you have stolen my, you have stolen my

It was a long night for Billy. A long night and an empty glass of gin that had never been refilled. "Come on."

Billy was an idiot. A fool. A damn fool. A loser. A loner. As far as being a screw-up goes, he didn't need any help. As far as being a perpetual let down goes, he didn't need any help. So he wrote, and he flew, and he tried to put distance and time between his mistakes and his unmistakeable mistakes. But that wouldn't work, because she was his mistake. "Ha! Fate - 17. Everybody Else - 0."

The great thing about bars was that they let you stay for as long as you want, so long as you aren't there. The great thing about Billy's bedroom is that it didn't give a damn. So Billy could lie there, there and all, and think, and forget, and let down, and fail, and fall, and get worse and worse as the minutes piled up. And the bedroom would forgive too. The bedroom would lose its power and the lights would dim, the noise would stop, the distractions were gone, and the clock read eights. So Billy was getting worse -- but not in that room. In that room -- Billy was safe. Safe from her, from them, from it all. Except for himself. Billy tore at himself about it all, about them all, about her. And in that way they found their way into his bedroom. His lonely, cold, warm, and speechless bedroom.

And he would write. Write words, write poems, write stories, write this, write things that would never leave his room.
"As far as being a screw-up goes, I don't need any help. As far as being a perpetual let down goes, I don't need any help. As far as being a knight in shining armor goes, I'm the worst." What was Billy's problem?

Billy wrote, and Billy stored, and Billy planned, and Billy let slip by, and Billy was getting worse and worse -- but at least he didn't know it when he was in that room. But eventually he would have to leave, eventually he would have to leave that room. And he would face it all. Face them all. Face her. Face himself. Face Hell and the part of Hell that is just being apart from the ones you love because you were an idiot.

Check.

And Billy wrote.
"I could blame you for the ridiculous range of emotions I've felt for the last two years. I could blame you for the ridiculous amount of fun I've had this year. I could blame you for all the things I've written. I could blame you for the ridiculously late nights. I could blame you for this room. I could blame you for everything I don't regret." Billy's problem was that he was afraid of something he couldn't put his finger on. And meanwhile it was putting its hands on his shoulders and dragging him down. Billy's hand was reaching for the light and the surface and the day and the water's edge.

And Billy wrote.
"So, what keeps you from just leaving that shore? Is it your grace, your charm, your heart so brave? Do not find me just as drowned as before. Where will you be when the sea meets the shore?"

Billy is a teenage dirtbag, baby. "Haha!" And Billy can laugh. And Billy will be there, just you wait and see. As long as he just keeps breathing.