Dear Fin,

    The electricity turned off in my apartment today.

    It has been unbearable. There are no lights or warmth. As soon as I came home to this dismal icy darkness, I curled up beneath all the blankets I could manage to find and lit a candle. And then I got this piece of paper and a pen because I wanted to talk to you. Because . . . well, I have no one else to talk to at the moment.

    There's nothing more in the world that I want more than you. I want you to hold my hand and wrap your arms around me, to press my head to your chest so I can hear the rhythmic beating of your heart, to kiss me like I'm the only girl in the world.

    But that's never going to happen because you have her. You don't need me when you have everything you've ever wanted. Why have me, a measly light bulb, when you can have the sun itself? I am no radiant, I am not spectacular, I am not her. I am me. Why does everything have to remind me of that?

    These torturous thoughts have ravaged my brain in this horrid apartment, as I sit in the cold and dark. I feel so alone, or even less than that. Because in the darkness, even your shadow leaves you. I am less than alone, because I don't even like myself. You're the only person who has ever truly liked me, without necessity. So why did you leave?

    Encounter Number Nineteen:

    You showed up at my house.

    I slammed the door in your face.

    End of Encounter Number Nineteen.

    Encounter Number Twenty:

    At school, you pleaded me; you wanted forgiveness for your sins, you wanted me back. You missed me, you're worried about me.

    I went home, feigning illness.

    End of Encounter Number Twenty.

    You're waiting for me as I arrived at the therapist's office, the one I was going to because of you. You're sitting in a chair in the receptionists' area, rocking on your heels, your elbows pressed against your knees. Your eyes lightened as soon as you saw me.

    I ignored you.

    I announced my arrival to the secretary, who was all smiles and sympathy and gum chewing. I hated her. I sat down as close to her table, hoping to avoid you and your gaze.

    The sharp green of your eyes found my, locked onto me, and you smiled. That sheepish smile that arose every positive feeling I could think of. That smile that-

    No, I inwardly cursed myself. I couldn't fall under your spell.

    Soon, Dr. Howards appeared in the doorway. He was nothing like his secretary; he was frowns and doubt and smelly breath. But I preferred him that way, because at least he was realistic and rational, unlike his airhead of a secretary.

    I went in.

    I bared my soul.

    I came out.

    You're still there, waiting for me. You smiled, sheepishly, hoping to catch my attention. And for a moment, I wanted to forgive you. But I was selfish. I was scared. I was a Martin and Martin's always did the wrong thing (with the exclusion of my father).

    So I left, without a word to you.

    Encounter Number Twenty-One:

    At school, I fold a little box sitting in my locker. It was wrapped in wrapping paper adorned in little doves and I couldn't help but smile, even though I wanted to be mad. And slightly crept because since when had you known my locker combination? Regardless, you didn't bother me and I didn't open it until I had my spare.

    Inside the little box was something to incredibly you.

    A mix tape.

    The very first one you would give, but we can get into that later. The point is that this was the first one that would lead to a historic amount of others being made in my name –and in hers- and would lead to many other things . . .

    It took me awhile to find a cassette player, but when I did, I plugged in the mix tape as quickly as my fingers could move. And I pressed play. And rewind. And repeat. That first time, I must've listened to that mix tape a dozen times.

    Because it was you and the music you loved. You played me your favourite hits from Nirvana and Pink Floyd and The Beatles, along with songs that I knew neither the title nor the singer, but I loved it. Because those mix tapes were you, Finland Erickson, they're a fragment of your soul. And by giving me your soul, I knew that I could forgive you for everything you had done.

    After school, I found you by your locker. I waved the mix tape at your face. And you gave me a questioning look, raising your eyebrows. I smiled. And you pulled me into a hug so tight I was convinced you're trying to suffocate me.

    When we finally pulled part, you looped your fingers around mine. "Come on, my dove, I have something I want to show you."

    You took me to your house; it was the first time that I had ever been there. Your humble abode, as you called it, was much different than my own; a shabby little town house in a neighbourhood that reeked of drugs and smoke and sex.

    Your mother wasn't home, although that was a time where I hadn't known of your father's passing, but your sister was.

    Etta was a year younger than us, but her demeanour reminded me more of a child than a teenager. She was very tall, for a girl, with a willowy frame. Her hair was of your color and in a more masculine cut, a pixie cut, and she had your emerald eyes and sheepish grin. A layer of freckles dusted her nose and her lips were constantly curved into an enigmatic grin.

    The very first words she said to me were: sup and tutz. Those combined together, towards me, from her, were . . . awkward.

    I frowned, confused, but you burst out laughing. "Etta, that's not a way to greet guests. How about a 'hello, how are you? I'm Etta, and you?' You don't want to scare strangers, do you?"

    She scrunched her nose, a habit she picked up from you, to show her dislike. "Well, for all I know you had invited a rapist into our house to rape me because you're jealous of my hair cut. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time."

    I threw you a startled look and you shook your head, looking nervous. "Etta's just making a joke. Right, Etta?"

