This is just a short story hat I figured I might as well make a fanfiction. Actually, I took the material from my personal diary. So, this story is sentimental to me and I felt like I should share it. Of course I changed some things to make it fit JJR.

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The one that got away.

-Kuraineko66

Usagi-san, first things first, I suppose you should know that I used to hate novels about suicide. I used to hate them so much that my chest would constrict and the blood in my veins would pump in small proportions. I hated those novels, those depressing verifiable tales that would squeeze my heart so much that I could swear I was dying of the validity of those stories.

There was no real point in reading those types of novels, why would I want to? Why would our teachers even make us read them?

Here I was at 19, an avid reader of fiction, reading books that defined the choice of sentience, where people where treating life like it was poetry. The nature of these books didn't require the annotations of teenagers. I didn't need to hear my yellow highlighter have kinky sex with the black text that was, for most students, just pieces of a grade. I didn't need to annotate for parallelism, I didn't need to be introduced to the concept of choosing.

The independency was so rare an occurrence that the more I read these bleak stories the more I realized that these despondent souls were engaging in forms of independency. They were taking on the responsibility of destroying a hope so bright that it was radiating the cancer from spreading to society.

Then I began to realize that the cancer had spread when the beeping of someone's monitor stopped.

So, I used to hate novels about suicide. I hated that these characters had felt cornered. I hated that they were allowed to commit a moral treachery; a breech of society, while us normal people were stuck on the planet like butterflies on a spider web; counting down the seconds until the seconds starts counting people and clocks become statistics.

Who cares how many clocks break because it counted the seconds in a persons life, too short. Too unfulfilling.

I used to hate novels about suicide. Oh god knows that I hated novels about suicide.

I hated them.

But I can't hate them if I attained my own form of independency. I can't hate them if I, myself, counted down the seconds on my own clock or if the seconds counted me as they echoed, tick, tick, in my head. I can't hate them if I heard the end of a beep as loud as a dial tone and if I were a butterfly with a lifespan of a week in a cobweb of a million years.

I can't hate them if my life, in its immaturity, was a novel in itself.

If you're wondering where this began, Usagi-san, the dark thoughts first started when I was absolutely drowned in absolute. Away from the problems that I faced, knowing that when I woke up it'd be the same routine and the same problems. I was very drunk. Very stupidly drunk. And I guess that's why I decided to run away from my problems. I know you will be devastated once you find me and once you read this. Well, if you cared enough to find me. God knows that the new younger fan you've been talking to lately has taken up almost all of your time and energy.

Oh please, like I didn't notice that you never say I love you unless we were having sex, which we rarely do any more. Or when you would leave at god awful hours in the morning and creep back hours later as if I didn't notice the indent in the space next to me. As if I didn't feel your warmth leave me for some other, younger, male.

But anyway, I was drunk when I first began to think about the meaning of my life. And it was funny almost; really it was quite comical, when I asked this question everyone's face scrunched as they began thinking.

Why do we exist? Then, someone, I don't remember whom, laughed and said 'he's just drunk'. Everyone laughed alongside each other; nobody wanted to understand what bearings my question meant. They couldn't fathom the possibility that their lives meant nothing because honestly, if we are being honest with each other, our lives don't mean anything. In the bigger picture, the one that was painted by past sins, our lives are as meaningful as money.

On the floor, rolling around because the room wouldn't stop spinning, I began to understand more about this feeling I had. It wasn't until today, the day after the drinking, that I had a divine intervention.

That night, I cried on our bathroom floor, hand clamped over my mouth, because I was dying of the same cancer that killed many of my generation. I bit, pinched, and punched myself so you wouldn't hear me. You didn't notice that I wasn't lying next to you? You didn't notice that I had marks around my neck? Even if you did, you didn't comment on it. And I suppose that since you didn't comment on it I figured it was okay to do.

Because twenty-four hours a day all I could hear was a ticking of a black clock, the numbers blared music in my face.

45 minutes. Only 45 more minuets, which on a clock would be from 1 to 9, right?

19. Can't live past 19; can't live for more than 45 minuets a day.

And it didn't start anytime soon. The depravity of oxygen that I'm feeling now started when your brother called first called me and told me he had seen you at the Tokyo Party that Aikawa was throwing for your birthday. You said you ditched it for me and we were going to stay home and watch movies. I didn't believe him. He sent me pictures. It's in the top drawer, right under the bear statues he sent me for my birthday.

