- 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜/𝚠𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 -

- 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 -

∙ ⸰ ⊱ ❀ ⊰ ⸰ ∙
- 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 -

He calls you an angel, even when addressing a ghost.

Maybe you truly are a being that is no more. A lost soul wandering this plane in search of something, something she couldn't find before she uttered her last breath—before she lost sight of everything she knew to look for.

All you can hope for is, that isn't the case.

| ♫︎ 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕 - 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚊 |

"I'm sorry."

He looks at you, tracing his eyes over your pale, nearly lifeless face—the same as his own. "Why are you sorry?"

"I feel at fault." You do feel at fault. You, of all people, know accidents are called "accidents" for a reason, but you also know such can never occur without a source. Just like clothes cannot be stained a crimson hue without blood pooling from open wounds.

Just like life cannot end without death, without someone left to miss them once they're gone.

He knows that too, evidently better than you. His brows furrow slightly, replacing the tension they once held with undeniable softness. "I promise you—this isn't your fault."

He's always done his best to assure you. Most of the time, his efforts result in success, but in this moment, you're having trouble settling on his words. He's never lied to you, so why would he now?

The lenses of your dimmed eyes cloud over with defeat and strikes of guilt. "I should've told her to stay home."

His gentle expression quickly turns to one of concern. "Then... you would be gone."

Flames of sorrow ignite behind your eyes, and tears burn through your lashes like lava. "Yeah, I would, but she would still be here."

The skin beneath his viridian eyes reddens as every emotion he's been trying to hide beats him in their duel. Never has he accepted defeat, but now, he might as well be a loser incapable of ever winning.

All he knows is loss.

He pushes down the struggle that begs to rise from his chest, continuing to fight a losing battle. Words refuse to slip past the barrier of his teeth, using the bone as a wall to cower behind. The drawn-out hesitance forces each syllable back down into the depths of his throat, unwilling to climb back out, no matter how desperate he may be to speak.

All you can do is stand and watch as he tries to keep from crumbling to the tile you both stand on, barely standing at all. Ever since then, he hasn't dared to think back on what happened out of nothing but fear—fear that he won't ever be able to stop grieving.