A/N: Total depressionville right here, though I'm not feeling the ending... I had to write it, long story short. So, enjoy, even though it's quite... I don't know, you decide. :)
P.S. don't own anything but the plot.

Warning Signs

"Come on in, I've gotta tell you whata state I'm in.
I've gotta tell you in my loudest tones,
that I started lookin' for a warning sign..."

Warning signs. From day one, that's what it's been all about. Like signs on a road, informing you of the sharp curve ahead, the blinking yellow lights advising you to slow down over the hill, the yield telling you to use your shoulder; you assumed they were just suggestions. You saw it coming, every step of the way, yet you stood there and watched her shatter like a china doll, breaking into a million pieces.

With your hand holding back her hair as she releases her stomach's contents, you wonder if you could have stopped it. The wondering stops, though, as she leans her body against the wall of the bathroom, her face pale and flushed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Taylor needed a break." She rolls her eyes at your answer and you grab her wrist roughly, ignoring the bandages wrapped around the once delicate skin. "It's hard, watching your best friend intentionally kill herself. Sometimes you need fresh air. That's why she called me."

"I don't need you."

"I know. You don't need anybody but your dull scissors and your prescription Adderall. I get it."

She doesn't seem to have an answer, but within seconds, you realize it's because she's hovered over the toilet again, clutching the bowl like a child clinging to a bear. She sits back up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Leave, Troy."

"No, Gabriella."

Waiting a few minutes, she looks at you, searching for something—anything. "Why?" she asks.

"Because leaving is what got us into this situation."

A slap echoes through the room and your cheek burns from the impact, her hand still wavering in midair. The other hand's index finger is wagging at you, like your mother did when you were little and broke her antique chandelier.

"Don't you ever, ever act like you're apart of my misery. Ever."

"Misery? You call this misery?" You laugh, bitterly, pulling out the plastic bag you found in her room from your pocket. "This, baby, is not misery." You open the seal and let her take a sauntering sniff, her nose lingering over the white powder with instinct. As you draw it back, she makes a groan of protest, her weak arms reaching out for the Ziploc plastic, but dropping feebly before they can come in contact. "This, my dear Gabriella, is suicide." She rolls her eyes and before you can stop yourself your hand has inched its way to her cheek, another slap cutting the tension in the air. Only this time, you are the culprit.

Her eyes get big and watery, the dark red circles framing them seem to appear fake. She is stunned and in a way, so are you. Regaining your composure before you can feel pity, you remind yourself of all she has done and that, in truth, she deserved it.

Your voice raises octaves higher than it's been in years, "Don't you ever, ever act like you cannot be saved. Ever."

Her icy laugh fills the silence in the room and she reaches up for the towel rack, pulling herself to a stand. You follow her lead as she stumbles out of the bathroom and into her bedroom. Every move she makes, you watch intently, knowing fairly well, this will be the last time you see her.

She opens the nightstand drawer next to her bed and pulls out a bottle of liquor. With dark eyes, she looks at you, probably wondering if you're going to stop her. Figuring you've finally got that she's already gone, she tears off the seal and takes a long swig. Her hand holds out the bottle for you to grab and without a second thought, you do, taking a drink for yourself.

She smirks at you and touches your calloused hand with her dry fingers.

"What happened to us?" she wonders aloud, sitting down on the carpeted floor.

"That's a good question."

"I thought so." A drunken haze smothers her face and you wish, for a moment she'd be the same damn girl she use to be. "Are you going to answer it?"

"I doubt it." She seems to take this answer as key to stop talking, but of course, you've jumped to conclusions once again.

"Are you happy, Troy?"

"Happier than you, I suppose."

"Isn't everyone?"

"I don't get it Gabriella, I just… don't." Your shoulders shrug and you slide down the wall next to her.

"Don't get what?"

"You."

"I'm a complex person."

"So you say." Your hand is still in hers, though it's so cold and lifeless, you barely feel it. She sighs, under the influence of God only knows what, with bags around her eyes and hair limp and dull like yarn yet she still radiates in your eyes.

"It's because of me, isn't it?" You look up at her with questioning eyes and she elaborates quickly, "That you quit basketball. It's my fault, isn't it?"

"There's more to life than bouncing balls. Maybe I just wanted to see what was beyond the confides of a gym."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"What happened to us?" she repeats the same question, this time punctuating the words with squeezes of her cold hand. You look up into her dull eyes and nod. She takes another drink from the bottle.

"I'm not really sure, Gabriella."

"Why do you say it like that?" You ask her what she's talking about and she rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time tonight. "My name. Why do you say it like I'm a child? Like I'm so far gone you can't even hold a real conversation with me?"

"Because, Gabriella, you are so far gone that I can't hold a real conversation with you. Because I can't talk to you without wondering where it all went wrong. Don't you get it?" She shakes her head 'no.' "By doing this to yourself, you're killing me, too."

"You're such a girl sometimes, you know that?" You reach for the bottle and take a drink.

"I'm going to pretend like you didn't just say that." Her head rests against your shoulder and for a few minutes, in the sweltering silence, you imagine everything is normal and you're simply enjoying each other's presence.

"Evangeline." she says suddenly.

"What?"

"Our daughter. That's what I would have named her." You stare at her with empty eyes and a heavy heart, wondering if time travel is really possible, and if it could take you back to the good times.

"Christian." She asks the same question you did and you explain that would be the name of your son. She smiles happily, reminiscing.

"After my dad?" You nod. "I would have named him Troy."

"I'm honored." She giggles, it's raspy and doesn't sound the same as before but it's still music to your ears. Stillness becomes the room and you feel more relaxed than you have in the last six months. She's quick to break the quiet though.

