It was mid-February when Mike died. Nobody had expected it to happen—the screams, the agony, the premature death of a man who had so much to live up to; so much still to achieve. Mike had always kept a humble outlook on his life to avoid succumbing to the dreaded downfall of that rock star cliché, therefore he felt as if nothing he had done was ever good enough. Sure—he was proud of what he did, everyone was. But he always felt that he could have done better in the back of his mind, just a little more fine-tuning of a certain guitar note, or a better rhyme in a lyric. Mike was always striving for the satisfaction he yearned ever since he first set foot into a recording studio.

I—Chester Bennington—always seemed to be the one Mike went to for approval. If he were uncertain of a characteristic of a song or a beat, he’d always turn to me for advice. For guidance. I don’t exactly know why he chose me, I guess we were just close friends that way, but every time I looked at him under those circumstances he looked like he was struggling with something more internal. It wasn’t just the lyric or the beat he was unsatisfied with. There was something deeper.

“My insides all turned to ash, so slow
And blew away as I collapsed, so cold
A black wind took them away, from sight
And now the darkness over day, that night.”

I tried asking him about it. When the rest of the band left the room to go out for a bite of lunch, I’d always stay behind to see if Mike wanted to talk. That look in his eyes broke me into pieces, though. Even though he’d always say he was fine, I was certain he wasn’t. When he said he was fine, his eyes screamed he was bleeding inside. When he smiled at me, I knew that he was beating himself up inside. There was always so much left to prove when it came to Mike. His desire for perfection drove him to near insanity sometimes, to complete obsession, where I’d wake up in the middle of the night to see him hovering over me with a lap full of paper, saying, “Chester, I have it, I have the lyrics. It’s amazing, I’ve been working on it all night. I need you to tell me what you think.” It was always three in the morning when his gleaming eyes confronted me with those requests. After I’d read the lyrics, he’d scramble over and hug me tightly with a huge grin on his face. But then he’d become silent. He would take his papers and let go of me, crawling into a corner of the studio where he’d scribble and tear apart all of the work he’d done. Nothing seemed to ever be good enough.

“And the clouds above move closer
Looking so dissatisfied
But the heartless wind kept blowing, blowing…”

Nobody in the band except for me knew about Mike’s struggle with perfection. They knew he was a perfectionist—that was certain—but they didn’t comprehend the intensity of his desire, how deep his emotions went when something went terribly wrong. They put their faith in Mike when Mike wasn’t able to even put faith into himself. After a while he came to me not only for advice, but also for consolation. Many a night would I stay awake until the sunrise holding Mike’s trembling body in my arms as he wept. Those days he felt especially weak, especially fragile. I was afraid to touch him for he might have bled upon contact. We kissed a few times, but it wasn’t anything serious. He yearned for affection, any kind of love that would help him through the night.

“I used to be my own protection, but not now
Cause my path has lost direction, somehow
A black wind took you away, from sight
And now the darkness over day, that night.”

It got so bad that I found him one day, alone, in the recording studio, broken guitars and musical equipment lying around him like a crown of pure dissatisfaction. He’d be screaming incoherent words and throw another guitar into the floor, then crashed his own body down into the sea of sharp wood. He bled. I asked him what was wrong, but nothing that came out of his mouth made sense. He’d say to me that nothing mattered anymore; that nothing he ever did was good enough. He said that he was surprised the band still stuck to him like glue because he was a failure. I hugged him, but he pushed me away. It was only then when I realized something was utterly wrong with him. I looked at the floor of broken guitars and saw his blood smeared into the wood. He wasn’t safe anymore.

I held a conference with the band the next day, telling them about Mike. I told them about his drive for perfection and how bad it had gotten over the past few weeks. I described the scene with the bloody guitars and told the other members that Mike wasn’t safe around himself anymore, and that I was afraid he’d hurt himself more if we didn’t do something soon. I was concerned for Mike, and quite frankly I was more afraid of him than his perfectionism—one false word and I thought I’d send him over the edge. So we had to plan this carefully.

It was the last thing we probably should have done. I feel guilty for even bringing the subject forward. I made Brad confront Mike, although I should have been the one to do it myself, and made Brad ask Mike if he thought something was wrong with his head. Mike immediately narrowed his eyes and started yelling, throwing Brad into a wall. And even though they’ve been friends since they were teenagers, they seemed so distant. It was the worst thing I could have possibly done. The whole room vibrated with the shrieks of Mike denying his insanity, and blaming it on Brad and everybody else the reason why he always felt so pressured. The truth was, Mike did think there was something wrong with his head. He told me himself. But the fact that Brad had asked him out of the blue had gotten him angry, so Mike stomped out of the room, leaving the rest of the band in cold silence.

“And the clouds above move closer
Looking so dissatisfied
And the ground below grew colder
As they put you down inside
But the heartless wind kept blowing, blowing…”

They found Mike’s body on the side of the road. He had gotten into a car crash, and he had been drinking. I knew I never should have left him alone. I knew I should have ran into the room when he was yelling at Brad, I knew I should have held him tightly and whispered that it was going to be okay, that I was by his side—always—that I loved him more than anything, and that I’d help him through it. But I betrayed his trust. I let him get into that car and drive off with a self-destructive fury in his eye that I knew all too well. And when the police called us, I broke down crying. I could have prevented it. I could have saved his life.

At the funeral I spoke for him. I stood up in front of the two-dozen people that were there, and spoke of Mike, and how proud I was of him despite all of his failed attempts to take pride in himself. I spoke of his triumphs and his failures, but most importantly, how he could turn a single strand of music into something so powerful it broke me down inside. Even though his strive for perfection benefited and made Linkin Park the band we all grew to love, it was what killed him in the end. I broke down crying in the middle of my speech, the February breeze cutting into my soul like a million daggers.

“So now you're gone, and I was wrong
I never knew what it was like, to be alone
On a Valentines Day.”

Mike Shinoda died on February 14th. Valentines Day. I had my band, I had my wife, but I didn’t have Mike. And that alone made me feel so utterly alone. I always hold a special place in my heart for him, because the times we shared together were precious. He could relate to me like nobody else could, even though we had such different beliefs and personalities. But our emotions were in sync. He understood me, and I understood him. That alone made all the difference.

Every Valentine’s Day after his death, I’d visit his grave and sing to him. I’d sit on the ground and rock my body back and forth somberly to the tune of the music, to let him know that even after death, I’m still here for him. I’d always place a single red rose on his grave in the white snow after my lullaby, and kiss it goodnight. Mike Shinoda wasn’t his own protection, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t be.