"I love you."

Blaine smiled at me from across the table, a goofy smile lighting up his face. His golden eyes twinkled at me mischievously, but I nearly choked on my coffee as his words registered in my mind. Something stirred in my chest - something I wasn't willing to identify - so I pushed the feeling away. Every thought I'd ever had rushed to the front of my mind as I attempted to formulate a response, panic squeezing my heart painfully. My fingers began to twitch, and a headache made itself known as my temple throbbed with each heartbeat. Quickly my breathing escalated, and I knew I was quickly on my way to a fullblown panic attack. "I-"

"You don't need to say it back." Blaine shook his head, but I saw through his placating smile. His hand reached over the table and found mine. I latched on to him and squeezed, needing skin to skin contact. "I just want you to know." My eyes shut and the world became dark - for a moment my breathing came easier and my heart stopped racing quite so hard. Trembles still shook my wrists and fingers, but eventually the anxiety faded. I reopened my eyes and Blaine was still there, worry in his eyes. His calloused thumb stroked the tender skin of my palm. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude that I blinked away. "Sorry," I whispered.

"Don't be."

Blaine's acceptance of my condition was almost overwhelming at times. When we met, I was broken, barely a person. Those slams into lockers and verbal attacks affected me more than I let on, and just before transferring to Dalton, I fell apart. I despised myself, blaming myself for the abuse I received, because I was willing to put myself out there. The bullying turned me against myself, and against everyone else.

My first suicide attempt was on a weekend, after my dad had gone to work and Finn was out with Rachel. I felt alone, and in a very dark place. I shut myself up in my closet, listening to them taunt me in my mind, like a haunting and horrible melody. With tears wiped from my eyes, I picked up the knife slowly and held it up directly in front of me at eye level. It gleamed with a sharpness even in the dim, sterile and clean and everything I was not. I was dirty and infected with a sickness, or so they said. For just that little while, I could believe them. It gave me an out.

The first slash to my left wrist was shallow, and I bit my bottom lip to keep the scream from slipping out. Weak, I thought, over and over. Each cut was deeper than the last, and blood pooled over the lacerations before dripping to the floor like macabre rain. By now my left hand was shaking so violently that I almost couldn't get a grip on the knife enough to pierce the skin of my right wrist. My screams of agony filled the claustrophobic room, tortured sobs bouncing off the walls back to me. In my clumsy haste I brought the knife down perpendicular to my wrist, sinking the blade down an inch into the flesh of my arm. Immediately I let go and it clattered to the floor with a loud metallic clang. There was so much blinding white-hot burning that I couldn't fathom how I could still be conscious and was I even alive . . . But it gave me what I was finally looking for. I was feeling for the first time in months. My vision was going black, the edges fuzzing and blurring as my mind became less and less sharp. The last thought I had was for my father, and the last thing I felt was a small pang of regret that he would have to lose two of his immediate family in such devastating ways.

I awoke to a hospital bed, beeping machines and bright lights and doctors who told me that I was on 72 hour suicide watch, and would be taken to the psych ward as soon as they were done stitching and bandaging my wrists. My father sat by my bedside with furrowed eyebrows and twisted hands, but said nothing, and neither did I. After three days I was allowed to go home. My dad scheduled me a therapist for three times a week. I went, and I answered the questions I was asked. I volunteered nothing, and after a while I was deemed sane or some other shit and didn't have to return. My close call with death should have made me appreciate life more, but instead I felt empty. Nothing could arouse any sort of emotion in me. Rachel and Mercedes called and I ignored them. I passed the summer away in my room, door closed and curtains drawn, curled up in the spot of my closet floor where I came so close to bleeding out only weeks before. It was morbid, and I was aware. And the hate I felt for myself was replaced with feeling nothing for anything.

My second attempt was borne more out of boredom than anything else. I dreaded facing another school year at McKinley, having to put up with the narrow-minded bullies who would taunt me and ridicule me for expressing who I was. The sleeping pills that I had been using to ward off nightmares were over the counter, but still strong. One night before bed I took a handful, gulping them down before I could really think about it, curious to see if I would wake up in the morning or not. I did, although my mind felt slow and fuzzy and I slept more than I usually would. It was my total lack of regard for my life that finally convinced me to ask my dad to consider switching my schools. Eventually we decided on Dalton Academy, a prep school for boys that had a zero tolerance policy for bullying of any kind, so that I could feel safe and protected even in a new environment. I was just thankful the uniform navy blue blazer with red piping was long enough to hide the jagged raised scars on my wrists.

My first day at Dalton was a struggle, having a hard time finding my classes and someone to sit with at lunch. I finally decided a lunch outside under the big pink cherry blossom tree was as good a place as any. It was actually rather peaceful in the courtyard, away from lunchroom clamor and watchful administrative eyes. I was halfway through my peanut butter and jelly sandwich when a lovely melody drifted through the air past my ears, and my head lifted to try to catch the tune. It was followed by a soft voice, so velvety and smooth that it seemed to melt away, dissipating into the atmosphere. Without thinking, I rose, setting down my lunch and slowly inching around the trunk of the tree to get a look at the source of the wonderful music. My eyes fell upon a head of dark curls, gently gelled to one side. The boy was strumming lightly on a guitar, crooning so sweetly it was almost sinful. I could just barely make out amber-colored eyes and long dark lashes. The boy's blazer was lying under him on the ground, and his white dress shirt was rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned, toned arms. His tie was loosened around his neck, and his appearance was so overall disheveled that I couldn't help but let out a little chuckle. He heard me, though, twisting his head around to look at me. Caught in the act, I froze, unable to form a coherent string of words in my head, let alone say them out loud.

