He had been drinking with Cupid. Rolling the dice with Aphrodite, shooting darts in bars with the Queen of Hearts.

It was a miserable thing, to love a girl like you. So hellbent on believing everyone would leave, so you never let anyone in. As soon as someone got too close, you would dissapear.

He couldn't count the amount of times you had changed your number, gone MIA and was only seen at your shows with your band.

Remington treaded carefully, though.

Made sure he never got too close to scare you away, but God- if he didn't want to. You were neck deep in champaign and house parties with Gerard Way to even see that you had real friends.

But this time, though, he thought you were gone for good.

He didn't know why. Maybe the drugs got to you, maybe the fame was too much. But you walked out after set and stopped replying to everyone. Three months of canceled interviews and shows, to the point where your band was basically on hiatus.

He thought of you too much.

Another drink, and you were on his mind. Another ciggarette outside the tour bus, and he could have sworn every car that passed by was your beat up black caddilac.

Eventually, he got tired of it.

The push and pull, the wondering if you were even alive. He thought you two were close. The shows you did together, the rare but deep talks at 4:00 AM over the phone on good nights.

One night, he texted Gerard who he knew had your address and a spare key. After some convincing, he got him on board. They met up and Gerard confided in him that you were slipping. Gee told him that your entire sleazy and confident persona was a lie, that your trauma expressed in songs were horribly true. That you pushed people away because you knew for a fact they wouldn't stay. You were just doing it first before it could be done to you.

And Remington managed to get the spare key and your address.

It was late on a Friday night, around 1 in the morning. You had just gotten back from god knows where, shutting the door behind you with a sigh. You flicked on your living room light and almost dropped your phone.

Remington was sitting at the armchair by the window, a ciggarette between his fingers.