y/n's pov:
{dolorem - a state of heartache that cannot be fixed, not even with time.}
Three days later, and I still hadn't forgotten what Lincoln had said. His words haunted me.
Do you think you're incapable of love, y/n?
He doesn't know me, fuck what he thinks. But then on the other hand, he does know me. I've been around him for over three years now. He saved my life when I was injured, stitched up my wounds and was there for me after everything good in my life was taken from me.
For a short while, he became the only light that I had around me constantly. He was there for me even when I didn't want him to be, and he was never rude or unkind when I couldn't extend the same courtesy to him.
He's never really done anything wrong. So, should I love him?
Should I be in love with him?
On paper it makes sense - he's kind, attractive, and I've figured out for myself a couple times (while super drunk and sad) that he is actually very good in bed. He's an excellent fighter, is even better in his field of medical treatments and never fails to care for me the way he believes is the best he can.
He is good.
So, why am I not in love with him?
I rolled over onto my side, facing my bag of clothes and guns without any bullets in. I was unsure of the time, too, only knowing it to be late as the moon still hung in the sky, illuminating itself through my window.
I only wanted to be asleep - I wished for my head to be submerged underwater, and for myself to become unconscious. I wished for a long and a suffocating dream, one that would wrap me up in its talons, and refuse to let go.
I often think about the reasoning behind my birth. Why I'm here in the first place, and how I've managed to stay here for so long. Why am I not like those who had their lives taken so soon? How have I been allowed to live for this amount of time, and others not?
I'd even say that I could be help partially responsible for some of those reasons. I have stolen the lives of so many, so why should I be granted life?
Frustrated, I roll over to my other side, shivering through the realisation that I had mis-located my blanket. But once I was on my right side, I instantly noticed the dark figure that stood in my doorway.
I didn't scream.
"Gally. Get the fuck out of my room."
I noticed the boy's features immediately. His hair, the shape of his face, his eyebrows, his lips. He didn't look angry, he looked, perhaps, upset.
He took a step into the room. "Y/n. We're worried about you."
Confused, I sat up in my bed, wrapping the blanket I noticed had fallen onto the floor, around my shoulders. "What? I'm fine." I said, running my hands through my hair, rubbing my scalp.
Quickly, Gally moved from the doorway to the edge of my bed, perching himself down on the duvet cover. His face looked flooded with sympathy, and a hint of frustration.
"You've not moved from your bed in three days, y/n. I'm not sure that means you're alright."
I blinked at him rapidly, completely unaware that I had been in my room for that long. I assumed it had only been a few hours.
He continued on once he noticed I was saying nothing. "Did something happen? Lincoln has been acting just as strange."
I felt stupid. I rolled over to the other side. "No. I don't know what you mean. Go to bed."
