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» A YEAR LATER PT.2 «

Memories Are Harder When You Can't Share Them

"I didn't change much. You took most of the stuff with you when you moved to Hilltop." Michonne took me further down the hall but I already knew the way. I had lived here not so long ago, walking this same path to the bedroom. I could see from here where the paint had chipped on the frame, white peeling away to present dark oak. The sight made me frown subtly, confused about why Michonne never painted over it.

The door swung open to reveal a mostly empty room, the bed untouched for a long time and dust collecting on the dresser. I could almost see the place where I used to keep a pile of books, and the scratch on the wall from where I placed my sword down too aggressively.

"I'll see you in the morning." Michonne bid me goodnight before retreating to her own room, seemingly sensing my feelings. It had been a long time since I even stepped foot in this room, our room.

Despite the ruins inside, the walls of Alexandria remained intact, shielding the smouldering rubble from the outside world. Not a lot remained other than the house that belonged to Rick, to Michonne and myself. I supposed Negan decided not to blow this one up to make a point.

My head bounced on the headrest as the car shuddered to a halt, stopping right outside the building I called home. Rick and Michonne got out first, most likely to instruct the other people where to go. It would take a long time to rebuild this place, but they were determined to do it.

I, on the other hand, didn't think I could care less. The future of this community, my future, was apparently nothing without him. They could make new structures and plant new farms, but it would be meaningless to me.

I was only here for one thing.

My feet dragged as I walked up the porch steps, my face seemingly emotionless no matter what I was feeling inside. Pain, heartbreak, loneliness. I couldn't be sure when I last spoke but I knew whatever words came now would be hoarse and dry.

My movements froze altogether when I reached the door, my fingers subconsciously picking at the frame. I could feel the white paint under my nails, digging into the soft skin and turning it red as the wood splintered.

'I can't do it.'

"I can do it." I whispered to myself, my fingers tightening around the handle and pushing it open in a slow swing.

The room was messy, books strewn across the floor and half folded clothes draped over the chair. It didn't feel like home anymore.

I swallowed hard, the first foot stepping over the border. I felt nothing. No dread, no relief, just a strange emptiness.

The second step and it all seemed to come at once. Maybe it was the room or maybe it was that my eyes had settled on a crumpled T-shirt, slightly tucked under the blanket of the bed. It had been his, the one he slept in. I could remember my fingers curling around it as we mumbled sweet words to each other until we drifted to sleep.

My teeth drove into my tongue harshly, the idea of physical pain more appealing than whatever was going on inside me. Even the stinging behind my eyes was almost satisfying.

My body worked without command, setting the books in a neat pile and shoving clothes in drawers haphazardly. If I couldn't see it then it was no longer a problem. I wiped the dust from the window, cleaning smears from the glass and briefly looking outside.

Rick and Michonne were on the porch, hand in hand. I hated myself for the pang of jealousy that shot through my heart. They were suffering just as much as I was.