He stares at the ceiling blankly. Sometimes it’s kind of scary how white everything is around here, but they think it’s better that way. Everything they do here is because things are better like that.

He breathes deeper and deeper every time, waiting, but his lungs are heavy and they’re never full, no matter how much air he takes in.

There’s a bug running through the roof - this place is hardly the cleanest ever, but the whiteness makes up for it. It’s chubby and dark, so much it’s gross, and he thinks about how if he crushed that insect, its dense blood and insides would spread everywhere.

Just like his had.
Well, not really. It was only his brain that had stained those walls red.
That’s when it all started, right? When he thought they were happy and alive and cared about the future, and then Kurt drug him down when he pulled that trigger, and they’re both dead now, except Kurt rests in peace and Blaine has to keep on living, or try to.

It was all because of that stupid phonecall. Not the call itself, but the news it brought them. They were dead. Blaine’s chest still contracts so hard it hurts when he thinks about it. Burt, Carole and Finn. All of them in that fucking accident. It was too much. Too much for both of them, and Kurt just couldn’t take it.

Blaine wishes he could hate Kurt. He really wishes he could. It would make things so much easier, but he’s still so helplessly in love with him, and he knows that won’t change, and as hard as he tries, he will never love anyone like he loved Kurt. 

He came here not because he’s actually sick. Or well, maybe he is. But either way, that’s not the reason. He did it because he was tired. Because he wanted to escape. Because there was nothing left for him. He learned that it’s easy to manipulate those around you when you’re in pain, and soon enough he ended up in the institution. It had seemed like a easy way out, but it wasn’t, because wherever he went, Kurt followed. However, he got used to it. It’s easy. The only thing he can ask for now is for things to be easy. He has a bed he never has to make himself, a room he never has to clean and a roof over his head without having to pay for it. 

The employees here aren’t exactly kind, but if you’re quiet and invisible like he is most of the time, they won’t mess with you. He takes the pills he knows he doesn’t need, stays out of trouble but doesn’t talk much (that way no one can think he’s making any kind of progress, because as stated before, why would he want to leave?)

It’s the closest thing to heaven he can aim for. With drugs. The only problem is when it’s dark outside and the moon hangs up there, shiny as ever, illuminating the atmosphere although he doesn’t see the sky much. But then again, it’s as much as a problem here as it would be anywhere else. 

That’s the main reason he wants to be able to hate Kurt; the nights.
As he rolls around his not-so-comfy psychiatric hospital bed, trying to find a position he can sleep in (Because none of them feels right and it makes him angry that he doesn’t seem to find a comfortable posture), he sees him.
He’s pale as ever if not even more, and his skin seems so thin he can actually see some of his blue-ish veins linking with one another beneath it. He can’t see through him, it’s not like he thought a ghost would look like. Sometimes he fades a little, though, like a TV that doesn’t get a good signal.
His blue eyes, the ones Blaine fell in love with, are shining, but they’re darker than he’s ever seen them, darker than the starred sky outside, although they’re still of the same color he remembers. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, and he has those dry, tear-stained trails running down his cheeks that mean he’s been crying. His hair is still flawless, although a little bit messier than he’d liked, and Blaine knows in the back of his head it’s all clammy and disgusting and red, right where the bullet pierced his skull, his brains pouringout.
His lips are swollen and pink, oh so pink, but he knows that if he got to kiss them they would probably taste like oxide, just like blood does.
Something is strangling his throat, painfully dry, so much that he can barely breathe and it hurts to swallow, and the tears are burning, boiling behind his eyes, but they won’t fall. He’s so beautiful it’s blinding, even if he looks bony and skeletal and small.

There’s a faint, ghastly light embracing his figure, not only at his blurry edges, but all around him; like the light is him.  It’s colorless and weak, and Blaine’s heart squeezes so hard in his chest that he feels it will explode with the pressure.

And then, after he has listed all those little details that make him ache because he’s just so fucking breathtaking, he notices the ugly as well. His cheekbones are prominent, way too prominent, and the shadows under them make you think that you’re seeing through his skin and into his skeleton.
He even looks a bit anorexic, the clothes are now clinging to him and are too big, even though once upon a time they fit him like a glove. His bare arms seem like toothpicks, and Blaine cringes as he involuntarily imagines how loud -and effortlessly- they would crack if he broke them in half.

He seems tired, there are dark marks circling his eyes and his skin is dry. Blaine’s everything hurts, partially because the one he loves the most has become this, and partially because he doesn’t understand how he can look so goddamn beautiful and sick at the same time.

He smiles weakly and it breaks Blaine’s heart. He keeps a straight face because otherwise he will cry. Kurt still holds that fucking gun in his hand.

And Blaine wants to speak, he knows what to say, because he’s been practicing it all day and all week long.

I want to hate you, but I can’t. It’s impossible for me, and I wish it wasn’t. Because you had my heart in your hands, and you didn’t care when it fell to the ground and shattered like crystal because you were too busy holding that gun in your shaking hands, just like you do now. And that wouldn’t even matter so much, you know? Because that’s not the worst thing you did. I’d forgive you a million times for that, but that’s not why I want to just forget who you are and stop loving you as much as I do. It’s because when you left, you really didn’t.

You became an intermitent light. Blinking. One second you’re here and when I turn back you leave me, only to come back again just whenI start to believe you're gone for good. It wouldn’t hurt as much as it does if you could just be gone for good, but you just stay in the middle, and it’s breaking me, because it won’t let me move on although I love you too much to do it anyway. I wish you could just make up your mind so I could at least give it a try, or choose stay with you even if you’re not real.

He realizes Kurt’s still standing there, staring at him with those wide eyes that glow at him, and he forgets how to breathe, and suddenly, he forgets his speech as well.

Instead he whispers brokenly: “I’m too tired. Please go away”
It doesn’t matter. It’s the same message.
Kurt doesn’t listen. He walks over to his bed, his skinny legs quivering slightly, and climbs up, laying next to him. Blaine’s eyes are so full of tears, but he can’t cry.

Instead he scoots a little closer and rests his hand in the air, barely a few atoms away from Kurt’s hip, not really touching him.
Why won’t you just let go already. 

“Do you miss me?” Kurt’s voice is the only thing that hasn’t transfigured at all, and it comforts him. It’s like a lullaby to him. He breathes Kurt’s smell, that has been fading away with time, as he closes his eyes to focus on the echo his words leave hanging in the air. 

“Always.” He replies simply, and those blue eyes that once reminded him of the sky (He hasn’t seen the sky in a bright day in so long he can’t be sure anymore. He avoids those days because of the same reason) are clouded and sad.

“I’m sorry.” He says, and he pretends to link his fingers with Blaine’s free hand, but they can’t really touch.

“Me too.” He sighs almost peacefully. “I love you.”

He opens his eyes again and Kurt’s gone.

He rolls onto his stomach, and the teardrops burn against his cheeks. He feels sick. He sobs and feels overwhelmed. Something breaks inside him. A chill pierces his bones.

It happens every night, and maybe it’s just the same old broken vinyl stuck at the same song every time, maybe he’s stuck in time and can’t be free.
Once upon a time, there was a pathetic little man in a mental institution, that every night tried to reach out for the ghost of someone he loved, someone who used to love him back, because he couldn't let go. The same ghost he wished would leave him alone, the same one he wanted to hate, and then cried himself to sleep when it disappeared without a trace.

His name was Blaine Anderson. This is his story. This is his life.