Which is today. If you forgot. You probably did. I didn't forget; the cancer within me didn't forget either. And I figured, on my birthday, the day that used to hold so much meaning to my family, I would die.

But that's not true. I don't want to die…but I do. I don't want to live feeling like I have nothing to live for and I don't want to die without living. So I'm stuck in the middle, trying not to be selfish. Trying not to fucking disappear. But I miss you Usagi, I love you and I miss you.

I don't know what to do anymore.

I feel like shit.

I feel like I'm worth nothing.

I feel like the right thing for me to do is die.

The deed is already done, can you save me Usagi-san? Will you save me Akihiko?

I don't want to die without you knowing how much I love you. I'm a coward. But please, please, please, please, don't let me die.

I love y-

The door to the condo slammed snapping out of Misaki out of the blood stained letter he was currently writing. Akihiko wasn't supposed to be home for a few days. Misaki was hidden in the tub of Akihiko's bathroom. He grimaced, he supposed that the bathroom was a terrible place to hide. Especially if he didn't want to be found.

"Misaki?" Akihiko called out. Each step that the male took left Misaki in a fit of tremors. He went over his options, he could pretend that he wasn't bleeding out. But the tiles were painted with red and it would be hard to hide that. "Misaki?"

Misaki was silent. He willed Akihiko away; the door opened and Misaki stiffened and closed his eyes. It would only be a matter of time before AKihiko saw him, judged him, then left him. It wasn't then till he realized how much he wanted to live. It was a mistake. This was a mistake. His wrists burned with oozing guilt. His vision swam from loss of blood and tears.

He just hoped that Akihiko wouldn't hurt him too much when he-"Misaki?"

He was outside the door. Don't come in. Please don't come in. Misaki clutched the letter tighter.

"D-D-D-Don't come." His voice was small despite how much he tried to sound confident and fine. "I'm fine," His voice evened out, "I'm j-just not feeling well. Can you just t-talk through the door?"

Akihiko didn't open the door and instead sighed, "Yea that's fine." He heard the silver headed man clear his throat, "U-Um...I kind of wanted to talk to you...about something."

Misaki's head hit the tiles of the floor trying to climb out of the bath tub. He cursed lightly and thank the gods Akihiko didn't hear. "Y-Yea?"

"I actually wanted to show you something but I guess I can talk to you outside the door."

Misaki pressed his back onto the tub and curled his knees to his chest. "Ever since the day I met you I've loved you. I love everything about you. I know I haven't said it as much as I used to but I wanted this moment to be special. I want this to be a day that we'll remember as a couple."

Misaki cried silently, he was in so much pain. He didn't want to die.

"I asked for Aikawa's help in picking it out, since she has a fashion sense, but she made me go to that stupid party that I didn't want to go to. And then she made me go shopping with her cousin. That was the worst day of my life," He laughed, "I've spent so much time thinking about doing it that I would wake up at 3 in the morning making sure that the damn thing was still in my tuxedo pocket."

Misaki laughed weakily. It was getting hard to breathe now.

"So...I guess...what I'm asking you...Misaki Takashi, the love of my life, will you mar-"

"Ambulance." Misaki couldn't take it. The pain was excruciating. "What? I didn't hear you. Misaki...are you okay?"

"Akihiko, I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry." Misaki sobbed, "I'm sorry. Please."

"What? Listen Misaki, its fi-" Akihiko opened the door and gasped. His mouth opened and closed. What the hell? What the HELL? Akihiko didn't know if he was dreaming, if he was he wanted to wake up.

"Don't let me..." Misaki's eyes were closing, the letter dropped from his hands, "Save me."

"Misaki?" His eyes rolled in the back of his head. "MISAKI?"

Akihiko dialed 911; gave the operator his information and sat with Misaki until he heart the blaring of the sirens. Leaving the forgotten ring encased with diamonds on the floor, he noticed the letter. Picking it up he began to read with tears in his eyes and his right hand clutching Misaki's beautiful head, Usagi-san, first things first, I suppose you should know that I used to hate novels about suicide.

Should there be a part two? Review!