In the dreadful silence of the hauntingly beautiful brick house, Violet Harmon shakily holds the bottle of pills in her hand, contemplating what could be the biggest (and last) decision of her life.

    To not take the medication would be to continue living in the awful world that she was unwillingly thrown into. To take the medication would be to get sweet, sweet relief from the horror show that is her life.

    Images rush through her mind, perhaps her body's way of trying to tell her to make the wise decision and put the orange bottle and all of its contents in the garbage. She pictures her mother and father, a time when they were happier, before her mom lost the baby and her dad cheated. She sees flashes of smiles and hugs and family road trips. She also sees the first boy she fell in love with, the lost boy with the floppy blonde hair and the contagious smile.

    Then she remembers the blank stare on her mother's face after she returned home from the hospital empty handed. The screams of her parents when they fought night after night, attempting to work through problems that would never be fully resolved. The fact that her boyfriend -her sweet, seemingly innocent boyfriend- is dead, and can never leave that house. That he is forever damned to be trapped like a fish in a net, desperate to escape.

    Violet realizes that her decision has already been made, and that she is wasting time. She quickly opens the bottle and begins pouring several of the pills into her hand. Lifting her palm to her mouth, she is seconds away from throwing the medicine down her throat.

    Suddenly, a solid hand is on her arm, turning her around. Oh crap, she thinks, assuming that her dad has caught her trying to kill herself.

    When she is facing the figure that stopped her, though, Violet's muscles relax from their tensed position, her breath coming out in a small gasp.

    "Tate.."

    Tate Langdon towers over Violet, his grip tightening slightly on her forearm, apprehension evident in his eyes.

    "Violet, what are you doing?" Tate asks. His low tone now sounds laced with more pain than usual.

    "Nothing. I wasn't doing anything," Violet tries to answer evenly.

    He nods toward the white capsules in her hand and the half empty bottle on her bed. "Then what are those?"

    "They're to help me sleep." Permanently.

    Tate sighs. "Vi, no. You can't do this to yourself."

    She drops her eyes to the ground, unable to look at the captivating spirit that is Tate Langdon.

    "Tate, I have to do it."

    The grip on her arm loosens, and Violet watches as Tate moves his strong hand from her arm to her handful of pills. Slowly, he pulls her fingers from where they are clenched around the medicine. He keeps his gaze on her face as he rakes them out of her hand and into his own.

    "Please. You can't do this. You don't want to end up like me."

    Tears start to form in Violet's eyes, and she lets them flow freely, not caring to be vulnerable in front of Tate. 

    "Tate, it hurts," she sobs.

    "What, baby?" Tate pleads. "What hurts?"

    "Everything. Life. Breathing. The thought that I could be taken away from you. I can't handle this. I love you too much. I won't leave you. I won't!"

    "Shh, calm down, Violet," Tate says soothingly.

    He picks the bottle up off of her bed and slides the pills back in, securing the lid on and storing it in the back pocket of his jeans. Tate then wraps his arms around Violet's trembling body and draws her to his chest, resting one hand on her lower back and the other in her hair.

    "It's okay, Violet. I'm here."

    "But I won't always be here, Tate," Violet says, her words muffled by his torso.

    Tate closes his eyes tightly, squeezing Violet's small frame as much as he can without hurting her.

    "I love you, Tate. I can't lose you like I lose everyone else."

    The dead boy says simply, "I love you, too."

    "I just want to sleep," Violet whispers, her body going limp.

    "Come on, baby," Tate whispers back, picking Violet up bridal style and placing her on the bed.

    He glances at her for a moment, looks as though he might disappear, but before he can, Violet stretches her hand toward him and clutches to his shirt sleeve.

    "Don't leave me, Tate."

    "I won't," he replies firmly. "I'll never leave you."

    Tate crawls on the mattress and settles in behind Violet, cradling her body gently, as if she is a fragile vase. He strokes her side up and down, a rhythmic pattern, until he notices that her eyes have drifted closed.

    He does as Violet asked and doesn't leave. Tate stays curled up with the girl he loves, the warmth from her radiating out and enclosing them both in an invisible bubble.

    Neither of the two move for hours, and when Violet finally wakes up, she tries not to let Tate know that she isn't still asleep. She wants to stay like this forever, laying with Tate's body lined up to her own, but she won't be able to stay here for that long. So she chooses to stay in bed just a little while more, to memorize the feeling of Tate, his smell, anything she can.

    For now, she doesn't choose life or death. Violet chooses Tate, for all that he is. And she believes with all her heart that this is the best decision she could've ever made.