levi. And tell him what I've written here.

One more thing — after reading this, please do not go into the bathroom. I do not wish for you to see anything that may hurt you even more. Call the police instead, and tell them about this letter.

Thank you for everything, sweet. For the respect, and the love you gave to me. I'll carry it with me always.

George xx

As he writes his name one final time, he can't help but let a few tears fall. He isn't scared of dying; in fact, it's the complete opposite. However, he does worry for how people will respond to such a sudden demise — particularly, since he has never once given any signs of how low he's been feeling. The vivid picture of how his mother, especially, may respond to the news almost puts him off. Despite this, he knows that this is the only way for his own suffering to be over. He tears off a strip of paper from the bottom of the page, so that he can write Levi's number down for Steph. Once he's done this, he takes the letter and the number to the telephone; he tucks the latter under one corner of the phone receiver, so that it is still visible. With the note in his hand, he makes the decision to leave one final voice message for the stranger. He picks up the phone, dialling the contact again. When there's no response, he begins to talk.

"Hi. It's George. Um ... " He has to pause for a moment, to sniffle gently. "I-I wanted to say sorry for the other day. I was out of order for talking to you the way I did. But uh ... " His eyes close, as he speaks his intentions aloud for the first time. "But it's okay, because after tonight you won't have to worry about me anymore. I'm ... I'm giving up. I'm letting go. But it'll all be fine; that much I know." By now, his lips are trembling from the remorse he feels for everything he has done. "You can expect one more call from this number tonight. But it'll be Steph telling you I'm gone. Because I told her to call you." With an unsteady breath to calm his emotions, he concludes. "So thank you for the help you gave me while I've been here. You're the only person I was ever brave enough to be myself with. So thank you. I have to go now. So ... goodb-bye, Levi." With these words spoken, he rests the phone back on its receiver, before placing the note for Steph next to it.

Having returned briefly to the kitchen to grab his tablets and his glass, George trudges up the stairs, to the bathroom — the room he promised to be in, in his haunting letter. After placing the water and the pills down on the windowsill, he closes the door and locks it; this is to prevent Stephanie from being able to enter once she returns home. After all the turmoil she's been through in her short life, the last thing he wants is for her to see him dead. Once he's secured safely, he takes one of the packets of paracetamol, popping out two tablets to begin with. He wishes he could swallow more at one time; but he evaluates that he'd rather slowly overdose, than choke as his means of slipping away. He opens his mouth, leaning the pills against the back of his tongue — then, he takes the glass of water; and tilts his head back as he takes a large sip, swallowing harshly. George grabs the packet once more. He presses the pods to push two more tablets out; but as he's about to put them in his mouth, he hears the faint ringing of the phone downstairs.

"Levi?" he murmurs to himself; although all hope seems to be lost, there is still the smallest hint of hopefulness within his tone. He knows he must find out if it's him, so he exits the bathroom, heading back down the stairs to answer the phone. Anxiously, he holds it to his ear. "Hello? ... "

"George, don't do it!" To George's surprise, it is in fact Levi. "Please, don't you fucking dare do it! I forgive you for how you were the other day. I was never even mad about it. Don't do it, please."

"Where the fuck have you been the last few days?" George's overwhelming feelings cause him to sob immediately. "I thought you never wanted to talk to me again, Levi!"

"I'm so sorry; I'm so sorry!" Levi almost sounds as though he's crying, too. "I missed your first call after you hung up on me — and I was too scared to call you back in case you were angry with me!"

"I'm angry with myself," George cries. "I'm so angry with myself!"

"Don't be George. Please! And please don't do anything you can't reverse, I'm begging you."

With his free hand, George wipes away some of the tears that have gathered at his nostrils. "I was in the middle of it when you called. I had already started. I was going to do it, Levi. I really was going to."

"What did you do? You haven't caused damage already have you?"

"I was going to overdose. I started taking paracetamol; I didn't care how many I needed to get the job done." His fingers move to the back of his neck, rubbing erratically.

"How many have you taken? Do you need to go to the hospital, George?" Concern is evident in the young man's voice.

"I only took two so far. But I was about to take more. I had them in my hands."

"Thank god for that." The stranger's inflections indicate his relief. "Don't take any more. Promise me."

"But how do I keep going?" Once more, George is full of anguish. "How do I tolerate this any longer?"

"You have me George. You will always have me. You can talk to me about everything. I know I'm not much, but I can help."

"What are you, a personal therapist?" George's sarcasm is almost enough to make one laugh — although, the context in which it's been spoken doesn't quite allow for it.

"Not quite. But, like I said the other day, I do understand you; and I can support you."

"We shouldn't have this conversation again. Not with how unnecessarily aggressive I've already been because of it," George cuts him off. "But I did want to ask you something, now I think of it."

"Fire away."

"During our first call — you know, the awkward one, where I thought you were Steph ... " He tries to forget this humiliating first interaction, shaking his head a little. "After I told you about myself, what made you decide to say to me, that it took guts to admit I was gay to you?"

"You just said we shouldn't discuss this," Levi snickers, in an attempt to keep the discussion as light as possible. "But to answer, I said it because I know how scary it is. Like I told you before."

"I mean, with all due respect, Levi, you'll never understand because you're not—"

"I'm not gay?" he finishes the sentence for him. He lets out another little chuckle. "Well, don't you think that's a bold assumption to make? Don't you think you've read my signs a little wrong?"

"What are you talking about?" George furrows his brows in confusion, despite knowing he can't see this.

"You're a bit slow, aren't you?" Levi sighs in amusement. "The only reason I keep saying that I understand you one-hundred percent, is because I'm gay too."

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Whey-hey! There you have it. Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter even with how heavy the topics have been. xx