"I'm drowning."

"Don't say that," she snapped. He cringed away from her, as her my voice was cackling with electricity. The girl couldn't blame him. "I know you're hurting, but . . . don't act like your pain is somehow bigger than his. Just don't. I can't."

The pair looked so out of place in the looming white halls, perched in uncomfortable chairs side by side, so close that they could almost touch each other despite the fact that they were both repulsed by one another. He was the epitome of handsome with his perfectly smooth suit that seemed to cling to his muscles in all the right places, his sweep of inky black hair falling dashingly into those slanted dark eyes that screamed of a heritage older than the Golden Bay Area. She looked so similar to him as she sat in a matching monkey suit, yet the outwards reach of her hips and breasts made the suit not look so charming on her frame. The wicked black streaks that outlined her eyes, electric blue lipstick that colored her lips, and crimped nature of her hair did nothing to add to this image. She could've laughed at the odd stares getting thrown their way, before she remembered that laughter didn't belong in this world anymore.

Abruptly, his big, black eyes whipped up to meet hers, and they were drowning in tears. "I can't? I can't?! I can't believe I'm sitting here on fucking Valentine's Day. You can't even begin to imagine what it's like to have your best friend, your fucking brother, be in this . . . place. He was supposed to be the strong one. He was supposed to be the one who went to Harvard with his fucking soccer scholarship and he was going to be a genius and steal hearts an-"

"He's already had his heart stolen," she muttered.

"Fuck you," he spat. "Y-you don't know . . . you don't."

"I do know, actually," she replied, calmly. "He told me."

She could see the color wash out of his features. "What did he say?"

She almost wanted to laugh, but there was nothing funny about this situation. Not when they were there in this place with the white walls that seemed to be sucking them into the clouds, yet there was no heaven up there, only hell. "Like you don't know."

His lower lip trembled. "D-don't look a-at m-m-me like th-tha-that."

"Like what?"

"Li-like this . . . like this is m-my fault," he responded. "It's not my fault he tried to jump off a bridge."

"A bridge?" She couldn't help it, the word poured out of her blue lips. "Ben, we are not just talking about some bridge. It's the Golden Gate Bridge, arguably one of the most famous bridges in the world. And with its fame attracts hundreds of thousands of people, especially that crowd looking for just the right bridge to jump off of. Thousands have done it. And do you know how many people have survived jumping off of it? Do you?!"

"I . . ."

"Do you?"

"N-no."

"Twenty-one," she said. "Twenty-two, today, because Matt will survive. He's going to survive. He has to."

"Tasya-"

"Don't say my name," she snapped. "Or his. You don't deserve to even utter his name."

"So you do think it's my fault," he mumbled. His eyes were wet.

"Why wouldn't I, after everything you've done?" She growled.

His lower lip started to tremble more. "I loved him."

"No, you didn-"

"He was my brother," he told her, very quietly. "My brother since I was eleven years old. He made me feel like I could be anyone I wanted to be. And I'm sorry that the fact that I didn't want to make out with him was wrong, but I still loved him."

And he told her. He told her about when they were eleven.

He told her about how it was September, but it was more than the mere month where summer came to die. It was that angry part of the year where all the children are herded into the confines of a classroom and stuffed full of knowledge that will ultimately mean nothing to nobody by the time they are shoving their own children into schools. Yet, somehow, the sickly sunshine and whimpering heat was enough to trick the young children that somehow this whole school thing wasn't a giant scam, that they shouldn't be beyond furious at the world. Well, from all except Ben-Ja-Min Hahn. For him, it was hard to not be angry.

Tasya Vasilyev could remember the first time she ever laid eyes on Ben. She could understand why he didn't feel content with their state of youthful blissfulness. After all, it was hard not to be angry when you entered a classroom, in your yellow polo shirt and gray sweatpants that did nothing to cover the socks you had to steal from your sister because somehow yours were lost in the move. It was hard not to be angry when the teacher, all smiling and young and pretty, stumbled over your name and was suddenly frowning. It was hard not to be angry when, blushing, you had to tell her to call you Ben-Ja-Min and suddenly she was smiling again at the name that was so much more familiar to her.