"Do you love me?" she asks, and for at least five minutes, you cannot answer. You can see it in her eyes, even in the darkness of the room, you find clarity, corrupted, but clear—she's afraid.

"No, actually, I don't." You see her million shattered pieces break into another billion and you look down at your twisting hands. "I don't love you." She looks up, you can see it out of the corner of your eye. She's hazy and drunk but you see the light in her eyes that had been missing for so long and you sigh. "I love—I'm in love with Gabriella Montez, the foolish girl who loved to dance and sing and talk about nothing for hours on end. You knew her, didn't you? She was smart as hell, said she was going to be president one day. And I was stupid enough to believe her too."

She doesn't say anything, only hands you the bottle and lets you finish it off. There's a good percent left and as you reach the bottom, you'll later wish you hadn't.

"You should go home, or better yet, go play some ball. I don't need your help, Troy." Ironically, she uses your hand as an anchor to stand and stumbles into the bed, falling down along the way and crawling the other half. Her wretchedness never seems to faze you as you have made point to grow cold to her effects.

You walk further into the room, helping her onto the bed, pushing the covers up to her chin. She settles herself into the pillows and you turn away, taking seat in the down-stuffed office chair as you shut off the light.

She's silent for a second and you figure she is really trying to sleep, but then she speaks and you can't help but listen.

"I think I know." You ask her just exactly what it is she knows and she doesn't take any time to answer. "It wasn't that we grew apart. Or that we stopped loving each other." She pauses. "Well, at least I didn't stop loving you." Another pause before she continues, "Life happened, that's what it was. The circle of life, really, I guess."

"I suppose."

Before you know it, she has burst into a fit of sobbing tears, her wails fill the room and you sit there, watching her break apart. Without the glue of drugs and alcohol and whatever else it is she's been doing to hold her together, she's nothing but a little girl trapped in the shell of a body that once belonged to the Gabriella Montez.

"I-I'm s-so s-sorry, T-Troy." she manages in between her hysteria.

You push away your pride and stand up, sitting yourself on the bed as you take her frail body into your arms. "For what?" you ask, indignantly.

She doesn't answer for a half hour and you think, by the steady sound of her breathing that she's fallen asleep. But of course, you're proven wrong when she decides to answer your question.

"It was me. The circle of life—I'm the one that ended it. I derailed the circle."

In a way, you know what she's talking about, but in sort, you don't, so you ask her to clarify.

"I was driving the car that night, did you know that? I was the designated driver. Taylor was sick, and you ran out of town so suddenly for that stupid scholarship thing, so they chose me. I was sober as fuck, because Gabriella Montez did not drink, and they picked me to drive the Escalade." She bites back her tears and you hold her tighter, seeing the source of the pain. "I didn't see him coming; or maybe it was him that didn't s-see me. Either way, it was my fault. I killed Sharpay. And Chad. And Ryan. And Kelsi." She shrieks and you hold her closer and closer. "And because I blame myself, you blame yourself too." She closes her eyes, pushing her body back hard enough to take you with her. Together, you lay against the pillows. "At least now you know what you've been eatin' yourself up for, huh?"

You don't nod or speak or make any sound that your even paying attention so she doesn't either.

"Do you think we would have made it?" she questions abruptly.

"It was an eleventh grade romance, just high school bullshit. No one ever marries their high school girlfriend."

"We were different, though. You know that. Runnin' around, breakin' the status quo and whatever. We had something, Troy Bolton, don't lie there and pretend like we were some kind of cosmic joke, you dickwad. We, we were fucking special." Her voice has finality in it and you don't say anything after that. Again, neither does she.

Sleep consumes her a little while later and for an hour, you listen to her breathing, syncing your memory to every rise and fall of her chest. You lean down, pressing your lips to her forehead as you skim goodbyes all over her skin. You let your mouth have one last taste and you feel her kiss back, her smirk shedding as she dips back into sleep. Letting your brain tune into the soothing sound of her humming snore, you too fall asleep, your dreams are plagued by screams and pleas, begging you to wake up and call 911.

But they aren't dreams. No, they weren't dreams at all.

Now, as the rain pounds against your wet body, you press yourself against the soaking cold tombstone, draping your broken soul over it. The pill bottles are scattered around you, all prescribed to the girl herself, and as you take a sip from the Smirnoff bottle, you decide it's time to tell her the truth.

"You were wrong, Gabriella. It wasn't your fault." Tears fill your eyes, but your masculinity doesn't let them fall, even in the heavy rain with nothing but bones around. "It was mine." You take a drink from the bottle and lean your head against the grave, tracing her name with your spiritless fingers. "I wasn't gone for a scholarship thing," like déjà vu you repeated her words, "I went to get my grandmother's wedding ring from my aunt in Arizona. I was going to ask you to marry me, you know that? I knew—not even out of high school—we were going to be together forever." You sigh.

"Do I love you?" you repeat her question like no time has passed since she asked it, even though it's been a month since she died, and in your closed gaze, you see her twinkling smile with bright brown eyes glimmering up at you, bright with the hope of the future. "I don't love you, Gabriella. I miss you."

You take one last chug from the now empty bottle, the warning signs flash before you eyes.

Like signs on a road, informing you of the sharp curve ahead, the blinking yellow lights advising you to slow down over the hill, the yield telling you to use your shoulder; you realize that these aren't suggestions. They are, in reality, warnings.

As you sink into the dark abyss with the awaiting open arms of your one true love, you realize it's your fault that you missed them all. The warning signs, that is. It was your fault.

And now, you're gone with the rest of them, a distant memory of a broken circle. It all ends with you, you know.

"A warnin' sign, it came back to haunt me,
And I realized that you were an island,
And I passed you by."