Eren Yeager had always been a child. From birth to the day he died. He lived with a selfish, childish dream to find freedom. Yet, freedom was a manifestation of his innate desire to fill the boredom swallowing him whole. It killed him.
But before t...
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When I went to our designated bench, I didn't see you anywhere. Instead, there was a note on the seat. I knew you left it. It could only be you who would go out of their way to do such a considerate thing.
I never knew someone's handwriting could look so beautiful. The ink painting the parchment flows like flower chains— or like long rivers with crystals seemingly shining on the surface. If I bring the paper close to my face, I can see the splotches of coffee, tainting the clear white to a beige-ish brown colour. A whiff of its scent reaches my nose, and for some reason, I can smell you on it, too.
It's equally tranquil as it is frightening. To have so little of you. Yet to hold something that means a lot. I can feel the brittleness of the paper between my fingers. My nails are blunt; there's dried blood under them. I scratched my face last night. The skin under my eyes was burning, and I scratched and scratched, hoping to relieve the pain
It only made it worse.
Somewhere, a desperate part of me, hoped you would come and tend to the wounds.
Your handwriting is memorised in my brain.
Even that little doodle in the corner.
You know, it reminds me of Jean and his drawings. It looked simple and cute. Nowhere near Jean's level of technicality, but it's beautiful nonetheless. In my eyes, this is art. A piece of drawing that can render (yes, render. I'm making a joke. I hope you laughed) people's hearts alight with kaleidoscopic emotions.
You apologised for not being able to see me today; you had a jam-packed schedule. You promised to visit me as soon as possible— with cake, too, leaving a small heart at the end. You even drew stick figures of us: you with an arm stretched out and a poorly drawn slice of cake in your stick-like fingers.
You drew smiles on our faces.
It's funny, really.
Because I'm smiling now.
You got the slight curve correct, even if it was a squiggly line. I never smile too widely; I haven't in a while. I think you know that.
That's why you always try to get me to smile, and why you don't push me into stretching my lips 'till my cheeks hurt.
Every part of me always hurts.
I don't want to add more fuel to the fire.
I never had the chance to be soft. I was always bloody pierced hands and sore throats.
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me.
So why, tell me, sweetheart, am I so afraid of hurting you? My bones ache where they lay. I feel as if they are sagging. There are days where it hurts to move— where it hurts to breathe. Such simple actions suck out so much energy from my body.
Being in your presence will solve all my problems.
