//PATRICKS POV\\

"Y-you're sure?" I stare at my doctor in disbelief, tears threatening to drip from my eyelids. I can't help it. The thought terrifies me.

You can't walk.

The words replay in my head like a broken record. They sound foreign. They sound unfamiliar, but at the same time, so recognizable. It scares me. It terrifies me. What'll people think now? I know Bryce is dead, but there's bound to be others. And I know they aren't going to be any easier on me.

He nods, "I'm sorry, Patrick. The nerve was just too damaged to fully repair. There will be some mobility, but never enough to walk." He runs a hand through his hair, biting his lip. I see his mouth move a little, forming the words, Such a good kid. That's when I know he pities me. That's the one thing I hate being more than hated. Pitied. Pity is an emotion that is intended to make people feel like you have some sort of empathy, when in reality, they just feel sorry for you, and you end up feeling like you're wasting their emotion.

"Okay," I choke, finding myself sobbing. He's right. I can barely feel my legs, so I'm fucked. I can barely move my toes. Why does human anatomy have the ability to get jacked up? It's surely some kind of spell that some idiot from Hell that snuck into heaven put on us all to weaken us a bit. Well, that's stupid.

The Doctor spins around, his head low, and exits the room. he does so in such a formal fashion, it's like he enjoys breaking 16-year-old-boys' hearts.

My head snaps to the right, to the brown-eyed-boy better known as Pete Wentz. He gives me a sympathetic look, before a smile grows on his face, amusement in his eyes. "Twinzies?" He laughs. I laugh a little, too.

"I love how you can turn a serious matter into something a 11-year-old girl would talk about, Pete." I laugh. I state at him, taking in every detail. Every crack; every crevice; every imperfection. Perfect imperfections.

"I love how you can laugh in a situation like this." He replies. There's no one else in the room. Brendon was discharged, and is probably 'hanging out' with Sarah, and Pete's and my mom went to go get coffee or something.

But Pete.

Pete hasn't left my side since I woke up. He won't. He refuses to. I don't understand him. He seems so happy, yet so sad. He seems so right, yet wrong as well. He's early and late. He's the opposite of everything, yet he is synonymous with everything as well. A mystery.

"Eh. You're here. You mess up my mind, Pete. It's weird. By the way.. that thing at school-"

He starts laughing, before leaning in and pecking my lips. "Don't apologize, Patrick. Apologizing would indicate that I didn't enjoy it, and that'd be a big, fat, lie." He brushes his hair out of his face, a small smile planted on his lips.

I sit there, shocked at what he just did, before I smile. "Pete... I-I think I love you." The words feel so natural. I don't think I love him. I know I love him. Every fiber in my body screams that this is how it should be. Pete and I. It seems so real. It is real.

"I guess that makes two of us," He smiles, leaning in again, to where we are inches apart. "You know, I wasn't too keen on moving, but now... I'm never going back. You're stuck with me."

"I wouldn't necessarily consider that a bad thing," I say, laughing a little. "I'm not stuck with you if I'm enjoying myself." I draw circles on his chest with my finger, making him smile.

"You're good at this," he states with a laugh. "I think I scored with you." His eyes are scrunched up by his cheeks, making him look adorable.

"You can do better," I whisper-shout like a high-school coach. "C'mon Wentz!"

"Like this?" He asks, leaning in, making my heart flutter. He closes the gap between us, his lips soft, and comforting. I almost melt into the kiss, my lips forming a smile. I press my hand to the back of his head, pulling him in closer.

"Just like that." I laugh, catching my breath as he pulls away. "I think I am the one who has scored with you." I coo, holding his hand. I stare deep into his eyes, just letting him in.

"What's wrong?" He asks, worry is audible in his soft voice. He shakes a hand through my messy hair. His words are like jazz music; melodic and smooth, but at the same time it's like leave metal; hard and assertive.

"Do you get used to it?" I ask, my voice cracking a little. I rub his knuckles with my thumb as the sensation of tears burn my corneas. I'm terrified of now. I'm terrified of the future.

"Used to what?" He asks, leaning over to wipe the tears from my cheeks. I let my vocal chords produce a shrieking grunt as I bury my face in my hands.

"Not being able to walk; being paralyzed; wishing you were just normal; wishing other people didn't view you as someone you're not." I list, choking a bit. I realize that that might have insulted him, but if it did, he isn't showing signs of it.

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret, 'Trick. It isn't the getting used to it that is the hard part, it's the getting over it. It's easy to get used to something, you just have to be sure not to let it drag you down. Things like this happen to so many people, and you can't let it drag you down. Wouldn't you rather be in a wheelchair with your head held high, rather than standing, slouched, with your head held low. I've gotten used to it, but I'm still working on getting over it," he says, biting his lip. "Yes, you get used to it, it's the coping with it that takes longer. It'll consume your entire life if you let it."

"Thank you, Pete. For everything."

"I'm always here, Patrick. If you need anything, I'm always here."

Though, I'm weak,
And Beaten down.
I'll slip away
Into the sound

The ghost of you,
Is close to me
I'm inside out
You're underneath.

Don't let me be gone.

--a/n--

Tbh 1,094 words would be considered longer than I could imagine for a chapter when I first started. BUT NOW ITS SHORT AS FRICK

I am IN LOVE with Blurryface.

"My friends and I have problems," - tøp
Blurryface

Ok. I'm done with my small album review

PLEASE COMMENT OKAY? OKAY.

I love you, my Carcrashovercastyoungbloods

-Emily aka Foblvr