They were at that sort of age where girls and boys weren't really friends anymore. They were beyond the age of being contaminated with cooties, but not quite at the time where love was something they were comfortable enough with being in their vocabulary. But she remembered looking at him. She remembered seeing him eating at a lunch table, surrounded by the other boys who were laughing and talking and smiling. They were shooting him odd looks, their noses scrunching up behind their peanut butter and jelly sandwich as they smelled his food that looked like something they had only seen out of science fiction movies. And there was something in his gaze that was so venomous, so toxic, that she didn't understand how it wasn't eating him, consuming his very essence, from the outside out. What Tasya didn't understand at the time was that she was right- it was tearing him apart.

And then there was the other him.

"What are you eating?" A voice asked Ben-Ja-Min.

Ben-Ja-Min didn't even spare the boy a glance. "Kimchi."

"What's in it?"

"Veg-stables and spies." Even Ben-Ja-Min flinched at the sound of his broken English through his thick accent. He had been speaking it since his youth, since his mother was American, yet he didn't speak with the ease and natural flow that his peers did.

"Spies?' The other boy questioned.

"S-P-I-C-E-S," Ben-Ja-Min slowly spelt out, following the trick his mother had shown him to use if someone couldn't understand him.

"Oh, that makes sense," the boy replied. "Sorry, I have bad hearing. My mom thinks I imagine people saying things I like to hear. And I guess I like spies. You're new here, right? I'm Matthew Simon Crawley, but everyone just calls me Matt. You can call me whatever you want, though. What's your name?"

And it was in that moment that this key introduction became vital to tell Tasya for an older Ben-Ja-Min. Because he recognized this Crawley kid from his own class and so he probably already knew his name as well. But somehow the question made him feel a little less angry at the world because he remember that he could have whatever name he wanted. He could be whoever he wanted to be.

"I am Ben-Ja-Min," he told Matt, proudly, despite the fact that he'd normally be embarrassed about stumbling over the syllables.

"Benjamin? That's cool. Can I call you Ben, though? It's just that I have a cousin named Benjamin, but I don't really talk to him because he's older than me and Mom says he smokes that bad stuff that grows in gardens . . . what is it called again? Oh, well, it'll come to me." There was an awkward pause before Matt continued. "Anyways, you're new here, I'm assum- wait. Is that a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle lunchbox?"

Ben blushed. "Yes."

"That's so cool!" Matt exclaimed. "I love Michelangelo, what about you?"

"I like Don-Dona . . ." He was struggling over the words.

"Donatello?" Matt asked, continuing in the same excited tone.

Ben didn't feel patronized. In fact, he couldn't help but smile. Matt's grin seemed to be infectious. "Yes."

Matt was grinning even more, if possible. Ben wondered if it hurt to smile that widely. "Benny, old boy, how would you feel about being best friends?"

And then they were.

"Is that supposed to be your sob story?" Tasya demanded. "Do you really think I'm going to pity you just because you emigrated from Korea and that was hard for you? Well, guess what, because I immigrated here, too. From Russia. And I had to deal with all of the same shit, too. Except the difference between you and I is that, one day, everyone stopped seeing you as some F.O.B. freak, but that never happened for me."

He bit his lower lip. Tasya was beginning to realize that with a guy like Ben, that's where he showed all of his emotion. Ben smiled when he was happy, his lower lip trembled when he was anxious, he bit it when he wasn't uncertain, he scowled when he was sad. Yet his eyes were empty, as if the night sky had been relinquished of all its stars.

Finally, he spoke. And Benjamin Hahn said something she never expected him to say. "You probably think I'm the biggest asshole."

"Yeah," Tasya agreed, because she was never one for beating around the bush (just beating assholes hiding in bushes, which she did one time, but that was a whole other story).

Ben sighed. "You may think that I'm this gigantic, homophobic ass that pushed Matt into jumping, but . . . look, have you met his mom?"

"No," she answered, uncertainly.

"Well, she's way worse than me," Ben guaranteed.

"What do you mean?" Tasya asked.

And so he told her.

They were thirteen.

They were over at Matt's house on a Friday night for a sleepover. They were pigging out on snacks and then turning on the television and watching Glee because they had both heard that it was utterly fantastic and neither of them had ever seen it. And before either of them knew it, they had watched fucking Glee for six hours and Ben was whispering to Matt about those "two guys kissing" because he didn't know guys did that and Matt blushed but shrugged and Matt's mom was calling them up for dinner and they couldn't move because they were half-laughing and half-crying because that show was fucking perfection.

