there is only us | wilbur soot x reader

Chapter 27 - Something

Wilbur POV

CW: panic attack

In the beginning, there was Nothing. And out of the Nothing came two Somethings. Those two Somethings traveled the Nothing, looking for Something else, Something over than itself. And when they found each other, they rejoiced. They held each other, reveling in Something. They had spent their entire lives alone, searching for Something in Nothing. And now, together, they were Everything.

They stayed that way forever, in each other's arms, and around them grew millions of Somethings. Organs and muscles and blood and bone and skin. Everything, surrounded by Somethings, protected from the Nothing. Everything was Everything and Nothing was Nothing. Everything was made up of the absence of Nothing, and Nothing was made up of the absence of Everything, and Something was Everything and Nothing.

Love was Everything and loneliness was Nothing. In the absence of loneliness was love, and in the absence of love was loneliness. And Something was Everything and Nothing. The people were Something, with a little bit of love and a little bit of loneliness too. And they traveled the world, looking for another so that they might not be so alone, so that they could be only lovers, so that they could hold each other close and feel Everything.

Everything was Everything. Hope and joy were Everything, but so were sadness and anger. And together, the people felt Everything, but when they were apart, they felt Nothing too. But Nothing was a trickster, and it felt like Everything. It felt like pain, and despair, and heartbreak, but what is heartbreak if not Everything becoming Something? What is heartbreak if not Nothing returning to reclaim its place among Everything? In the beginning, there was Nothing, and in the end, there will be Everything. But now, in this moment, in neither the beginning nor the end, there is only Something.

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Every action has an equal opposite reaction. Cause and effect. It's science. It's reason. It's all my fault. This was history repeating itself. (Y/n) left, again, because I had hardly even tried to convince her to stay. I had let her go, but this time, I couldn't even find the strength, the courage to watch. I was scared that, if I looked up, I would see my heart in her hands. It felt that way, most days in Pogtopia; as if my body was in one place, but my heart was somewhere else, far, far away. Somewhere where I could barely feel it beating, could barely remember what it was like to be whole. And in between my ribs was Nothing.

But that couldn't be true. Because, if my heart really was somewhere else, why could I feel it breaking? Surely, I was dying. That had to be it; there was no other explanation for that kind of pain. It felt as if I was tearing in two; not only my heart but my lungs, my head, Everything. Heart and flesh and blood and bones and all. Half of me remained in the clearing, alone and lonely, and (Y/n) took the other half with her, the pain growing with every step she took, the distance tearing at the very seams holding me together. I felt guilty. I felt angry. I felt scared. I felt alone. I felt Everything. I felt so much pain, in waves and tsunamis. Surely, I was dying.

Was it a heart attack? Cardiac arrest? Why couldn't I breathe? Why was I crying? How had I ended up on the ground? There was dirt beneath my fingernails, shredded grass stuck to the palms of my hands, tears on my face, my hands, the grass, the dirt, my hands, my hands, my hands. How had I ended up here? What was making that noise? What was I meant to do with my hands? Should I have held her closer? Should I have pulled her back? Should I have fallen to my knees and begged, cried and pleaded and made promises I couldn't keep? And what was making that noise? If it didn't stop, it would give me away.

My hands were shaking. I could barely see in front of me. I was alone, she was gone, I was going, I was alone, and it was all my fault. My fault, my hands, my fault, my hands. Someone else's hands, all over me; my face, my shoulders, my arms, my hands. Wiping at my tears, pressing on my pulse, tapping on my knees. Someone was calling my name. My name, my fault, my hands. "Wilbur! Wilbur, can you hear me?" I could hear them. I could hear everything. I could hear myself: "I am dying. I am dying. My fault, my hands, my fault, my hands."