𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐜 | 𝐃𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Epoligue

The story is officially complete! Thank you all so much for the reads and support you've given me throughout this process. I hope you enjoyed this story, please enjoy the last chapter of this book. (I may publish another work that I've been working on sooner or later, who knows. I will be publishing it eventually though. Thank you.)

He sat still on the bed and admired the painting, running his thumb over the sides of it. "I love you y/n." He said as if she were still alive. "I love you." He repeated.

He did this every day, it was part of his routine. His hair was gray now and he couldn't remember much, but this was the one thing that stuck in his mind. He was lonely, but he preferred it that way.

Most of his friends were long gone because death caught them. One died in war, one died due to poor drinking habits, one died of old age, one died of murder, and one died of suicide. Him and Pony were the only ones left, but they drifted apart years ago.

He thought he'd die first, but who knew he'd be one of the last. He believed it was because of her. He wanted to commit so many times, but something held him back. He wanted to die a drunkard, but something held him back. He wanted to die, but something held him back. It was her. It's what she would've wanted, because that's the reason she tried to save him in the first place. He didn't want her death to be meaningless, so he tried his best to stay alive.

He used to cry over the sweet memories he had with her, but now he smiles, because that's what she would've wanted. Every day, no matter what, he'd pick up her painting and only think of her. Her white smile, her glimmering eyes, her soft hair, her lips, her body, her voice, her personality. Her.

He never got with anyone else, because he couldn't, he didn't want to. He only loved her and he only ever wanted to love her, no one else. It's sad, yes, but to him it wasn't. Because in his mind, she was still alive, still smiling, talking, listening, looking.

So now he ran his wrinkled fingers over the painting, with her in mind. He loved her. He loved her.