That all changed when Matt's mom came down.

Ben would have never said this to his face, of course, but there was something about Matt's mother that . . . Well, it reminded him of his sixth grade teacher. His sixth grade teacher who spoke very slowly and enunciated each and every syllable much more concisely whenever she spoke to Ben than any other spoke. His sixth grade teacher who asked him if how his Chinese New Year's was, despite the fact that he was Korean. His sixth grade teacher who sometimes refused to call on Ben during class because, according to her, that everybody had equal opportunity in American schools unlike in that socialist China . . . Even though he was Korean. And in sixth grade. And he didn't even know what socialism was.

"What are you watching?" Mrs. Crowley demanded, quietly.

Ben remembered her face in the glow of the television, as pretty as a picture with her hair as yellow as dying grass and blue eyes that matched Matt's, her soft curves combining to create the perfect image of an American housewife. Yet when she came descended to that room, her once friendly smile curled in distaste and her eyes seemed as hallow as glass. Ben would never forget that face. And he didn't think that Matt ever would either.

Matt was still beaming, though. He couldn't possibly stop. "Mom! We found this super awesome show and you're gonna love it! It's called Gl-"

"I know what you're watching!" She snapped, her voice crackling like a whip through the room.

Matt's smile slowly stilled. "Mom, is everything okay?"

"Honey, we can't allow any of that . . . homo sapien monstrosities into our house," Mrs. Crowley tried to explain to her son, taking on a soothing tone.

"Then we'll all have to leave," Ben concluded.

Her eyes slid over to his. "Excuse me, sweetie?"

"Well, that's our classification. Human beings are homo sapiens," Ben explained. "We learned about it in science. Right, Matt?"

"They're teaching you about that in school?" She demanded before Matt could respond.

Ben looked to Matt, but for the first time in possibly the history of his entire existence, Matthew Simon Crowley was lost for words. His mouth was propped open and his tongue seemed to stumble over the beginnings of words, but nothing solid was formed.

"Yeah," Ben answered, on behalf of his silenced friend. "We've done all sorts of cool experiments-"

"They're letting you experiment?" Mrs. Crowley's voice was reaching the sort of pitch that dogs responded to. "On each other?"

Ben scowled. "Not on each other, per say, bu-"

Her eyes were wide. "I need to call the school."

Ben thought that seemed a bit extreme. "It's not really that big of a deal-"

"Not that big of a deal?" She interrupted, her nostrils flaring. "Maybe it's different in Japan, but here in America we listen and actually respect His word. And the Bible says Adam and Eve, Ben, not Adam and Steve. He created man and woman as the perfect soulmates for one another, and those homosapiens are turning their backs on His law and . . . maybe you'll understand when you're married one day with a wife and children, Ben, but they're ruining families for the rest of us. I can't even dare utter more words about their cruelty, they're so wrong. Don't be a sinner, Ben. You don't want to end up in H-E-double-hockey-sticks. Please, God, forgive my son and his friend for their sins, they didn't know better."

It took Ben two years to realize she was talking about homosexuals.

"But, now that I think about it," Ben was saying. "I don't think it took Matt anytime at all to figure out what she meant. And that was all of the time in the world for him, you know?"

Oddly enough, she did.

"I don't understand you," she said, then, quietly.

"What do you mean?" Ben asked, biting his lip with uncertainty.

"Well, I always thought you were a homophobe, yet you love Glee of all fucking things," Tasya explained. "What the hell am I supposed to think about you?"

He sighed. "Look, Tasya, I . . . I haven't had a friend before who's gay, and that's weird for me. And I pushed him away because, well, isn't that what you are supposed to do when you aren't interested in someone romanticall-"

"You could've been gentler," she reasoned.

"I could've been a lot of things," he agreed. "But I don't hate him because he's gay. I'm trying, okay?"

"Didn't seem like you were trying when you called him a faggot," she retorted.

His buried his face in his hands. His voice was chocked when he spoke. "I-it's not one of my proudest moments, okay?"

