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I love it when he plays guitar, his long, slender fingers drift over the six strings, playing the chords and notes so smoothly, you don't realise he actually has until the melodic sound reaches your eardrums. Sometimes, when we've had yet another fight, and I wonder why we bother carrying on, he picks up his guitar and starts playing, and I'm hit with this nostalgia, that takes be back five years to when I was fifteen, and he was sixteen, and he would play for me.

It always reminds me of those long, hot summer days we spent in the arid climate of Las Vegas, doing absolutely nothing with a product, and yet we always seemed to go back to our broken home lives every evening when it became too dark to see, with just a sense of fulfilment, and just a little bit more lust for life than the day before.

He would just pick up his old, battered guitar and I remember being so suprised he could get this beaten up old thing to make such a beautiful sound. He always was one of the best, and he's still just as good even after selling millions of records worldwide. Its not the numbers that make me love him, if I can be as bold to call it that.

It was a poisionous relationship from the start, tainted by the bitter taste of neglect and abuse. I hate and love it at the same time. Its so ugly its beautiful, and all the other dark,twisted cliches you can think of.

His dad used to hit him. More than that I think,abuse maybe, but I don't push it. I know where his boundries are and I respect that. He doesn't like to talk about it, so I don't bring it up. My parents were the sort that pushed for perfection, fucking blonde haired, blue eyes perfection. They argued, and fought and sometimes it got violent. They never layed a finger on me, and for that, I am eternally grateful to God. I've seen what it did to Ryan. Still, I can't say coming home to an house thick with the stench of their hatred had no effect on me. Hatred of eachother, hatred of me.

I was close to losing it that day, I couldn't take it anymore, dark thoughts were becoming a regular occurance, and it scared me. I had made it to the freeway, planning to do something stupid. Jump, run out into the oncoming traffic, I have no idea. I didn't really care anymore. Life and what lay beyond meant nothing to me.

He was sat in the shade of the bridge under the freeway, gently strumming chords. I walked over and slid down the wall next to him and for the next six hours we talked. Talked. I've never had a dark thought after that day.

Summer bubbled, and cooled into fall. The mellow browns and yellows, burntout reds seemed to describe us. We had got past the intense starting point of any relationship, and cooled into a haze of easygoing and what was important. We just enjoyed the time we spent together, hoping we could make it last longer and stay this happy.

He turned seventeen, and started the phenomenon that would become Panic at the Disco along with Spencer. We were still 'made for eachother' as he liked to put it. They got signed, and wrote A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. It all seemed to blur past me Pete Wentz, Decaydence, Fueled By Ramen. It felt like none of it was happening and any moment I would wake up to my suburbian life filled with emptiness and my resentful parents. No Ryan, no happiness.

All good things must come to an end. Ryan was by far the best thing that had ever happened to me. I had sincerely loved him. And I think he loved me too, for a time at least.

I can't say I blamed him when he broke it off. He had met Keltie then. Blonde, beautiful, glamourous Keltie. He had changed, and I had been too blind to see it. He was a fucking style icon to millions of kids for christs sake! Keltie fitted his new image way better than, I could ever.

I sat on a plush couch in the atrium of the Hilton hotel. Ryan was seated across from me, on another plush sofa, a medium sized glass cofee table dividing us. I knew in my heart what was coming, but that didn't prepare me for it in the slightest.

"Nikki, I don't think this is working anymore."

I smiled serenely. "It hasn't been working for a long time, Ryan. Its never worked."

Ryan seemed to cringe away from me. "I'm breaking up with you."

The words seemed to slice through my chest. I shut my eyes.

"Nikki..." Ryan sounded like he would rather be anywhere but here with me. He akwardly patted my shoulder.

Tears leaked from the corners of my closed eyes, they slid down the sides of my cheeks, and dripped onto my blue sweater, leaving little darker blue patches. I had mastered the art of silent crying the countless times my parents had argued, and my mother had stormed out of the house with a black eye or bloody nose.

I gulped, and wiped away my tears with my sleeve. I nodded to Ryan, and gave him a weak smile. "Its okay, I could never be what Keltie is." I instantly regretted it.

Ryan seemed to shrink, he nervously touched his hair, shame written all over his face. I willed myself to feel something other than this awful, bitter resentment.

I quickly got to my feet, nearly knocking the coffee table over in the process. "I have somwhere to be..." I trailed off, giving Ryan one last sad look before spinning on my heel, and striding out of the doors, trying to supress my tears. I needed to tell him. My conscience was screaming at me to tell him before it was too late, but I kept on walking. I couldn't stand seeing him knowing he had been fucking Keltie behind my back for God knows how long.

My foot twisted and I winced in pain, and I went off the sidewalk and into the road.

"NICOLA!" I heard Ryans desparate plea from behind me. I turned, I turned and, and...

______________________________________________________________________________

Her heart slowly stopped , the slightly irregular beats shown on the monitor shrinking in size until there was just a straight green line, and a dull beep filled the room.

A young man of about twenty one, sat in the hospital waiting room, his head in his hands. If you looked closely you could see his eyes were slightly bloodshot and puffy, and there were faint tear tracks down his boyish cheeks. His hair was messy, from three hours worth of nervously running his fingers through it.

"Mr Ross?" He felt a sympathetic hand on his shoulder and he knew he would never forgive himself.

He let the grey haired doctor lead him through to a office, and sat him down.

"We're terribly sorry, but Nicola Greaves didn't make it. There was too much trauma to her internal organs, we couldn't stop the bleeding. The car just hit her too hard."

Ryan felt the breath leave him.

"There was something else." The doctor continuted. "Um, blood tests show she was two months pregnant. You knew her personally, would you have any idea who the father was? We need to inform him straight away."