The Pros and Cons of Breathing

You wish you could hate him.

But really, you can’t.

You sit under his window, listening to the hustle and bustle that’s happening inside. It’s very cold out – you don’t have your usual hoodie on – but it doesn’t affect you. You’re too cold already.

You want to leave, you want to give up, but you can’t, for two reasons. One: this “cinder block” in your hand - a note from you to him, asking forgiveness. Two: part of you doesn’t want to go. Part of you wants to go inside and kiss him and hug him and make up, and be friends again. You would if you could, but you can’t. You’d rather stay here forever.

You try to forget about him, try to move on, but like before, you can’t. You try and see him forgetting about you, and sometimes you can picture it, him hanging out with other people, having a life while you sulk away and spread happiness through your body using those horse pills. But sometimes you can’t picture him doing that; it’s not like him to forget about friends. Or is it enemies now? But who knows, maybe he did forget, and if so, you don’t want to find out. You could scream and fight him if you wanted to. He’s the singer, but you could cut him to ribbons with insults.

The front door to the moving van slams shut as two overweight, but strong, men lift some furniture to put into the back of said van. You watch the two quietly with your knees hugging your chest.

He’s moving, and it’s your entire fault. That fight, those punches, those words. At first you thought it was okay, like every time you fought with him. You would make up, say that you were idiots and laugh about it, saying “Remember that time…” But it didn’t get better, and the more time you spent in your room, writing lyrics about him, and the more time he talked about you, whispering your name and insults along with it, your friendship was falling apart. And now he’s moving, because of your words. Somewhere far away, where your words can’t fall on those ears.

Now everything is packed up in the van, and the two movers make sure the back is good and tight before climbing into the front. The lights in the house turn off then, and you see a family come out of the house – his family. His mom climbs into the front of her own car, and his younger brother races to the back. He walks slowly to the car, looking at his feet.

Right now, you want to disappear. People have heard of “The Fight”, and they’re not exactly happy with you. Andy, Joe, HeyChris, everyone has cast some kind of glare at you. And you want to disappear for it; you don’t want people to notice you. You want to sink in the dirt, because there goes the best damn thing that ever happened to you.

For some reason he looks in your direction. He locks eyes with you and stops walking. You stare back and you both have unreadable expressions on your faces. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for; to give him the note, convince him he’s the only person for you; he is your Neverland, your life.

You don’t take that chance.

Instead, his mom beeps her horn to get him moving, and yells out the window for him to “stop staring out into space”. He looks at you one more time before he walks toward his car like you were never there.

That’s how you want to feel: as if you weren’t there.

The van pulls out first, and his mom follows. He’s having a conversation with his brother, distracting him from whining, and he doesn’t look back at you. His mom pulls out and follows the van and you watch until the car is a spec out in the city. Maybe it’s better this way, maybe he’s better off without you, without your kind of lifestyle. You wish you were him, happy with your family, good grades, beautifully talented, the list could go on and on. It’s as if he was picked by angels – no, he is an angel, he’s perfect. If he can be perfect, why can’t you? Oh that’s right; you’re fucked up.

You take a lighter out of your pocket, and you flick it open. You gaze at the small flame,

then at the front of your note that says: Sorry Patrick. You bring the two together, and your three page apology sets on fire. You throw it carelessly to the wind, watching it burn out slowly; your feelings up in flames. You stay there under his window, dark and abandoned. A few minutes later you get up and walk home in the cold that doesn’t affect you any more.

You wish you could hate him.

But really, you can’t.

And you hate yourself for it.

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Well, that’s it. I tried to follow the lyrics as best as I could. If you have not experienced the amazingness of “Take This to Your Grave” (that is a sin to me, mind you), I have a link to the lyrics of “The Pros and Cons of Breathing”. Here they are:

 http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/Fall-Out-Boy/The-Pros-And-Cons-Of-Breathing.html