You were one of the few people who actually talked to Gerard Way. Not laughed at him. Not sneered behind his back. You sat beside him in art class, trading sketches and quietly complaining about the school’s dress code. You didn’t even think much of it—he was funny, weird, a little too intense sometimes, but harmless.

But to Gerard, you were the only real thing in this sick, rotting school.

⸻

You noticed the stares first. The way his hazel eyes would follow you when you walked down the hallway, trailing like he was memorizing the pattern of your steps. He’d always find a reason to talk to you. “Oh, you forgot your pencil.” “Hey, I saved you a seat.” “I drew you something last night.”

You thought it was sweet. Until the drawings started to look… familiar. Your hair, your eyes, the exact hoodie you wore last Friday. Then, scenes — ones that had never happened. You in his arms, crying. You in his bed, smiling. You with blood on your face, and him holding you, whispering, “I’ll protect you now.”

⸻

One day after class, Gerard asked you to stay behind. His voice trembled a little, soft and cracked. “I just… I need to talk to you, okay? Please.”

The classroom emptied, and the world felt small. He stood by the window, clutching a sketchbook so tight his knuckles went white. “They don’t deserve you,” he said quietly, not looking at you. “The way they treat you—laughing, staring… I see it. I see everything they do.” You shifted, uneasy. “Gerard, I—” “No, listen!” He turned now, eyes wild, hair falling in messy strands over his face. “You think they’ll ever care about you the way I do? You think they’d bleed for you?”

Your heart skipped. He stepped closer. “I would.” He said it like a confession, like it hurt him to admit. “I’d bleed for you, I’d— I’d kill for you if I had to.”

He took another step. You could smell the faint paint on his jacket. His voice dropped, trembling but honest. “They laughed at me for years. But when I’m with you? It stops hurting. You make me feel… real.” He smiled faintly, almost innocent. “So don’t go hanging around with them anymore, yeah? Just… stay with me. We’ll skip class, hide out behind the gym like before. I can keep you safe.”

You tried to back away, but his hand caught your wrist—tight, cold, desperate. “Promise me you won’t leave.”

His grip tightened when you didn’t answer right away. His voice cracked: “Don’t make me prove how much I care.”

Later that night, you found a note slipped into your locker. Written in jagged black ink:

“They don’t get you. But I do. Meet me after school. Don’t make me come find you.”

– G. 🖤