Tasya just muttered a simple "okay" because she didn't know what to say.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Ben thought about his best friend, his brother, pulling him away from Katie Palmer on the dance floor of their senior Valentine's Day dance. He thought about how Matt's eyes didn't look so blue anymore, but grey, like storm clouds looming on the horizon. Tears streamed down his cheeks as, in a choked voice, Matthew Simon Crawley announced that he was in his love with Benjamin, and Matt grabbed his tie and pulled him in real close to give him a wet kiss. Matt's lips tasted like cherry lip balm and tears. And Ben had . . . Ben had done the worst thing he could've possibly done. He called him a faggot.

"Tasya?" His voice was husky as he pulled himself out of the memory.

"Yes?"

"Tell me a story."

"What sort of story?" She asked, hesitating.

"When did you meet Matt?" He suggested.

And so, she told him.

Tasya told Ben about how she didn't get to know Matt in middle school. After all, she was too busy being . . . well, not cool enough to be friends with Matt Crawley. Matt Crawley, who everyone loved. Girls loved because they had just added boyfriend to their vocabulary. Boys who realized Matt was the key to adding girlfriend to their vocabulary. Coaches who realized Matt's presence on their team was practically synonymous with victory. Teachers who knew him to be a master at all, from spelling bees to math decathlons to massive history exams about all regions of the world. No, she met Matt Crawley in high school.

It was sophomore year when she met him. Really met him. Technically, Tasya Vasilyev met Matthew Simon Crawley when she was in third grade as the new kid who could barely manage the soft spoken language that was English around the harsh Russian that came naturally to her tongue, but she had never really known the boy with the never-dying smile until she was in tenth grade. It was random, really. One of those stupid programs online that reshuffled the seating arrangement in their science class until she was next to the golden boy himself.

They didn't match. He was composed of that light, fluffy stuff that made Adam Sandler romantic comedies successful and Tasya was a Tim Burton classic that had fallen in love with a Wes Anderson dream. Yet there was something about him. Something about Matt that made it impossible for him to scoff at the girl with raccoon eyeliner and a Russian accent that could obliterate morons on the spot and band tee-shirts that seemed to mock the pretty stuff that he slow-danced to at Homecoming.

"What are you listening to?" He asked, pleasantly, noticing the earbuds she wore as he sat down next to her on that first day.

"Nothing you would be interested in," she had told him, darkly, not glancing up at him. Tasya was quite happy staring intently at her binder, working on a portrait of Britney Spears as a zombie.

"Well, now you have to tell me," Matt insisted. "You've pretty much raised my curiosity to as high as it can possibly go before my head will explode off of ne-"

"I'm listening to Simon and Garfunkel," she informed him. "There. You happy, Preppy Boy?"

"Simon and Garfunkel?" He questioned, sounding puzzled. "Preppy Boy?'

She rolled her eyes before glaring at him. "Don't pretend that you aren't a walking Ken doll, Crawley. And Simon and Garfunkel, for your information, are probably the best singing duo that has graced the twentieth century. So now that you know, there is the white board, which you should be paying attention to instead of me."

Usually, when Tasya turned to glare at someone, they were intimidated by her. Tasya's mother liked to tell her that her eyes were liked the bottomless black holes feared in space and, when Tasya wanted to, she could make them absorb every piece of goodness that surrounded her. And her mother had said it like it was a beautiful gift to have, so she had taken advantage of it as if it were. Combined with her thick Russian accent, Tasya Vasilyev scared people off. Yet Matt didn't even blink at her. In fact, he laughed.

"You're spicy," he told her, between chuckles that were sweeter than The Sound of Silence. "I like it."

"Spicy?" She was more than simple puzzled by the notion.

Matt nodded. "You're like this soup Ben's mom likes to make for him. It looks a little weird, but when you taste it . . . You're mouth dies. Burns like it's hell, but actually it's in heaven."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" She retorted.

He nodded enthusiastically once more. "Ben's mom makes the best soup. Actually, the best food in general . . . Wait, how do you say your name again?"

"Tasya," she informed him.

"Tase-ya?"

"Tas-ya."

"Tasya."

"There you go, Preppy Boy."

"I feel so accomplished, Spicy Girl," he replied, smiling up at her. And Tasya couldn't help but smile back.

She was even smiling as she was finishing her story because Matt had that sort of effect on people. Even in a hospital, even when he was probably . . . he still had that contagious grin of his. She could even see Ben wearing a bittersweet sort of smile himself.

