Dylan's pov

When I awoke the next morning, Thomas was gone.

Sitting up slowly, I glanced around my vacant room. I was cold--probably from my lack of clothing--but maybe from a chill that seemed seeded in my bones from the moment I opened my eyes. My room appeared darker, like shadows had their own shadows and light was being dragged from the room by the talons of darkness. Fingers scratching over cold fabric, searching for warmth they couldn't find. I wiped at my eyes, unable to conceal my frown.

I stood. Bathroom, I decided, Thomas was probably in the bathroom. I didn't want to be clingy, so I didn't go to check. Instead, I grabbed a pair of my old pajama bottoms, slipping them on slowly.

I turned again, this time back towards my bed. In the small movement, however, my eyes caught something new--something empty, rather. The blood drained from my face as I stared at the spot where Thomas's suitcase used to lay. The shadows of my room seemed to all pile up in that one corner, pulling at the edges of everything good to collapse in a heap of all that could possibly be wrong.

Everything Thomas owned was gone.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

I don't know why my footsteps carried me forward towards that spot, but before I knew what was happening, I was collapsing on my knees right there on the carpeted floor. Slightly hysterically, mostly desperately, my fingers now pushed through the piles of darkness for something firm to grasp--but of course, they came up empty. My heart began to beat erratically, my thoughts moving a hundred miles per hour, too unfocused to grip at any one thought, too terrified to succumb to any one doubt. I fell backwards onto my ass, collapsed in the silence of only my own breathing, stared blindly around for anything to help me make sense of the sudden absence that felt more tangible than negligible.

I managed to crawl towards the lights, flicking the switch. Though the darkness should have been realistically chased from the room, I instead felt as if the light only enforced the black hole beginning to swirl in my head. In the light, I couldn't deny that my room really was empty. In the light, Thomas was still gone.

I swallowed. I was scared. Perhaps waking up alone hurt just a bit too. More than anything though, I was confused. Managing a deep, shaky breath, I began to search for my phone. Maybe that would offer me an explanation--maybe I was just overreacting.

Instead of finding my phone however, my eyes landed on a paper note on my bedside table. It sat right next to the tube of lube and the condom wrapper, but my sight zoned in on only Thomas long, slender handwriting. Heart skipping a beat, I quickly grabbed at the piece of paper, eyes thirstily following each line--

Dylan--

I'm sorry Dyl. God, I'm so fucking sorry, and not just for leaving you this morning, as you've most likely already seen. I'm sorry for so much more.

I had to get away. I don't know how to explain it to you--rather, I don't think I can. Just know that this, us, we can't go any further. Please don't think you've done something wrong. Actually, you've done everything right, and maybe that's the problem. I know I'm not making any sense, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm just running away too, but I'm more sorry I didn't run away sooner.

Please don't come searching for me. It's better for you if you don't come. Please. I know I don't deserve your trust, but I need you to trust me on this. You can't be with me. Not now. Maybe not ever.

I'm so fucking sorry, Dylan. I love you too, and I'm sorry.

Best,
Thomas.

The note was vague, but through the tears suddenly bubbling in my eyes, I managed to catch the general meaning. My heart froze, my lips numbed. I closed my eyes and breathed.

Thomas had really, truly left.

The note fluttered to the floor, abandoned, and I reached for my phone. Blinking back tears and drowning in my thoughts, for a brief second I hoped to find another message, another explanation--something that could fit the pieces of the puzzle into a picture that made sense. But there was nothing from Thomas on my screen. No text. No call. No sign he had ever existed at all.

I was shaking and scared and my heart was beating and I was angry that he could just pack up and leave without any real excuse, but I was also worried and in love and concerned that he was falling apart worse than I had realized last night. Because that had to be it--right? He must have been further lost within himself than I had been able to soothe, and this was him coping, running. I just hope that in my attempts to heal him, I didn't end up hurting him more.

I called Tyler first. I knew Thomas wouldn't answer, and I knew that Tyler would.

He answered on the third ring. I almost couldn't hear him over the roaring of my ears--but there was his voice, soft and groggy and confused. I grasped onto the comfort of his voice because I could barely stand from fear and hurt and I couldn't feel or even see clearly.

"Tyler," I choked. I didn't recognize my voice, and I found I couldn't continue.

"Dyl? Are you okay?" There was concern in his voice.

"Yes," I managed. "No. Thomas--he's gone."

A pause. There was a ruffling over the line but other than that, there was no sound. My breathing seemed harshly loud in the emptiness of my room.

