From the Outside You look different. Your eyes aren’t as blue. You look defeated, somehow, empty. It scares me. Most people wouldn’t see the change; you still have the same white, easy smile, a little turned up at one side. You carry yourself the same - chest high, shoulders back - but your eyes. Your eyes are tired. The break-up was hard on you, but what is harder is showing the world that you’re okay with it. I was there when it happened. It was one of the first times in a long time I’d been around. I held your hand as you told her that you love her, but you’re not in love with her. It sounded like such a line, but it’s the truth and we both know it. I only hope she knows it, too.

I’ve been watching you, off and on, for a long time. Maybe you don’t notice, or maybe you choose not to acknowledge, but I’m there. I’ve seen more than you let most people see. The first time I remember really seeing you the way others do was the night your mom took you into her arms, cradled your head against her chest as you cried. It was the night you learned that she and Daddy were getting a divorce.

I’ve been through good times, though, too. I was in the back row, watching with awe and pride and joy when you won your first award as a solo artist. It wasn’t a big-deal award, but it was your first, and you’d put so much into winning it. I could tell from the sight of you that night just how much it meant to you; you’d taken so much care to make sure each golden curl was in place, that every carefully-chosen accessory, from watch to hat, put across the "right" image. I watched you get up to accept, slender fingers trembling at your sides. Your smile was bright and genuine as you scanned the audience against the harsh stage lights. I watched your eyes light up as you picked out your mother, and then him, in the audience.

As I watch you now, that hope for the future, that joy in life that always showed in your blue-blue eyes, is gone. A lot of things have happened lately, I know. You no longer look ahead to a bright, promising and exciting future, because for you it is tainted and terrifying. The looks some people give you have cracked your polished exterior, and somehow now, those things matter to you. Without him there with you, you don’t know how you’ll survive.

You have another of your headaches. You’ve been getting them more frequently lately. I know that bothers you, too. It worries me. You sit opposite me at the kitchen table and massage your temples. Your eyes are red because you’ve cried, and you squeeze them shut against the pain. The look on your face frightens me. I have never seen you look so tired. You reach with shaking hands for the medication your doctor prescribed, and then go to the cabinet for a glass. I want to cry out to you as you take out a bottle of vodka, instead, but I am frozen. You wouldn’t hear me anyway. You take your medication and wash it down with alcohol, and what scares me more than the combination is that you look numb.

I want desperately to reach out, take you in my arms and comfort you. I want to tell you that everything will be okay, if you just wait it out. I want to tell you that his love is not everything. I mostly want just to be there for you, but I can’t. I am just a casual observer. That, I know, is the problem: no one is there for you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, but there are no more tears. Your cheeks remain dry as you take two more pills - because you forgot you already took two? Or just for good measure? - and finish your bottle. You slump against the table.

Someone is knocking on the door. Pounding. The sound could be coming from beneath a pillow or underwater. I can just make it out through the haze. I hear my name - it’s him! I want to get up, but the kitchen table is cool against my cheek and my head feels heavy. So heavy. My limbs are made of lead. I hear the door open, finally, and footsteps through the living room. I try to see him, try to smile at him, thank him for coming, but I can’t. His hands are on my shoulders, now, strong and shaking me. I hear him let out a choked sob, and then his touch is gone and he is dialing a phone, calling for an ambulance. "Please. Don’t do this." He hauls me off the chair and away from the kitchen table.

We’re on the floor, he and I, and he’s got my head in his lap. I can see his eyes, clear and blue and beautiful - and full of pain. Pain that I put there by doing this to myself. All I can see is those eyes, and I don’t want to look away. His hurt wakes me up, and suddenly I’m screaming inside for the paramedics to hurry. His hands are fluttering over my face, brushing my cheeks, smoothing my hair off my forehead. It’s comforting and I want to thank him. He’s talking to me, telling me not to close my eyes, that it will be okay. I try to smile, to tell him that yes, it will be all right. His tear falls onto my cheek, hot and cold at the same time. He catches the next one with the back of his hand, but I wish he would let them all fall on me. He has me in his arms and holds me tight. He says my name over and over, presses a kiss to my temple. "I’m here," he says. "Help’s coming and I’m here. I’m not going to leave this time. I’m here. Please hold on - I love you."

With his words my eyes flutter. My lips form a soft smile. In the distance I hear sirens getting louder.

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