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“Why?” Your brows furrow, an annoyance sparking in your chest at the utter validity of the question, if only because you had not expected it. You do not have an answer for him, even as you clutch desperately to those sparks, nothing but sorrow comes to you. “Because I—she… she,“ was already gone, never to come back to me. You blink harshly against the day, fighting back the tears that brim your eyes, uncomfortably hot, uncomfortably vulnerable, in the face of your Sun. But you will not give to him, will not crumble, refuse to break, to let him know just how much he means to you still. He does not deserve it, does not deserve you, your withering love. “Do you want me to say that I would miss you? Is that what you want, for me to need you? To hear that I wouldn’t be able to bear losing you to something other than your mind, that I would have looked at you, only to see the nothingness of death staring back, and I would have regretted it?” The words are spat like venom, heated and angry and hurt, the tears that brimmed your eyes finally falling heavily, another sob racking your body as your walls come down, knowing just how much it would hurt him, wanting that release, to make him bleed for every wrong that he has(nt) done.
“Maybe once.” It is a double-edged sword, and for everything you throw at him it cuts you just as deep, slicing through the remnants of what had once been something beautiful between the two of you, something to be treasured, something that he has simply thrown away. “You took that choice from me, Mis.” You croak, shaking your head, looking anywhere, anywhere but his face, where too many truths may lay hidden. “For running when you should have stayed, for touching her—“ Your words turn in to a snarl, teeth clamping together audibly. “For touching her, for seeking to cause pain when it should have been comfort,” Your face lifts towards him again, though your eyes do not search for his, too afraid, always too afraid. “You are as good as dead to me anymore.” ‘I never wanted to.’ You nearly scoff at his words, your eyes rolling in their sockets as you actually look at him for the first time in too long, his face turned from you, something like regret notched all over it. For just a moment your feverish upset breaks, concern for him washing the taste of disgust from your mouth. Your body rocks forward out of habit, seeking to comfort him, but your limbs are stone, and as he speaks, your heart follows suite. ‘…that you love someone else, that is not me.”’ “I don’t—“
But you cannot even finish the sentence, finding yourself suddenly short of breath, too stunned to hold on to any one thought. Is that what he saw, between a grieving mother and a man, a man that means all too much between, without, all of those little things that he has done? “I,” I don’t love him, I don’t—I—love him, I love him. You gasp against the tightness in your chest, fight to breathe, as the realization sinks in, as the pieces click and it feels so right, so right and so, so wrong. It breathes new life into your fear, stamps out the last embers of your strength to fight it. You had almost forgotten the man that stands before you, almost, until he shatters your illusion, pulls you from your proverbial (storm)cloud. ‘When I just wanted you to love me because I loved you.’ You can only blink stupidly at him, trying your best to understand. ‘I still do. I always will.’ It had never been a question of why the two of you were so close; it had always just been. You need(ed) him, want(ed) him, and you had thought that it was reciprocated, that it was enough for him for it to just be without adding words that only have the capability to fuck everything over, without adding feelings that only have the capability to turn caustic.
It had always been enough for you, but as he says it, says those words that you have been dying to hear, offers you freely what you have longed for (from another), you can only stare, writhe in the pain that it is to hear them come from his lips. As he says it (and you had hope that you heard wrong, hoped that he didn’t mean it, had said anything, anything but the words that he mutters, chokes on), you flinch, because you do not have the heart to tell him. “Why?” You do not have the heart to tell him that you do not love him. Need him, want him, miss him when he is not around, yes, maybe once, but never love. You do not possess the strength to tell him that for all of your anger, all of the backlash you have given him, his jealousy is worthy. That, despite all of your denial, he is right: your heart does, will always, belong to him, to a boy with his summer eyes, his terribly sweet smile. “Why.” You demand again, and again your voice wavers, shaking before his heart’s nakedness.
It is in this moment that your heart trembles, because for everything that he is, all of his love, you feel nothing.
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if there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