"What do you mean?" Tyler seemed more awake now. His voice was still rough and raspy but it was also familiar and the only thing that made sense.

The words began to pour out of me--slowly at first, and then in a rush of tears and confused whimpers. I was trying to hold myself together, but Tyler was always so good at offering me a hand to support myself. The story came together slowly, in pieces. I doubted it even made coherent sense. But Tyler understood. Of course he did. By the time I read him the note, he was already ten steps ahead of me.

"Have you called him yet?" Tyler asked. "Texted him? What time did you notice he was gone?"

"I haven't--no. I haven't called." A pause. "We were still awake--at 4? And it's--I woke up at 6--"

"So then he can't be far. It's been two hours, so he couldn't have gotten on a plane or something yet. Hold on--" there was a click, and Tyler's voice faded. I heard rustling and then a slight "yes" before Tyler's voice came back-- "He's at the airport!"

My heart stilled. "How did you--?"

"Snap maps," he answered. "It puts him at the Newark airport."

I was already moving. "Fuck, Tyler I love you holy shit, how didn't I think--" my voice cut. I grabbed my wallet, grabbed my keys. "He--oh my, I can't believe--"

"Dylan, wait--"

"A shirt, I need a shirt. Fuck--" my heart was racing. I wasn't listening. I needed explanations, Thomas, I needed a fucking shirt--

"Dylan O'Brien, listen to me!" Tyler suddenly shouted. The abrasiveness of his voice made me freeze, brought me back to reality.

Tyler took a deep breath. With long words that seemed spoken with sad lips, he asked, "I don't mean to be--I don't," he stopped, restarted. "Are you sure about this? Are you sure you should go after him?"

My fingers tightened on my phone. Looking blankly at my bed, I replied, "Of course I am, Ty."

"Dylan, he left you. In the middle of the night, while you were fucking sleeping. Two hours after you told him you loved him--after he couldn't say it back! And now he's running away--"

"That's not fair," I interrupted.

"It is fair," Tyler argued. "I'm saying this as your best friend, Dyl, someone who fucking cares about you. Doesn't this seem fishy to you? For him to just leave? How can you want to find him?"

"Tyler," I started, my voice much less defensive, much more understanding.

How could I explain? How could I tell him I just knew. That it was like there was a string connecting Thomas right back to me, that drew me to him, that pulled me to him. How could I explain that despite Thomas putting scissors to the very strand that kept us tied together, I still clung tightly to the tension between us? How could I explain that this was fight or flight, and while Thomas may have chosen to run, I was choosing to fight?

Instead of saying any of that, I answered instead, "Because Tyler. Just because."

______________________________________________
______________________________________________

Self-doubt is a very dangerous thing. I liked to think of myself as a fairly confident person, someone who had his head on correctly and his eyes focused on what truly mattered. But the ride to the airport--the silence of my car, of wheels scraping along bumpy highway roads--exposed lies to me that seemed seeded in my heart, woven into the crevices of myself that normally hid in the dark. Silence always felt so heavy. My thoughts weighed me down even more.

Why, why did he go? What did I do? What did I miss? How could I have chased him away?

I pulled into Newark Liberty International. Parked robotically. Scurried in in a haste my legs could barely keep.

Does he even want to be found? No. So why I am looking?

Because. Just because.

My feet led me to a wide array of screens that showed every flight exiting and entering the airport. I scanned slowly, carefully, searching for anything leaving for California. Bump, bump, bump, went my heart. Blink, breathe, look, went my brain.

NLI ---> SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA

8:07 departure

A spike in my pulse, a flip of my stomach, a glance at my watch. It was 7:24. If this was the correct flight, Thomas would be boarding within minutes.

My eyes closed. My lungs filled. Anger, fear, doubt, confliction swarmed me. I released it all with a deep exhale, and with another quick scan of the screen, quickly scurried off for the correct terminal.

I pushed through unknown faces. Felt the squeaks of my sneakers twist along the tiled floors. Ignored shouts of recognition. My eyes flitted from gate to gate to gate, searching desperately. Up an escalator, taking the stairs three at a time. Along a floor of foreign smiles and desperate greetings, and kisses hello. Past the tears streaming from furrowed faces and the sad eyes of kisses goodbye.

Until I found gate B14, and my feet slowed to a stop just as my heart stopped beating.

"Thomas," I called, unable to stop the words. His huddled form, clad in baggy gray sweatpants and a shirt three sizes too big, turned to me. His eyes widened, the suitcase he had been leant against clattering to the floor.