"Hello," he said, with a gentle smile full of pearly white teeth. He stood, leaning his guitar against the tree and brushing off his pants before extending his hand. "I'm Blaine."

I looked down at his hand, wondering why in the world I couldn't command my body to take it. It simply refused to do what I said, instead remaining locked into place. I looked back up into this boy's eyes, but they were so unsettlingly clear that I couldn't concentrate and opted to staring at my shoes. "I'm Kurt."

Blaine's hand dropped back to his side, but he didn't seem at all discouraged by the denial. "Well," he said, gesturing to his spot on the ground. "Would you like to join me for lunch, Kurt?"

I looked up, startled by his offer and his generosity. It had been a while since I'd met anyone new, and I still wasn't used to interacting with people. This boy - Blaine - seemed nice, but was he really trustworthy?

I looked at Blaine, contemplating sitting, but his grin was just so happy and bright and he doesn't need a friend like me. With balled fists I mumbled some excuse before I was running, away from him and the embarrassing mess I'd just gotten myself into. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me in dress shoes and slacks. I made it around to the front of the building before I began panting, resting my hands on my knees. The tremors in my hands had slowed, and clenching my hands into fists made them disappear altogether. I collapsed into the immaculate front lawn, curling up into a ball until my keening subsides and I could think straight again. My nervous disorder only developed after my suicide attempts, borne as a result of severe trauma and stress. It only acted up when I was feeling particularly emotional or tense. Sometimes I would shake, or cry, or hyperventilate until someone came to calm me down. I worked with a doctor to lessen the symptoms, but it still flared occasionally.

Blaine didn't seem deterred, though, after the incident when I fled. He turned out to be my dorm mate, along with two other boys name Jeff and Wes. They each gave me welcoming smiles that I answered with just a tiny nod, embarrassment flooding my cheeks because I couldn't even force myself to say my own name. I was saved only by Blaine, who walked into the room and greeted me like an old friend. He did the same to the other boys as well, before setting his brown leather bag on the bed directly next to mine. I tried to avert my eyes as he slowly stripped out of his school uniform down to just an undershirt and boxers, stretching his arms up to reveal a smooth, taut stomach. My arousal was more and more evident in my face and also my pants, which were becoming uncomfortably tight. I grabbed my bag of toiletries and practically flew out the door, away from the others where no one could see me if I began to lose it. Thankfully the showers were empty, and I could take one in peace without worry of interaction with others. The cold water thankfully discouraged my arousal, and I was grateful to not have to resort to other methods with which I wasn't really comfortable in a place that seemed so public.

I returned to the room to find all my dorm mates gathered on Blaine's bed, books and laptops spread out everywhere. Blaine had a pencil in his mouth as he frowned at a notebook, Wes was flipping through some atlas, and Jeff was typing away at a MacBook.

"Hey Kurt," Blaine greeted me as I walked in. "Wanna study?"

I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious in just a T-shirt and sleep pants. I shook my head no and pulled out my own homework from my bag. I hadn't expected so much, since it was just the first day, but the professors here didn't waste any time. I sighed as I saw just how much geometry homework had been assigned - just enough to drive me crazy. It was going to be an agonizing few weeks, I thought glumly, until I got used to the routines here.

"Hey," called Wes, and I assumed I was the one to whom he was referring. "So where'd you transfer from?" I could tell he was trying to be friendly, and he seemed nice enough, but panic constricted my throat.

"Mc-McKinley," I choked out.

"Ahhh," Jeff answered. "Never been to public school. Why'd you make the switch?"

I looked down at my hands, which were white-knuckled as I squeezed them together. My face felt hot and my knees began to shake. "I, uh-,"

"Jeff, it's obviously personal," Blaine cut in. I couldn't help but smile at him in thanks for saving me, again, from that. He nodded before turning back to his work. They said nothing to me for the rest of the night, for which I knew I owed thanks to Blaine yet again, and at ten o'clock I put away my schoolwork and tried to get some sleep.

The next day I fumbled my way through classes, formulating enough coherent responses that I didn't seem like a total mental patient to the other students and teachers. At lunch I decided to sit by the tree and see if Blaine would be playing again, but he wasn't there. Feeling just slightly disappointed, I ate my meal in silence.

