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Over the days you had convinced yourself that the man that you had known had been nothing but a dream, but a figment of your imagination sewn together from nothing but a passing face, your overwhelming desire to love and to be loved in return. You had convinced yourself that nothing could be that innoect, pure, perfect, that tangible, that ... that real. You had waited for days for the weather to clear, at war with yourself of whether you should even return, whether you should let it die, let it fade and save yourself the heartache of loss. Your habits had always been to love those who wouldn’t love you in return, love those that you thought needed it so that they wouldn’t have to be alone – to love those that would crush you, because it was what was better for them.
How could this be any different, if he was even real? But even with these worries, all of your hesitations, you couldn’t shake the hours that you had spent, sitting and talking about things you don’t even remember, so close, so fucking close, so – ‘even if it’s not right, I want it to be.’ You do remember how that felt, how agonizingly beautiful it, he, you, all of it was in those moments, those hours, weeks, decades, centuries.
You would have given them all, if only just for him.
In the end, it wasn’t even a question whether you should or not; it had turned into something you needed, wanted, craved. Even as you make your way, your knees weak, your hummingbird heart lodged in your throat, you do not feel any hesitation. Are you afraid? Yes. But even so you have never been more sure of anything. You sigh as your mismatched eyes sweep past the room as it glitters in the waning sun, as empty as you convinced yourself it would be. Despite this you cringe as your heart plummets, aching to the core, the ember of hope that you had guarded extinguished in a singular second. For moments you simply stand, trying to force yourself to swallow the tears stinging your eyes, the loneliness that had been slowly eating away at you, the thought that someone had actually wanted you.
It seems somehow bigger than it had before, a gaping hole in the middle of a land lost to the throes of winter. With a shaky breath you enter the place of your dreams, brushing the walls softly with your muzzle, eyes wandering to explore every inch of ice, exactly as you remember it. You had had the question of your knowledge of this place if it had in fact been a dream, though had come to the conclusion that it is close enough to your home that you may have passed it without realizing, or maybe someone had said something about it. Now you simply dismiss it as a feeble attempt at convincing yourself everything had been real.
'You're pathetic.'
A quiet breath, anxious, defeated.
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like punching in a dream, breathing life into a nightmare
