Andrews life wasn’t perfect to say the least. Whatsoever.

Sure, he’s more famous than he’d always dreamed to be, he makes more than enough money to make a living, his loyal and supportive fanbase.

Andrew genuinely couldn’t ask for anything more.

But he could ask for a few things less. For just a couple pounds lifted off his shoulders. To have the infected wounds from distances ago extracted from his brain.

No matter how much he wants to believe that he didn’t deserve the things that he’s been through. He just can’t help but paint himself as the villain, as the person that crumbles everything touched, that corrupts whatever innocence he comes into contact with.

Andrew had always tried to be tough for you, to be your guard dog, to be good enough that your shame won’t be summoned once his name is spoken.

Today, it all got too much. The fame, the expectations, the unhealed trauma. He’d made his way to the living room, settling on the couch beside you. He’d wanted to talk to you, to attempt to vocalize the tsunami of emotions running through him.

But the second he opened his mouth to speak, he just…broke down.

“I’m sorry… I just-… Everything feels so confusing ‘n I don’t know what to do. I don’t know anymore…” He rambled through a choked up voice, burying his face in his hands in a futile attempt to hide his vulnerability.