I heard him before I saw him, soft footsteps shuffling through the grass in front of me. I looked up and there he was, shirt half-tucked with his guitar slung across his back. When I caught his eye he grinned, and I had to admit he was one of the most beautiful people I'd ever seen. He greeted me cheerily, sitting down in the dirt next to me before pulling his guitar around to his front. Immediately he began strumming with eyes shut, but there was no tune this time, just gentle buzzing notes. I was still bewildered by the fact that he was sitting in such close proximity to me that I almost didn't notice that he was humming along with his instrument, his voice sweet like syrup. And suddenly, as if he could sense me watching him, his eyes snapped open and he turned to me. I felt majorly embarrassed for being caught staring, but he just gave me a half smirk and asked if I play. I shook my head no.

"Do you want to learn?"

Again I shook my head.

"You don't speak much, do you." It wasn't a question. I still shook my head no.

Blaine stopped playing and turned his body to face mine. We were close now, too close for me to be okay with. I scrambled backwards without thinking until there was at least five feet of space between us. His golden eyes flashed with something like hurt but I could see that it bounced right off him. "Can you sing?"

Cautiously, I nodded.

Blaine's face lit up, and I was once again given the privilege of looking at his blindingly white smile. "That's great!" His laugh is as melodic as any song I've ever heard. "You should audition for the Warblers!"

"Th-The Warblers?"

Blaine's face was one of triumph for getting me to speak. "The Glee club here. We're really good, and if you're new it could be just what you need to boost your popularity and make some friends."

Even the mere thought of joining Glee club again made both longing and revulsion rise me. I shook my head violently, not wanting to bring anything from my old life into this one, not wanting to be a part of something that could bring any kind of ridicule upon me. Dalton was supposed to be about equality - treated the same no matter your race, sexuality, or heritage. I couldn't do anything that might threaten the peace that had finally entered my life. No matter how much I missed singing, I would give it up to protect myself.

Blaine's face looked just a tad mournful. "Shame, you have such a pretty voice. I'd love to hear you sing something." And hell yes Blaine knew what he was doing, batting his dark eyelashes and sugar coating his words. "Please?" He held out the end of the world for a few seconds, opting for a playful approach that nearly broke my resolve. Blaine's hand found its way to my knee, caressing my leg softly, and I batted him away but didn't stand. He looked at me with an expectant expression, eyebrows raised. I averted my eyes and opened my mouth, a single wavering note piercing the air. It wasn't a song really, just a string of notes that tumbled from my mouth before I could gather enough sense to hold them in, and the release felt so good that I couldn't stop. The more I sang, the more the tightness in my chest loosened up and I felt the tension that constantly restrained my body begin to slacken. I hadn't used my voice for anything more than what was necessary after what happened, and it had seemed like years. I missed singing and I didn't know quite how much until I started again. This was the loudest I'd been since the attempts I made on my life, and there was a certain vulnerability to be singing to someone I hardly knew without any abandon, dipping into lower chords and twisting my voice into runs that used muscles that were definitely out of practice. It felt so good though, so free, and for the first time in months, I didn't feel self-conscious. It was only after I stopped - my last note hanging poignantly in the air - that I began to regret the decision to sing. Blaine's expression was completely unreadable, devoid of any emotion except a shine in his eyes. Were those . . . Well, no, of course they couldn't be tears, could they?

"That was beautiful." I watched as Blaine swallowed a lump in his throat. Nerves were starting to creep up my chest again, and I willed them away, my fists firmly clenched. "Look," Blaine said, and I saw such deep, raw emotion in his eyes. His hand twitched, as if he wanted to touch me again but didn't know how I would react. I held my hand out to him, trying to keep the shaking to a minimum, and gratefully he grabbed on, pulling me in closer to him. My eyes were drawn back to his, like magnets, and I was fixated on his amber eyes and intense gaze. "Kurt," he began, and I shivered at the way my name sounded like a caress falling from his lips. "I can see through you. I understand exactly why you're here. You've been hurt, and you were looking for an escape. I've seen the scars," he whispered, and I felt a finger swipe across the jagged edges. I tried to yank my hand away, but his grip was firm. "You're shy, and that's fine. You don't trust people, and that's also fine. Why would you? It obviously seems like life dealt you a crappy hand, and you're having a hard time dealing with it. You like hiding from people. You're physically there, but your mind is far away from your body. You distance yourself from the world. I can see myself in you. I was exactly at the same point in my life that you are now. I was nearly beaten to death by these homophobic boys who were looking for an outlet. I thought I was worthless. But you know what got me through?" He paused, and the question didn't seem rhetorical so I prompted him. "Music. It heals the soul, Kurt. And your voice is unlike anything I've ever heard. It's ethereal, and hauntingly beautiful. You have a lifetime's worth of sadness behind your eyes. You could make a great musician someday; all you'd need was a little push. Don't worry about everyone else, Kurt. They don't matter. No one has to matter. You don't have to let anyone else into your life if that's what you choose to do. But don't cut out music. Trust me, it may be the only thing that will help you." Blaine stood abruptly, and I let my hand fall back into my lap where it immediately found its twin, intertwining with each other painfully. "Think about what I said, Kurt. The Warblers need someone like you."

He walked away without another glance back, and I couldn't help but feel completely unraveled by the fact that a boy, who I had known all of a day, had utterly exposed me, stripped away my layers of careful composure until I was little more than a quaking child.