Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,31

going away. I tried calling you the other night, from a pay phone so you wouldn’t recognize the number, but the call didn’t go through. Maybe Ma Bell doesn’t want us to be together. Maybe God doesn’t either. But I do. My life has come off track without you. I hardly know myself anymore. I need you.

I’m sorry about the past. I know I should’ve supported you; I was just scared of losing you. I didn’t want to share you with everyone else. I was being selfish and I know that’s what drove us apart. I forgive you for what you did. I would’ve probably done the same thing. I don’t even care about it, to be honest. I just know that I need you back in my life, in any way possible, because it’s getting harder and harder to get out of bed in the morning. It’s scaring me.

Please write back.

I lie in my bunk, just reading the last line over and over. It’s brutal. Beautiful. The saddest sentence I’ve ever seen. Three little words; so much weight, so much desperation alive within them. They’re either the beginning, or the end, or both. Probably both. Rain pelts the window of the bus. Big, angry drops. Drops with a purpose. I watch the flat expanses of Florida blow by in a blur, nothing but swamps and palm trees and alligators. Things get less exotic the farther north you head: gated neighborhoods that back up to the interstate. Shopping malls on the horizon. Billboards for Jesus. The sky is low and pregnant and gray. The rain makes it even more depressing. I am stalling now.

I go back to that last line. Please write back. It paralyzes me. I close my eyes tightly, pull my blanket over my head, like a frightened kid trying to wish away the monster under his bed. I figure it’s worth a shot. Sometimes I am willing to believe in anything if it means ignoring the reality of a situation. I open my eyes. Please write back. Fuck. I wish I had just deleted Her message. None of this would be happening if I did. I’d probably be asleep right now, dreaming of that fiery sunrise and that shimmering Atlantic. Instead I’m lying here, disarmed. Impotent. My head feels like I can’t sit or lean on anything on the inside because it’s all been freshly painted. Grays and pinks. And open some windows ’cause the air just isn’t circulating the way it should. I realize I am stalling again. Fuck off.

She’s always been succinct, but this line is Her masterwork. Please write back. It’s funny because, according to my shrink, this is exactly what I’ve always wanted, what I’ve moaned and wailed and bled for my entire life: complete and total control. The past, the present, the future, it’s all mine. I can erase history. I can eliminate what might be. I can either write Her back, or not. It’s that simple. Only it doesn’t feel that way. It feels profound, frighteningly, cripplingly so. This is a fork in the road. A Choose Your Own Adventure book. A catastrophe waiting just around the corner. For the first time, it’s all up to me. I realize in this instant that perhaps control isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. There’s a reason I’ve never been able to grab the reins: I’m not strong enough to do it.

So now, not only am I paralyzed, but I’m furious at myself. I am useless. Weak. A boy in over his head, hiding behind tattoos and one-night stands. Trying hard to make sure nobody notices that he’s drowning. The rain really gets angry now, hammering the roof of the bus like machine-gun fire. Heavy bullets from heaven. Heavy thoughts in my head. Do I really miss Her? Did I ever love Her? Can I hurt Her again? I’ve been staring at Her e-mail for more than an hour, and my computer is running on fumes. Just a tiny red sliver remains in the battery icon. I wish humans came with the same kind of indicator . . . it would make things much easier. You would know how to deal with every person on the planet, and I’d always be in the red. Please write back. The computer is dying. The rain is pushing the bus off the road. There’s a twister coming. Make a decision. It’s only a goddamn fucking e-mail. It’s only my goddamn fucking life.

Good morning, I write to