Everything should be okay, because Dallon and I sorted all of the details out to make sure that he wasn't off killing himself instead of shopping at the supermarket like he said he was, and although I have no idea what he needs to pick up at the store, having never checked in the refrigerator lately because of Dallon's proclaimed duty of cooking for me and Kara, I suppose it's consuming far too much of his time for the supermarket to really be his destination.

I've tried my best not to question him, because it seems that it's what he requires in order to thrive with as little stress as possible, but rarely does it demand two hours to stop by the grocery store and purchase whatever it is that he needs to purchase, and I know that buying heads of cabbages isn't a lengthy activity, because no one even likes cabbages anyway, so the supply should be abundant, and Dallon should be back home.

Nevertheless, he's still out and about, probably without his phone for me to reach him in case my heart calls for an emergency due to impenetrable anxiety, and ostensibly nothing can calm me down from this agitated state. Not one aspect whirring around me feels correct in the sense that even my mental illness has been subdued for an uncharted deluge of confusion whose origin I cannot pinpoint in the slightest, so all I can do is wash away my sins and be drowned in the watery backfire.

However, this isn't as effective as I would've desired, and my stomach is still being knotted by the grimy hands of premonition without a clear cessation in my sight most ordinarily marked to tunnel vision, and that narrowness is to be expected perhaps, but I'm still jittery and bewildered and close to tears, because Dallon isn't here, and he should be, because the supermarket is a quick highway, and it's not for him, because I'm being slandered by anxiety, and I cannot save myself nor Dallon from its maniacal claws.

Partially conditioning myself not to worry about him is the best option for me in my current situation where stress is berating me over and over, and checking the mail is the perfect activity to separate my mind from Dallon's unknown whereabouts that most likely aren't at the supermarket.

My mailbox is just how it always is: boring, dull, plagued by chipping scarlet paint to hint at the grey of metal underneath, the grey of metal that the Homeowners Association despises with the combined passion of the neighborhood suburban moms. I hate going out here to check the mail, but seeing as Dallon is who knows where, the contents of my mailbox are the most exciting thing I've witnessed today, though there's barely anything in it.

Today, on the contrary, a single letter reposes inside of the ant-infested chamber of my mailbox, and in a surge of elation, I snatch it from its quarters to find that the envelope is from none other than Dallon Weekes, which would be a delight if he were a husband off fighting in war, but he's not. He's right here in Las Vegas, Nevada, and he's practically living with me. This should not be in here.

Although, curiosity is a powerful motive, and I find myself examining it all the way around, studying its crinkles, studying its fragrance of familiar peppermint that rocks me to sleep, studying mentally why the hell it's in my mailbox and what this means for my mental stability.

A tint of color protrudes from the edge of the envelope, and I flip to its back to find a harrowing message that I've dreaded from the start of this relationship: Inside I've enclosed my drawing of you. The reason it took so long was because you continued looking happier and happier, but I reckon you won't be as happy after you read this letter, so I figured this was the best you could get.

My heart banks its fury up against my chest without a proper warning, and I assume a position of a body doubled over in agony, because this can't be real. Dallon Weekes cannot be saying goodbye to me, not after what he's done, after how much he's destroyed my emotions with his eccentricity, with his artistry, with everything that I love about him that can't be gone. Not just yet.

Even so, I'm too interested in how I look to Dallon, so with trembling extremities whose settings hover over an earthquake, I unfurl the drawing from the envelope and gasp at both its beauty in skill and the fact that this beauty will never be replicated ever again, because anyone with a brain can sense that Dallon isn't at the supermarket and has never been.

Every stroke upon the paper is precisely calculated, mulled over for minutes at a time to contemplate if I really do look like this, and I do, actually, which twists this drawing into uncanny verisimilitude.

I wish to stare at it eternally, but there's another attachment in the envelope, something just as daunting. A letter, which I unravel sluggishly to procrastinate with my fear of what's inside it, but I eventually compose myself and, sucking in a voluminous breath, point my eyes towards the paper.

Brendon, I feel like there is so much that you want to know yet so much that I haven't told you, and it's time for that now.

That's right. There is so much that I want to know, and there is so much that Dallon hasn't told me, and whether or not that's because he's selfish and scared is none of my business, but this letter is not the way to do it. Oh god, this is not it.

Dallon told me he was at the supermarket, so what does this mean? He'll be back soon, right? It's not like he's finally sharing this information with me because he won't see me again, yeah? That can't be it. It can't, because we were supposed to make it. He was supposed to be the first happy artist. Where hell did that go?

When I first met Dallon Weekes, his smile was the first thing I noticed about him, alabaster sousing his perfectly straight teeth and converting me towards his favor, but he's stopped smiling now, and I'm just wondering what pit of hell he's found himself in.

This one, I gather. The pit that commanded him to write this godforsaken letter to me with the news that he's gone and isn't coming back, but I carry on with the faith that Dallon never possessed.

Before we start, I would just like to say that I don't think you realize how easy it is to slope gently into madness when you think there isn't, in fact, a knife gliding through your heart and draining the organ you thought was already too broken to kill again. It's simple as most things are, but most things hide behind a mask in order to scare you. I don't want you to be scared, Brendon. I want you to persevere, and I can only hope that you'll do that for me.