Hair messed up and clearly unwashed, drowning in the clothing he wore. The sunlight bathing the airport washed over him, but instead of giving him a healthy glow it seemed to strike his porcelain skin, wash the life right from his eyes. His mouth was a perfect "o", his lips red and raw. His eyes were dark and stormy.

"Dylan," he breathed, and my name coming from his lips stirred something deep within me. I took a step forward, and then two, but just as I was about to rush forward and pull him into a hug, he held up his hands to stop me.

"I told you not to come," he said, voice cracking. His hands were outstretched as if to push me away, but for some reason the gesture reminded me of someone trying to protect the ones he loved.

"I said--didn't you get my note? I said not to--how did you--" he was tearing up and my heart was breaking. With a deep breath, he composed himself. "You need to go."

"Tommy--" I took another step forward.

"No, Dylan!" His voice raised a pitch and wavered. He seemed hysterical as he took a step back, another ridge in the distance between us. "You weren't supposed to come. You weren't supposed to follow me. It's hard enough already--"

Maybe it was because the words fell out of him so quickly, or maybe it was the scared look in his eye, but I felt like I had never seen this Thomas before.

Resisting the instinct to pull him into a hug, I said from my spot just 5 feet away, "Why are you running away, Thomas?"

Maybe I would have been ashamed of the desperation in my voice under different circumstances, but it seemed to be the only thing to reach Thomas. He blinked at me, a scared animal.

His mouth opened, and the tears welled up in his eyes again, and I could practically hear his heart ripping at the seams. His mouth formed words but nothing escaped him. Carefully, I took a tentative step forward.

"You can't love me, Dylan," Thomas said quietly, and when the words came from his mouth it was like they burst in the air around us and fell like stars falling from the sky. My world tilted, and I hesitated.

"What?" I asked. My voice was smaller than I intended.

Thomas sniffed. His lips wavered and he was obviously holding back his cries.

"You can't love me!" He repeated, this time with more force. "You have to break up with me, please Dylan--"

"What are you talking about?" I asked, scared. I wanted to move forward but now it was poisonous self doubt that kept me rooted to the spot.

"I'm so bad for you, Dylan. I'm hurting you!" A tear slipped down Thomas's cheek. "I'm hurting you so fucking bad and you don't even know--and I called him this morning to stop it, but he--"

His voice cut off and I was so, so confused. Neither of us seemed to care that we were in public as tears welled in our eyes and our voices shook to an attention-drawing level.

Thomas met my eyes, and suddenly he was the one approaching me. His eyes were wide and pleading as he begged, "Please, please hate me Dylan. Please, I don't want to hurt you anymore. Hate me now and get it over with."

"I could never hate you," I said as I pulled him into a hug.

"You need to," he muttered, pressing his face into my shoulder. "You need to."

Maybe it was crazy for me to love him. It had only been a few short months. Yet I felt like I knew him more than anyone else in the world ever had--and it wasn't from what he told me, but from what he had shown me. It was all those small moments we had shared, the moments overlooked, the lingering glances, the fingers brushing fingers. It wasn't the Thomas Brodie-Sangster from the media that I had fallen in love with; it was the Tommy that gave the most comforting hugs, that wiped away my tears when I was overwhelmed, that defended me when I didn't have the voice to do it myself. So when I hugged him, when he pressed his lips to my neck and let his tears trail towards my collar bone, I knew there was so much more going on in head than he was able to say out loud. I knew he was trying to protect himself--or maybe it was me. I knew that he was clawing at the confines that held him prisoner, and that he was struggling to make everything be okay.

"Is this because of last night?" I asked.

He pulled away. Looked me, wiped at his eyes. They were wide and scared.

"You can't love me. I can't be loved," he repeated. His voice was horribly dark. Dark and sad.

"If this is about what I said last night--"

"It's not. It is. I don't know," his eyes fell to the ground.

A pause. He stepped away. My heart reached out to connect with his, but either he didn't notice or he didn't even know he held half of my heart in the palms of his hands. I didn't think it was possible to watch a person shrink away, but I felt, more than saw, him shrink into a smaller, more fragile form. Curve into himself, remove himself.

"I'm going to go," he said, looking back up, "and you're not going to follow me this time."

"You'll have to tie me down," I replied. "Because if you walk away without giving me a real explanation, I'm going to follow you anyway."

"Dylan, please! You don't get it!" he backed away again and went for the handle of his suitcase. I recognized it exactly as it was: an attempt to escape.

"I don't get it because you refuse to explain anything to me!" I replied, just as haughty. Suddenly all my emotions from last night, from this morning seemed to hit me, and I was overwhelmed, and I was angry. "I deserve an explanation! You can't isolate me on this, Thomas!"