    "I don't know, what's in it for me?"

    "Um . . . you don't get raped?"

     She brightened up. "Good enough for me. Now, who's your little girlfriend? She's been awfully quiet; are you sure she hasn't had a seizure?"

    You ignored her comment and I blushed at it. "Etta, this is Annalise. Vice versa."

    I smiled, politely. "H-hello."

    She scowled. "You don't have to stutter, I'm not as intimidating as I appear. In fact, I can be quite the snuggle bug when I want to be."

    "Etta," you groaned.

    I shrugged. "It's al-alri-right. I have a per-perman-ent stu-tutter."

    "Ooh, how romantic," Etta mused.

    "Not quite, snuggle bug," you replied.

    She narrowed her eyes. "Only Annalise is allowed to call me that, because she stutters and because she's cute. Plus, she probably needs some action; she probably didn't know you're a boy with that hair cut."

    "Etta," you groaned.

    "Finland," she mimicked.

    "Seriously, why do you always try to hit on my friends?" You asked her, shaking you head in dismay.

    "I don't." She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Just your girlfriends."

    I blushed and you didn't deny that title, only making me blush more.

    "Are you saying that you're trying to steal my girlfriends away from me?" You laughed. "It's not like they'd want you over me."

    Etta smirked. "Hey, do hate me 'cause I'm beautiful."

    "Etta-"

    "And I have more swag. Swag, swag, swag, swag-"

    "Oh, goodness," you groaned, turning to me. "She's going into one of her phases where all she'll say is swag. It's best that we get out of here."

    I nodded, blushing slightly as you grabbed my hand to pull me away. "Bye, Etta, it w-was ni-nice to me-meet you!"

    "Swag, swag, swag; you, too; swag, swag, swag-"

    We went up the stairs, squeezing through a tight corridor to arrive to your room. It was small; a bed crammed into a corner with a window opposing it, a closet next to it. You had posted all sorts of things on your walls: rock stars, record covers, lyrics, places, etc. The main thing was the piano (or rather, key board, but you always referred to it as your piano), though, that was resting under the window. It was small, but the sunlight glistened off the glossy black top, sheet music splayed all across the keys.

    "Y-you pl-play?" I asked.

    You nodded, blushing. "A little bit."

    "Wha-what are y-you wai-wait-ing for? Pl-play for me," I demanded, nodding towards the piano, waitng.

    You followed my command, but not letting go of my hand as you sat down on the bench. I was forced to sit next to you, though I didn't mind the contact. Or the way your scent clouded my senses, completely hypnotizing me. That was, until you played.

    You're . . . well, you're amazing. The way the music just flowed through you and onto the piano was mesmerizing, as your fingers raced across the keys. I didn't recognize the song, but I knew it wasn't classical, as the fascinating tune fell over me. I leaned into your shoulder; smelling your skin and watching you play and listening to the beautiful music. Because you, Finland Erickson, were like the melody to my soul; the song you played then was merely the preamble.

    When you finished, we sat in silence for a moment. The silence was like music of its own. I grabbed your hand again.  

    "A couple years ago, my dad died," you started, slowly, rubbing your thumb across the back of our intertwined hands. You leaned your head on top of mine, where it was pressed against your shoulder. I stayed silent. "And it was so hard. My dad was such a good man; he made me believe that I belonged even when the other kids told me I didn't, and he showed me music. While he was alive, there was always music playing throughout my house, because my dad was completely enthralled by music of any sort, which was where I picked it up. I started writing my own lyrics, composing pieces and . . . when he died, I stopped. Because suddenly, music hurt. It was another reminder that my dad was gone; and then we moved here, and then I met you. And you've made me remember why I love music; because music is love and hope and despair and life. It's a girl that stutters but has so much to say, a girl who is more than the scars on her wrists, a girl who is beautiful but can't see it in the mirror. Music is you. And I needed that to remember that, maybe, music isn't so painful; that maybe I don't need my father to survive, that . . . that I can have another muse."

    As you know, beauty of any sort generally made me cry. But for whatever reason, at that moment, tears didn't reach my eyes. I was in control of my emotions. And because of that, at that moment, I was able to twist my head and place a kiss on your collarbone. You shivered. I whispered, without a tremble in my voice, "You're my muse, too, Finland Erickson."

    End of Encounter Number Twenty-One.

    Can't you see why this is so heart-wrenchingly hard; why I'm breaking? I'm not just bent, but truly shattered. You gave me so much and took it all away, with a few simple words. And I just want to know why . . . I want to know why I wasn't good enough.

    You.

    Are.

    A.

    Monster.

   But monsters have always been my greatest friends.

    I love you.

    -Annalise.

*

    Hey Reader!

    Chapter's Song: "Love, Save the Empty" by Erin McCarley. I love that song, the singers voice is so pretty and the tune is catchy, but the lyrics are so wise. They're begging for love to give fulfillment, to give life, to those who don't have anything else or the "empty." It's a perfect song to represent this chapter.

    Thanks for reading!

    Love Your Favorite Liar <3