"Matt was always so nice, wasn't he?" Ben murmured.

"Don't speak about him in the past tense," Tasya snapped, automatically, but the words tasted like a lie on her lips. "He's not . . . he can't be dead."

But Ben wasn't listening to her. "They really like to decorate in here, don't they?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . look at this place! It's covered in all of these pretty and dainty fucking paper hearts and teddy bears and cupids," he explained, spitting the words out. "It's funny, you know? It's just fucking funny. Because it's like they're trying to pretend that this place isn't the fucking portal to the underworld. To pain. To true and endless sorrow. It's funny."

She was silent. How does one respond to that?

"I'm such a bad best friend," he mumbled. "I didn't even know he was talking to you."

"Well, we haven't been friends for a long time," Tasya explained. "He was pretty angry at me."

"Why?"

"Because I found out he was gay," she informed him.

His mouth fell open a little. "He told you?"

"Not exactly," she mumbled.

"Then what happened?"

And so she told him.

Matt and Tasya were at her family's apartment, sitting on her bed in her tiny room with the doors shut, so they wouldn't have to hear her mother singing Russian ballads at the top of her lungs. Matt thought it was hilarious, but he didn't have to listen to it every day of his life. However, as soon as Tasya had shut the door, he had frowned at her.

"We should open it up," he insisted.

"Why?" She asked.

Abruptly, his cheeks became red enough for the Mars Rover to land upon. "I-I just don't want to give your mother the wrong impression."

Tasya could feel her eyebrows shoot up. "What, like the impression that we are fucking?"

Matt started to blush more. His expression was enough to tell her that she was correct even when he stammered out a protest. "N-no-"

Tasya couldn't help it when she started laughing.

Matt remained red, his expression mixing with confusion and humiliation all at the same time. The poor boy was so innocent at that moment that she wanted to give him a lollipop and Valentine's Day dance ise to buy him any toy he wanted at the Disney Store. He demanded, "What's so funny?"

She rolled her eyes at the boy. "Matt, my mother knows I'm a lesbian."

"Le-les-lesbi . . . What?" He asked.

"You seriously didn't know? I thought everyone knew about my fling with Josie Hart last year," she demanded.

Call Tasya egotistical (actually, don't, or she'll stab you), but it felt like everyone knew at the time. Because that's what it's like to be a teenager: you encompass the very heat and zeal and energy it means to be the sun so the world will revolve around you.

He shook his head. "I didn't."

Matt was acting strangely. She had three piercings on her face (two on her nose and one in her eyebrow), a tattoo (and you better not tell her mother about that), hair dyed magenta at the time, was wearing ripped jeans, mismatched socks, and a This Is What A Feminist Looks Like tee-shirt. Perfect golden boy Matt hadn't judged for all that, but now . . . "Is this going to cause an issue with you? I like you, Matt, but my sexuality is non-negotiable."

"Tas-"

But he never got to finish. His phone started ringing.

Matt quickly glanced at it, frowning. "That's weird . . . It's Ben's mother. I wonder if something is wron-"

"Answer it," Tasya instructed.

He cringed at how harsh her voice sounded, like it was a hiss of lightning that threatened to light up his world in a way no one was supposed to be able to survive. She wasn't sorry.

"Matt speaking," he answered, quietly. "Wait . . . Slow down. Mrs. Hahn, is everything alri- wait . . . No, I-I didn't know . . . I swear I didn't."

At that moment, his voice had taken on the huskiness of a camp fire that had just been drowned out by a bucket of water. The flames hissed and sobbed as they died, wisps of smoke fluttering into the air in an attempt to survive, but they too disappeared. And as Matt stared into the depths of her room, not really looking at anything at all, Tasya knew something was really wrong.

She didn't remember the rest of the conversation, but she did remember when he hung up the phone. Matt pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them and he looked so small in that moment. Like a boy who had scraped his knee for the first time in his life and cried as he bled because he realized pain was real. He was gazing off into nothing and everything at the same time and Tasya thought about how if her mother saw his eyes, she would stop saying Tasya's looked like black holes. Because Matt's baby blues looked like wild whirlpools in the moment, and they were sucking everything- anything- in. She could feel them shifting the gravity of the world she thought she controlled so well, pulling her in until she was in the middle of his sea of agony.

