Why is it that my mood is dictated by whatever you’re feeling? It’s not your fault, I know. You can’t help it if I’m a people-pleaser who’s starved for love, an over-thinker who cares too much. This isn’t on you. But every time you feel sad or lonely, every time you tell me you’re having a panic attack or that you want to die, just know that I cannot rest until I know that you are ok. That my mind is consumed with you. It’s not your fault that I care so much about you I forget to care for myself; no, that’s all on me. But I’m not doing you any favors by valuing your life more that my own. Which I do, by the way. Does that scare you? I value your life more than mine, which is why I deprive myself of sleep so that I can stay up with you when you’re in a dark place. I really love you, you know. But this kind of love is going to kill one of us soon. And is it so terrible that I want to be the one to die so that you survive? That I want to die before we break apart, so that you only have good memories of me? Terrible or not, this is my choice. None of this is your fault. Please don’t blame yourself; I choose this, voluntarily. This may be the most selfish thing I ever do for myself regarding you. Because you will miss me, and I will be gone. But I need to do this. For us. I love you.

                                             — me.

The dark doesn’t seem quite as dark when you’re in it; know you’re by my side and I feel just a little lighter than I did before.

Don’t think I can call it a revelation; there was no fireworks, no drama. But it was more than just a realization. It was small, but it held power.

You know the little things you do that make a difference to others? They may seem small to you, but the small things make a lover.

And that’s it — I did say it was small.

Are you telling me I’m your favorite? Me?! No, there must be some mistake. You must be talking about —

Me?! Are you sure? Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered beyond words... I just don’t believe you.

I’m simply not “favorite” material. Are you sure...? Ok, ok! I’ll stop asking. I’m just... Are you sure?

....

Wow. I — Wow. Thank you. It’ll take a while ‘till I believe it, but thank you.

You’re my favorite too.

Dear Sir,

You probably don’t know me — I’m not very loud. In fact, I barely speak at all, making my way through the halls of this school silently. Invisibly.

I don’t get noticed by the others; no, they tend to overlook kids like me. Not a friend, yet not a threat, I can slink along comfortably in the background, observing.

I can wear my favorite T-shirt to school. You know, the one that should’ve been thrown out long ago; the one with the rubbed out elbows and fraying edges, the one with the burn near the collarbone that was put there by your dad’s cigarette in a moment of anger, but you love it because it reminds you of a time when he was around.

I can wear that shirt without worrying if it’ll be yanked over my head during lunch. Joe isn’t that lucky.

Joe’s a good kid. You probably don’t know him either— he doesn’t like trouble. That’s why he doesn’t report it when his glasses are broken by the big guys on the team. I’ve watched him pop that lense back into place about a hundred times, wipe ‘em off and put them back on before going to sit with the others.

Yes. There are others.

There’s Maya, the girl who no longer uses wired headphones because experience and a scarred neck has shown her how dangerous it can be; George, the guy who’s on first name terms with the school nurse because he’s in there so often, blaming the blood on his shirt on a nosebleed; Caren, the girl who stays buried in her books so she doesn’t have to face the world.

There are more, Sir. More of our number who are being beaten down every time they set foot in this building. Like I said, I’m lucky: I can eat my peanut butter sandwich in peace in the corner of the cafeteria, silently watching the carnage.

I’m just sick of all the pain and the hate; sick of the silence that should be screaming for help.

I must speak up, Sir, and so must you. I know you’re used to turning a blind eye to things like this, but it became too much the moment it started. People shouldn’t be allowed to hurt others, Sir. Not on my watch, not any longer. Don’t you agree?

Sincerely, Anonymous.

 You slide the bag across the table and watch as the hooded figure opposite you peers inside. 
“Where the hell did you find this?!” 
She looks up at you, her eyes glinting in the shadow of her face. You try to stare her down, but, as usual, you’re the first to look away. You fold your arms tightly against your chest and look down at the beaten wood tabletop.
“Darling.” Katlyn’s voice is low, almost sensual. She extends her hand hand out on the table, palm up. You take it and she turns your hand over, tracing circles in your palm. “You don’t have to be scared of me anymore, you know.” Her voice is just above a whisper now; you can barely hear her over the chatter that fills the pub. You stare at a spot somewhere over her head, extremely aware of her finger lightly trailing around your palm.
The thing inside the bag whimpers audibly. Katlyn glances at it, then lifts her eyebrows at you. You see her mouth form the word, “where?”, but you cannot hear her over the noise around you. You cannot hear her over the noise in your head. You meet her eyes, then look away.
You stay silent.

There’s a painful place of comfort that I’ve made inside my head; that’s the place I go to feel alone in.

It makes me do odd things, this space it makes me lock my gates, but display the key where you can see it;

hiding to be noticed.

I was me, you were you. We came together— now we’re two.

You were you, but I was hiding. Now we’re two and I quit lying

But I was hiding how I feel, and I quit lying. We made it here.

How I feel — my doll, it’s true — We made it here, and babe? I love you.

[open up to a busy street in London. It is rush hour; focus on people pouring into the tube station, rushing to get to work. One man is struggling against the rest, battling his way out of the station. The man is tall and thin and wears a short jacket over a white T-shirt and washed out jeans. He’s wearing a backpack. Once he makes it to the street, he stops and takes out a large paper map. He gets looks from passers-by, but ignores them, and seeming to have found what he was looking for, carefully refolds the map and tucks it away. He walks away. Shot cuts to him turning into a side road, walking up to an inconspicuous building, and ringing the bell. It is opened by a disheveled looking man.] BILL: [quite rudely] who’re you? JAMES: James McElroy. Is this the Short House? [The man looks James up and down, then sticks out his hand.] BILL: [gruffly] Bill Castimon [cut to inside, Bill is opening a door and showing James through it. Camera follows him in, panning over the small bedroom.] JAMES: It’s perfect. [he swings his backpack onto the bed, the turns to thank bill.] JAMES: thanks man. I — [bill is no longer there. Bewildered, James sticks his head out of his room and looks down the empty hallway. Seeing no one there, he shrugs and turns back to his bed, only to be started by the girl sitting in his bed.] TORI: Hey there! [James looks at her in shock. She is of average height, slim, and has a shock of curly hair dyed blue at the tips.] JAMES: What — who are you? [tori raises an eyebrow] TORI: that’s not very polite, is it? JAMES: [suddenly affronted] Polite? I don’t know you and you’re sitting on my bed! [she surveys him thoughtfully, then leans back on her hands] TORI: you’re in a house full of thieves, James. [James looks startled that she knows his name. She points at his backpack, which has his name written in black marker down one of the straps.] you shouldn’t just leave your door open like that, or someone might just...slip in. [she puts emphasis on those last words, then gets up and moves toward the door. Her movements are extremely grateful, like a cat’s. At the door, she stops, her nails curled around the doorframe, and turns back.] TORI: I’m Tori, by the way. [she slinks away, leaving James. Camera zooms up to show his confused face, then as he shakes it and flops down on the bed. Cut to black] [end scene]