On the topic of things I hope you'll do, may I ask you to write often to me? I feel like I'm hoarding too many of your favors, but this one is important, even if I cannot read the letters in my grave. Perhaps, though, it will aid you and your grief by replicating a world where I am more and my death is less. I feel like that would be nice to experience with the current circumstances.

Yes, it's a bit tacky to drop this letter in your mailbox without a word about it. That's like dumping someone over text, which harbors shame from any sensible person, but I presume this form of communication is necessary to wipe up your tears. I know they're coming, and it's a fool's move to try and shield them, but Ryan says your masculinity is fragile, so go ahead and be a fool, since that's what you already think you are.

We are all fools in life, and I am still a fool for dying, for killing myself, and surely you will call me the same. Contrarily, the only place one isn't a fool is six feet under the pungent dirt where no one can hear them scream about how they remain to be a fool, though they aren't anymore, because the living won't blame people for anything once they're gone. It's bad form, I surmise.

Bad form is also allowing you to read this letter prematurely, so that's why I guarded it from you on the bus. Oh, you didn't know that's what I was writing? You should've guessed, and maybe you did, but you're probably too caught up in pitying yourself to notice that I've been dead since age thirteen and am finally drafting a paper to elucidate that notion. You simply cannot grant people access to your documents, though, because there's always something they want from it, whether it be laughter or cringe or spite. They will not help you, for they want to see you fail, and I have no doubt that you are not of that group, but certainly your latent demons are. I'm all too familiar with those. I know how they operate, I know how they chastise you, and I know that they have followed me to the grave. I hope they enjoy the smell down here, and likewise I hope you enjoy the lack of smell (specifically peppermint) in your abandoned home, because you should be content with what's occurring, as I will never walk through that door again, and any struggle you may endure to win something back for yourself is pointless.

Am I being a bit too harsh? Conceivably. That's how it goes when you're cynical enough to leave someone you love. Notwithstanding, I'm sure you're aware that a casket is harsher, and I'm sure you're aware that not everything is about you. There we go again with the bitterness! Should I apologize? Maybe. Yet there would be a lot to apologize for, and I only have a limited supply of paper with me at the moment. You understand that I'm sorry, don't you? It isn't every day that you bail on your only friend, now is it?

Questions, questions, questions. I'm anxious, can't you tell? It's tiring to say goodbye but not in the obnoxious way, rather in the languid way that I'm relinquishing sleep over this letter just as you will.

Many people have informed me that mindfulness is a sound tactic for suppressing your anxiety, numbering off your surroundings, so let's try it out. Feel free to play along in the chill of your driveway as you're reading this; there's much to be said about your situation.

For me, there's a storm cackling outside, though you cannot see it. You already have, because you are alive while I'm writing this letter as I am not while you are reading it. I think you'd like this storm. It reminds me of us in a secluded manner that I cannot describe. Perhaps un coup de foudre is suitable. A strike of lightning. That's what we were, and that's why you remind me of it. But don't you know that lightning never lasts? You were the flashing lights of a tempest, wild and terrifyingly beautiful, and I was the thunder that horrified its spectators. This is not a dynamic we can work with, because I do not want to be feared. I know what fear looks like, and I know that you do not fear me. You fear what happens when I fear me, but I have spent too long in fear and know that to seek it for others would be the worst possible fate for anyone.

Later I was tasked with the best possible fate, and I exhumed it from you. I was madly in love with every characteristic of your being, like the fact that your favorite color is red, like the fact that you secretly watch the clouds while outside, like the fact that you count everything including your blessings, but your blessings are gone, and so am I. Love, I've decided, is a prospect for the suicidal, and it just so happens that it didn't function on me.

I was lost in the call of the void, l'appel du vide. "Dallon!" it called. "Dallon, you could do it, you know." This time it wasn't an urge, and I've slipped away behind your eyes. I've always loved your eyes, I might add, but those eyes weren't skilled enough to detect that I was falling, and I'm not punishing you for that, Brendon. I'm just saying you were spared from the sight of my limp body upon the pavement, and maybe you shouldn't be thankful when all I've given you is a letter to explain what you will never truly know, but it's better than you inspecting my corpse to find that these blue jay irises at whom you've always marveled have been flattened by clouds sagging against a rainy sky. I know that you'd be thankful for at least that.

However, you are much stronger than I could ever be, Brendon, and I'm sometimes wondering profusely how you do it. You can withstand this. I know you can. You can be steady like I never was, and you can move on, so now I'll move on.

It was a pleasure knowing you, Brendon Urie, but it is time for us to part ways, and like I have said countless times before, je n'aime que toi.

And as the paper plummets to the ground and my faith in living dissipates, I can only whisper one thing: "Toujours, mon chéri."

~~~~~

A/N: lots of italics and lots of tears lmao

feel free to comment your pain because I know you're feeling it now mr. krabs

also I was at the doctor's office today and they pricked my finger and gave me a bandaid so typing is more difficult and there's probably some spelling mistakes (especially unnecessary "3" and "E")

Quaine: did you know that ted cruz is the zodiac killer

Aine: I live for this meme

~Dakotiac-Killer