"You don't even try!" He sat there, taking it in, not even flinching. He knew now, there was no way out. "You don't care, you don't even pretend to care!" He let his memories drift back to the last time this happened. And the one before. And the one before that. He couldn't even cry this time. He felt so tired of everything, felt them screaming at him again, felt the piercing glare of the thousand demons lying in wait all around him, bickering about who got the last scraps of sanity. He hoped they'd decide soon.
He didn't listen to what she said. He hoped she'd give up on him like she should've done. He thought about how much better things would have been if she'd abandoned him when things started going wrong. Or if he'd accepted the advice of his friends and not talked to her. He would have died alone and unloved, just like he wants to now. Just like he has done for months. He just needs to find a way to make her hate him. He doesn't mean to but subconsciously, he pushes her away. His mind sets up barriers, stopping him doing basic things right. He starts to mess up everything, not that he got much right before.
He puts the phone down. He wasn't talking; he has nothing to say. 'She'll want to kill herself again because of me' he thinks to himself. He curses himself for even trying another relationship. He should've just resigned himself to being alone. Would've helped save a lot of people a lot of effort. So he sits and waits. He unplugs the phone so he can be alone, or as far alone as he can without drawing attention. He says he'll do it tonight. He knows he won't.
Instead he decides he'll go back to being alone. That would be better for everyone else. Then he wouldn't ruin them too. He'll go back to being alone with his thoughts.
His mind begins to drift, he reads a webcomic. It begins to leak into his thoughts, latching onto his old memories, his buried personality. He glances at the figure sitting beside him, fuzzy but with recognizable features. It has been a long time since he saw it.
But, as before, they ignore each other until he is in his room. Then, they sit and talk, as he watches the figure's features become more discernible. Then it vanishes. He wishes she would stay longer, wishes his mind would collapse completely so she'd have a permanent form.
Instead he lies in bed, writing. He couldn't do it. He knows how to now, though.

He knows his uselessness is fact, and no longer an opinion. He didn't even buy her a gift. He ruined everything like he always does.
He does not deserve to die.
He deserves to be tortured.

The End

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