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∙ ⸰ ⊱ ❀ ⊰ ⸰ ∙ | ♫︎ 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕'𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚕 - 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎 |
Distractions—they're everywhere. One just needs to look for them.
You and Eren find them on those roads, those scenic drives, and that horizon that's so far away, marking the end of all you can see. You wish you could reach the horizon, drop off right where the ocean does, and fall into that place that never ends, but Eren would fall, too, and you really don't want that.
The two of you are connected by a wire—one you both willingly binded that night on the beach and one you'll never cut. Knowing this, you'll never jump. You'll never lose that part of you that dares to run away because he'll end up tailing you, endlessly. But he won't bring you back—not to a place where that part of you no longer wants to stay. He wouldn't put his wants before yours. Ever.
He'll let you go as long as he can tag along; follow you to that place where life and death have never existed and will never exist. A place where the two of you can just be the two of you.
It's just death. Nothing more.
That's all the fuck it is.
But death has stolen the author who's been writing your book, and you can only see blank pages from this point on. There are still so many chapters left, but you can't seem to line them with words all on your lonesome because you're just a character, a name, lacking power over your own story.
Maybe—no, hopefully, one day, you'll learn to take the reins and guide your steed down the path of your choice, no matter if it's a smooth or rocky one. As long as you have a say, you'll be content.
As long as you have a pen to write with.
That horizon becomes blurry, the choppy ocean mixing with the cloudless sky. Ever since Daisy was taken by her heartbreak, that's all you've felt. Now, the tears just pour out of you, and you let them. You let them burn your eyes, douse your lashes, and stain your cheeks. You just let them have their way with you because there's no more fight left in you to change your ways, even with the unrelenting ache in your head. You can't remember the last time you were free of it.
All grief had to do was walk behind your willing body, follow you into that cell with your name chalked in your favorite colors on a board you enjoyed hanging. You no longer push down that ache. You live in it, drown in it. If you don't, you have nothing left to make of yourself.
You're crying, hurting, losing. This fixed duel with loss has already been won. And you're standing—trying to—listening to death as it revels in its victory while you're bloody and bruised, worn and poured empty of every ounce of whatever composure you once had.
