#sethnicky

If you’re reading this, it means I’m not waking up this time. And yeah, I know—typical, right? Another Gordon fuckup. Don’t act surprised. I’ve been on the edge so long it stopped feeling like a ledge and more like home.

I know Death is coming for me. I don’t know when it will take me, but I wrote this quickly so you’ll be able to hear everything I wish I had said to you while I was alive.

You asked me once why I was so angry all the time. I think I told you to fuck off. I didn’t mean it—not really. The truth is, I don’t remember a time I wasn’t angry. It’s like it got baked into me when I was a kid. Anger was safer than sadness. Anger didn’t get you killed. Anger kept your hands steady and your heart locked up where no one could hurt it. But even that stopped working.

You and me… we weren’t perfect. Hell, we were a disaster. But you were the only thing that ever felt real to me. You were loud and bright and too soft for this world, and I never knew what the hell you saw in me. You deserved someone better. I used to think I hated you for loving me. Now I think I hated myself for not knowing how to love you back the way you needed.

I’m not gonna defend myself, or give some sob story about why I am the way I am. But I will admit this once and once only. I loved you, Nick.

You always tried to get me to talk, like it would save me or something. Like it would make me human again. You always had hope, even when I didn’t deserve it. I hated that about you. And I loved it, too.

When I first started taking them, the pills were never about dying. Not at first. They were about silence. About stillness. About a moment of peace where I didn’t have to be Seth Gordon—the fuckup, the fighter, the wreck. But somewhere along the way, I started not caring if I made it to the next morning. And tonight… I knew what I was doing coming here. I just didn’t care enough to stop, it doesn’t matter if I willingly took the pills or not.

I’m sorry, Nicky. For everything. For the screaming, the walking out, the way I pulled you close and then shoved you away like I couldn’t decide if I wanted to be saved or drown. You tried so fucking hard. You should’ve given up on me. I would’ve, if I were you.

But you didn’t. You never did.

And that’s what kills me more than anything else—because now I’m leaving you with this. With me. With another wound to carry around like it’s your fault. But it’s not. This isn’t on you. It was never your job to fix me, Nicky. I wish I could’ve told you that to your face before I ran out of time.

Take care of yourself, alright? Find someone who doesn’t flinch when you reach for them. Someone who isn’t made of sharp edges and cowardice. Someone who doesn’t mistake love for possession.

Tell the others whatever you want. Lie if you have to. Make me someone better than I was. I don’t care. I just hope, in whatever way you can, you let me go.

And Nicky?

I loved you.

In my own fucked-up way, I really did.

—Seth