"Is Ben okay?" Tasya asked.

"He's perfect. Fucking perfect," Matt spat and she was surprised by how bitter his tone was. Matt never was one to swear. "He's on a date with Molly Jensen."

"Then why are you-" Oh. And as he curled up there in the corner of my room, sucking in the vey world with the intensity of his gaze as a way to distract himself from his feelings, she knew. Tasya didn't know how she hadn't realized it before. She was an idiot. She should've known from the things he said, but also, more importantly, his eyes. Those whirlpools were like her black holes, sucking in everything in the world in the hopes of picking out some hope. Tasya remembered that feeling. Before she could stop herself, she said the fatal words: "You're in love with him."

He was glaring at her and she felt those eyes sucking her in. "Don't say that. It's a lie."

"Matt-"

"Boys can't love boys," Matt insisted. "They don't, they . . . They can't. Mom said so. The Bible said so."

"That's not true," she told him, and she was trying to use her gentlest tone. But even she could heard the static electricity racing along its undertones.

"But it is." Matt was on his feet. "It's dirty, I'm . . . I'm not dirty. I can't be, I won't. I won't."

He was speaking so fast that she doubted he even know what he was saying. Matt was picking up his things, scatter-minded, shoving them into his bag as quickly he could. And he seemed so sad. Tasya tried to remain calm. She knew Matt was just . . . lost. He needed help. But here he was telling her that she was dirty and, for some reason, those words dug beneath her skin and embedded themselves in her veins, as if to clog any of the blood rushing into her brain so she couldn't think. All she could hear was you're dirty you're dirty you're dirty.

Tasya Vasilyev knew she was not a good person. There's a reason her mom says she's a black hole, because she steals any hope she could give away to lost boys like Matthew Simon Crawley. Or maybe he already did that to himself with those whirlpool eyes. None of that stopped Tasya from grabbing him by his shoulders (and he cringed under her touch but she held on) and she shook him. The world around them was quaking in the waves that Matt was crashing into her spirit, trying to drown her. Or maybe Tasya had caused the waves to unleash herself. She didn't know, all she could hear herself saying again and again was: "I am not dirty, I'm not, I'm not."

"My mom pulled me off of him when she heard the shouting," Tasya told Ben, shaking her head out of the memories. "He left and I didn't see him again until tonight."

"I should've known he was sad," Ben said, licking his lips, still tasting Matt's upon his own.

"You couldn't have known," she reasoned, gently. And it was true, in ways. But Tasya was beginning to realize that maybe no one had really known Matt Crawley because Matt Crawley had never let the world see who he truly is. Because of that, no one could see the sinister depression flowing in his very veins.

"But I should've," Ben insisted. "He was my brother. I should've protected him."

"We all should've done a lot of things," she replied.

"You say that like he's already gone," he snapped, defensively. "Matt's not dead, he's . . . he can't be dead."

"Ben-"

"No," he hissed. "Even you said so yourself. Matt can't be gone. He can't just . . . he's more than just a person, you know? He's Matthew Simon Fucking Crawley. He is made of that stuff the sun is composed of, and he somehow he manages to shine even more brightly. He likes purple Skittles and eats bowl of Cookie Dough ice cream with him while he watches football and he knows every word to every song in Taylor Swift's new album, and he is proud of it. He is the best soccer player in the world, he is the smartest person I've ever known. Matt Crawley is my hero. Heroes are supposed to just die."

"But they do," Tasya mumbled. And she thought about the history textbooks she has carried around her whole life. They were supposed to the stories of the past, of the world, of life, yet somehow they had just managed to be giant fucking tragedies. Anyone who has ever done some goodness in the world has died. And Tasya knew that no one could escape the cycle of life, but was it fair for someone who was so fundamentally good to have to? Was it fair that heroes had to die with the rest of us? "I'm sorry, Ben, but they do."

"But it's Valentine's Day," he muttered, like that small fact meant that it was impossible for Matt Crawley to die that day. As if the fact that this was the chosen day (by Hallmark) for us to celebrate the love we have for one another, that we should all be immortal. That we should not be allowed to lose someone we love on this most celebratory of days.