"I can't explain it to you," he said.

"Why not?" I pushed, just as dangerously low.

"Because Dylan! Just because," he answered. He squinted at me with a challenge in his eyes and I faltered, just slightly. "There's so much you don't know about me. And there are some things I don't want you to ever find out."

I shook my head. "How can you say that? You practically bore your fucking soul to me last night, Tommy."

Thomas ignored me and began to step towards the now opened gates for his flight. I started to panic--started to feel like Thomas was once again putting scissors to the ties between us, and my chest was starting to ache and my head was starting to pound, and all I really wanted was for Thomas to come home with me. I didn't want to argue.

I reached forward and grabbed Thomas's frail arm. He turned back to me, ripped his arm from my grip and said with more anger than I could ever remember him using towards me, "Dylan, I have to go!"

"Why?" I demanded, one last defeated attempt. I didn't expect an answer, but if Thomas walked away from me now, I couldn't see him returning. That scared me more than words.

"Because of Elijah!" he finally answered. There wasn't even a hesitation to his answer. It was like he finally broke. "Because of what I fucking did. And what I'm fucking doing now."

"But I thought--" Okay, confusion. Wasn't I the first person he told? He made it seem that way.

"You're not the only one who knows," he answered my thoughts, begrudgingly bitter. I almost gasped at the bitterness, at the self-loathing of his tone.

"Who else?" I asked, voice lowering.

"A reporter," he said. He inhaled deeply through his nose, unable to even meet my eyes again. When he spoke once more, his voice was dark and twisted and grating, like the words he spoke were burning his throat as they escaped. "A fucking reporter knows. He managed to coax it out of me a couple years ago, when I was feeling particularly vulnerable."

I don't know why he started to cry again with these words, but my stomach clenched angrily at the sight. Face softening, I pulled him in for a hug. For a long time we stood there, safe in each other's arms, ignoring the people who cast us curious glances as they hurried past. Thomas's fingers tightened on my shoulders every so often as if reassuring himself that I was still there.

Eventually we heard a voice on the loudspeaker announce the last call for boarding to San Diego. Thomas's fingers loosened around me, but I still held him tight, crushing him to my chest.

"That's not an excuse to go," I said, stubborn as always.

"I know it's not," Thomas muttered into my shoulder, as if that would lessen my confusion. "But I've messed up Dylan. And if you don't let me go fix it, then you're going to get hurt."

I was saved from replying by the ringing of Thomas's cell phone. We both jumped, as if reminded that another world outside of us exists. Numbly, he reached for his pockets, pulling out the device as it neared its final rings.

"Hello?" he asked as if everything was totally okay. He paused as he listened, growing paler at every word spoken. I waited, staring dutifully at him in silence.

"Funny," he laughed after a few seconds. "I'm already at the airport." He paused again, then continued, "Yes, he's with me," with a sad, scared look at me. He took a deep breath, listened, then answered one more time, "Okay, we'll be on the next flight." and then he hung up.

I waited for him to put his phone away before he looked back up at me. He smiled at me as if to reassure me, but it was a sad smile. The grin of someone lonely.

"That was my manager," he said. "They want us in L.A. for emergency press."

"Both of us?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied, solemn and sad.

"Are you okay?" I pushed further, because within the last thirty seconds something inside of him seemed to have splintered, destroying him from the inside out.

"Yes," he replied, just as solemn and tight-lipped as the first time. "I'm fine."

A/N

Hello friends. How are you? Seriously, lmk

I was thinking the other day while I scrolled through all the wonderful comments (I love you all) on the last chapter, and suddenly i found myself rereading the chapter I posted, and the one before that, and then the one five chapters back and wow. My writing style has probably changed a thousand times over the past few years and I'd like to think that I've grown tremendously as a writer since I first began as a thirteen year old. I actually cannot go back and read the first 10 chapters of this story because it makes me cringe so much, but now its okay i guess. It doesnt make me cringe as much anymore, so at least there's that

The point of the story friends is this: to all writers, creators, thinkers, innovators-- practice your craft! Find the courage to do what you love, or what you might think you love, because life is too short to spend it wasting your time unsure of whether or not you're good enough to grab a paintbrush, to pick up your pen, to do whatever it is you want to! The only way to get better at something is to practice practice practice and to do that, you have to start first.

AnYway. I was feeling inspirational (probably because this is the fastest update ive posted in like a thousand years). This is extremely long so Im going to finish with one last little note:

I'm sorry for the next few chapters.

lots of love xoxoxo

until next time,

//sam\\