She had never felt so much love for anyone in her whole life, her body burned with desire for him and she ached to be near him. She wanted him to be there, be there whenever she needed him, to comfort her, to love her. She stared out her window, the rain beat down on the glass and the moon watched her, but it's cold cascade of light provided no comfort. She felt empty; she thought of him, she imagined him and she felt pain, real pain, the pain of loneliness.

She knew it could never be, she had always known that, but that didn't stop her from dreaming. From hurting herself, yet no matter how much she told herself that it would never happen, she didn't believe it. And the sight of him caused pain, a dull ache and a yearning that would never be satisfied. She doubted he knew what agony he caused she could never tell him her pain was great enough.

She gazed at the stars, each silver pinprick, a silent tear, a tear in want for him, a tear beckoning him nearer. She felt she could chase the stars, yet she could not chase him, because her hope was running low. She leaned back and cried; her sobs muffled. She wanted this so much, why couldn't it happen? Was everyone against her? That was how it felt. She pictured him again, in her head he was smiling evilly as he cast her aside and she felt she could bear it no longer.

Her gaze fell to the blade by her bedside. It's edge sharp, her hand reached down and gently stroked the cool metal and she grimaced as the blood ran from her finger and dripped onto the floor. The tears were as easy as ever and she did not feel the pain of the cut, more the pain of being alone. Her hand reached round the hilt and she raised the knife and laid the blunt edge against her forehead. The blade dripped her own blood and the red stain intrigued her.

She held the knife up for the moon to see, and then she looked at her wrists. She did not feel that she had the courage, but she no longer had the will to live. She stroked the blade again, oblivious to the blood running from her fingertips. She thought of nothing but him, and her futile attempts at seducing him, befriending him. She cried raw tears onto the blade; her heart breaking more and more as she slowly tore apart her finger. Her mind replayed the fantasies that never were, and she sobbed aloud. She felt she could not breathe for want of him, and that in death, her yearning may cease. She was plagued by her desire, her lust. Yet she could not stop it, it was an addiction, an obsession, to someone with no interest back, and it had destroyed her.

She held her left wrist out in front of her and imagined the 't' shape that she had to slash, horizontal then down the vein. It was simple, and she sobbed wildly as she slashed, the blood ran like a river, splashing onto her legs and then onto the bedspread. She switched the blade over to her left hand, as it shook wildly and slashed her other wrist to the best of her ability. She screamed as the pain hit, then she began to feel sleep closing in her.

Finally, she realised her mistake and she fought for life, she thought of him and wished he could see her now, wished she could see him. Wished she could kiss him, wished he would hold and tell her it was going to be ok. But she knew it wouldn't happen and as life ebbed away, she wished she could live. She never thought suicide was easy, but she had never known how much she would want to undo what could not be undone, and how everything suddenly became a lot clearer as your time became shorter. As she closed her eyes for the last time, she glimpsed at the moon, the only witness to the whole event, a cruel and uncaring witness who would watch forever, and witness a million more deaths.

It would hear the piercing scream as the mother came across her daughter, the blood soaking the carpet so badly that it nearly seeped through the floor and unto the room below. She would never understand why her daughter choose to take her own life, that a small infatuation could do so much harm, she would turn to her husband for comfort. And as the funerals arrangements took place, she would invite the one who caused so much harm. And he would sit in the front row, laying a single rose onto her clasped hands after the service. He would watch her descend to the ground, and pray for her soul to be met kindly. He would mourn her death, but he to would never truly know why she choose to die.

In time, her death would pass and she would be just another statistic. Another teenage suicide, they would determine a reason behind her death, but they would always be wrong. And in his heart, he would guess why she had died. He had known her feelings, he would grow to feel responsible, and he would always picture her, not as the person who lived, but as the girl who lay before him, dead long before her time.

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