"Time doesn't run on a calendar," she told him. It didn't make sense but at the same time it did. "Ben . . . his time is running out. He mi-"

"He can't" was all Ben could manage to say before he was sobbing. He had spent his whole life trying to be worthy of someone like Matt Crawley, even if it was just in the means of friendship. He had become the all-American boy that Matt had been born. With puberty came a sense of ease and confidence that made Ben feel more at ease in the world, so he could play on the sports teams and ace the classes and win the girls like Matt did. And when Matt had kissed him, Ben pushed him away, he called him that horrible word not because he believed in what he was saying, but . . . Suddenly, Matt wasn't a part of that cookie-cutter American Dream that had haunted Ben ever since he was born, the one and only thing he truly ever wanted: to belong in this culture, in this world. And, for a fraction of a second, Ben hated Matt Crawley with everything in his being for single-handedly throwing away a life of pure utter perfection.

Of course, as soon as Matt had ran away, Ben had hated himself. Because beneath that charming smirk and the mischievous gleam of his eyes that he knew girls (and apparently Matt) found sexy, he was still little Ben-Ja-Min in his sister's socks and ugly polo shirt and an anger that scorched his veins. So fuck Katie Palmer (which had been his plans for the evening, if we're being honest) and this stupid fucking Valentine's Day dance, he had a best friend to find.

But all he had found was Tasya Vasilyev, half-screaming and half-sobbing as she ran into the hotel lobby for someone- anyone, please to call an ambulance. Matt Crawley had jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge.

Ben had used his phone and together the two ran back to the bridge. They managed to pull Matt out of the water and, he felt his stomach churn at the sight of his best friend, like a doll that had been thrown at walls. But, a miracle in itself, he heard the doctors announce that Matt's heart was still beating- there was still hope burning in Ben's heart.

And Tasya had talked to the police. She had made up a story about him jumping because he was stressed about college since she didn't had the heart to tell them what Matt had told her, as he had literally ran straight into her on his way to the bridge, tears streaming down his face. He had chanted those words that made her blood boil, Tas, I'm dirty, I'm so dirty. And between repetitions of that demented mantra he told her that she was right that he was in love with Benjamin Hahn, and something within him had just snapped and . . . he told Ben. He told Ben because it's Valentine's Day. Because he was sick of dying himself the love he knew rang true in his heart, no matter how sick or twisted he thought he knew it to be, and Valentine's Day seemed like an appropriate day to link two loves. He told Ben and Ben had told Matt what he thought to be the truth: he was dirty. Everything happened so fast from there. Tasya had tried to tell him he wasn't dirty, that being gay wasn't wrong, and he had started running. And she had run after him, screaming, sobbing, begging- and he had thrown himself over the bridge.

Now, Benjamin Hahn and Tasya Vasilyev were sitting in this hospital, waiting.

And just when they were feeling the brutal truth slither around their neck and squeeze- the doctor approach them. The doctor who had swept Matt's stretcher away, promising to get them information on his health later. Tasya and Ben immediately jumped to their feet. "You two are waiting for information on Matthew Crawley, right?"

They both nodded.

The doctor took off his facial mask, which had muffled his voice before. He pulled at it with his gloved fingers. "Look, normally I'm only supposed to tell family, but you've been waiting here for four hours and his parents aren't even here yet, and . . . "

"They're in Jamacia," Ben reasoned.

"Either way, we've had a tough getting in touch with them," the doctor added.

"How is he?" Tasya asked.

The doctor bowed his head and wouldn't meet their eyes. "I think you're going to want to sit down."

*

Hey Reader!

Notice: so . . . this took me like a whole month to write because it's 5848 words, which trasnlates to 14 pages single-spaced with 12-point Times New Roman Font. But I loved every minute of it. I don't know if this story makes much sense or if people or going to like or even read it because it's going to be really long, but if you're reading this little message, thank you so much. I appreciate you taking the time to read this short story. I wrote it for the taygetsthegay's Valentine's Day competition, because I just feel like writing LGBTQ+ characters is so important and I feel like I haven't been able to highlight many in my work.

Either way, this story is dedicated, partially, @taygetsthegay for hosting this wonderful competition. But also to anyone who has ever faced discrimination because of who they are: you deserve to love who you love and to be who you truly are. Anyone who ever denies you that is wrong.

Thanks for reading :)

-Love Your Favorite Liar <3