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∙ ⸰ ⊱ 𝚑𝚎𝚛 ⊰ ⸰ ∙
Liar.
You're not okay, no matter how many times you try to tell yourself and the people you love.
You aren't, no matter how badly you want him to believe you to be.
Eren only shakes his head. It's all he can do to express his denial through the tears that won't stop flooding along his waterline.
He never looks up, continuously burning holes through the tile floor below the bed with his unrelenting gaze. You beg to reach out to him, to trail your fingers through his dark hair, desperate to let him feel your ease, but your bones remain locked to the mattress, unable to lift a single inch beneath the imaginary restraints that tether you down. He brings his own hand to your shin with little to no struggle, placing his palm on the numb extremity as the blanket coats your skin. You desperately wish you could feel its warmth—his warmth.
"Would you rather me say," you pause—a silent and torturous pause, "that I'm dying?" The sentence is spoken so blatantly, as if it's been begging to leak past your lips for centuries, even when it's only been a week or so; as if it has no consequences. A part of you wishes the words were never allowed to be let loose from the containment of your throat, simply due to the utter weight of them.
You could barely hold them; keep them above ground, and now you've forced the burden onto him when he's not any better at carrying the load.
Eren's head lifts, his eyes sending daggers through your exterior rather than the cold surface beneath him. "You aren't dying," his tone is desperate and stern, lingering with hints of persuasion that will knowingly fail to persuade. He's pushing it, and he knows that.
"Then, what am I, Eren?" your brows pull together as you question him, drawing with this hurtful truth you want so badly to be a lie.
"You're..." He hesitates, unable to come up with an answer right off the bat. "You're someone I need to stay."
He's already lost so much in his life, and you don't blame him for wanting to be selfish, just this once.
Your hazy eyes gloss over, lids lowering with sorrow. The tears begin falling slowly from your waterline again, sliding down to the skin lining your pale, blood-drained lips.
"I want a future with you. I want to see you walk that stage in your cap and gown next year. I want to build a life with you, spend the rest of my days with you..." The wishes pour from him like wine, spilling onto the floor and staining the white tile with its deep red hue. No matter how many times he might try to wipe the stain away, there'll always be a mark reminding him of what could be or of what could've been.
With the silence following his words, an overwhelming sense of dread washes over your being, forcing the tears to seep further into your pores. "What if we can't have that future?" You don't mean to be so pessimistic, but you'd rather be realistic with him than leave him hoping for an outcome that may never be.
