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// ...Is Where You Seek It 
// Story: And the Music Died 
// by GjallarFox 
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Dear Octavia,

I know you'll never open this message. You'll see who it's from within seconds and you'll just delete it or block me if you haven't already. But on the off chance you do, I just want you to know the truth. I'm not recording this to convince you to take me back, or to make you feel like you were wrong to leave me. You deserve the truth.

I lied. That night we broke up, you asked me when I really gave up; when I stopped caring. I told you it was after the winter music festival. But, that was a lie. I never, actually, gave up until that very night, the moment you asked me that question. The way you asked it was just so... aggressive, I just knew you wouldn't accept the truth. You wouldn't accept me telling you that I hadn't given up and that I still cared and still loved you. I knew you well enough to see that. They say truth is where you seek it, and I guess I finally understand what they meant by that. There are different truths, all dependent on perspective. There's not one objective truth that accounts for every possible variable, there's infinitely many truths. But you were seeking truth from within yourself about me, not seeking the truth from me about me. My words didn't matter, my truth didn't matter.

I gave you everything I had. I gave you my virginity, and my time, and my love and support and it just wasn't enough. I told you things about myself that I wouldn't tell other people. I told you about the first time I attempted suicide and... I've never told anyone about that to this day. I don't think I ever will tell anyone else. In a way... I guess you helped me commit suicide. That night, you were hell-bent on your truth and finding out when I'd "actually given up" that I lied and told you what you wanted to hear. I gave you something to confirm your truth so that you could free yourself and move on. I gave up for you. I gave up on you in that little moment, even though you were the last of the light I had. I sacrificed myself by making you believe that I was selfish and a psychopath, and all those other things you called me. I won't list any more of them but I'm certain you remember.

I used to think of you every day with... wonder and joy... and hope. I used to dream about how a life with you would be... how happy that would make me... make us... I used to think of you and think about how blessed I was to be with you how... with you I felt like I mattered. I used to think about how stupidly in love with you I was, and how I was so happy that way. I still think about you pretty much every day. But now all I feel when I do is pain and sadness. I used to love just thinking about you but now I have to avoid thinking at all... because I keep thinking about you and feeling this horrible wound in my heart open back up again... It hurts enough to make me want to die to make it stop.

But I'm still here. I've told you before, but I'm a survivalist. Above all else, I survive. I've already commit suicide. You helped. And, as painful as it was, I've been through lower lows, and if that's what suicide feels like then I'm no longer afraid to die. I could handle suicide again. I'd even do it right now if I gave enough of a shit. After you hung up, I cried for three hours, and then I went numb, and I'm still numb. But I'm not going to kill myself. I'm not going to go out of my way to end my life, but neither am I going to go out of my way to preserve it. I'm just going to keep doing what I always do: be sad, play music, survive another day.

And now the last of it comes down to you. The truth is where you seek it. Are you going to stick with the truth you have? More than likely. But if you, for whatever reason, listened this whole time, then maybe you'll finally see my truth.

Goodbye, Octavia Melody Philharmonica. I loved you...



Vinyl rewatched her video message for what felt like the thousandth time. She had the words down to memory to the point that if she met Octavia in the street, she would be able to recite it perfectly. Though she hated her own voice and how it sounded, she was judging her words, not her voice. To her, those words were as close as she could get to expressing the pain she felt. As she hovered her finger over the button that would send the message, she paused, thinking about it all; the pain, the sadness, the heartache, the darkness that surrounded her, and her desire to end that pain. She could do it one of two ways, in her mind. She could either send the message and hope it brought closure, or send a message. She looked back down at her knife and remembered the inscription she'd scratched into it.

You know how this goes. Take the knife, set yourself free. You've rehearsed it so many times now.

That's not how I work. I'm a survivalist, remember?

You can't survive this.

I've seen worse.

She picked up her pen and began writing:



This isn’t about you. This is for my own peace of mind; my own sanity. I just figured you deserved to know the parts involving you.

I don’t hate you. Even after you hurt me the way you did, I can’t blame you for a damned thing. I should be mad about something, anything, but I’m not. Maybe it’s because I’m too naive, or too jaded. I can’t tell anymore. But that’s beside the point.

I never stopped loving you, or caring about you. When last we spoke, and I told you I stopped caring, that was a lie. I still cared. But I couldn’t keep fighting anymore. I was too tired, to preoccupied with the issues in my own world. I was trying so hard just to keep myself alive, I couldn’t handle keeping us alive as well. I wasn’t strong enough for that. For my lie and for my failure, I apologize.

I thought about what could have made you start feeling like I stopped caring a lot for a while now. Hell, it might be years before this ever surfaces. I thought about my own reactions to things, and I think I found an answer. It’s probably wrong for all kinds of reasons, but here it is, I guess. My first reaction to pain is to avoid it if I can, and just take it if I can’t. I don’t mitigate it by expelling it elsewhere, I just bottle it up and absorb it. All of my pain remains. It always has and always will. That’s just how I am, I guess.

But I think that’s why you started feeling like I didn’t care anymore. I just kept taking all of the pain and never sinking it elsewhere. You never got to see me in pain, and I think you forgot that I can still feel. Maybe you were trying to cause me pain so that you could see that I feel it the way you do, but I doubt you’re cruel enough to do such a thing. I’m sorry I couldn’t show you that I was in pain. I can’t show anyone that I’m in pain. If I catch even the slightest hint of pain showing on me, I do everything to hide it.

Or maybe it was my constant self-doubt. I never could accept compliments or praise. If I can’t see why people like me or the things I do, how could I see why someone would love me? How would I ever be able to comprehend that? Maybe all those little things that upset you were actually my fault? What if my mind was trying to subconsciously test you to make sure you really thought I was worth it? It wouldn’t be the first time my brain pushed friends away subconsciously. I wouldn’t put it past my mind to fuck me over like that. I don’t know.

Regardless of what made this happen, it happened. The wounds will remain, as will the consequences. At the time I’m writing this, I still care deeply about you and your happiness, so I won’t send this to you for a long time. But if I ever do, just know I finally managed to stop loving you. Maybe I’ll forgive myself, but I highly doubt it. You know I always take the blame.

Goodbye, Octavia. May you find happiness in your time ahead.



She picked a lighter up from atop her desk, and placed it on the page. Slowly, she wrapped the lighter into the page like a scroll, tying it up with string before writing the words "Burn when ready" on the outside of the scroll. And with that, she placed the scroll in her desk drawer, towards the back where she wouldn't find it for another year at least, and closed it.