He pulled his knees up to his chest, memories flashing before his eyes. He felt a pang in his heart; it hurt, it made him want to cry.
But he had cried. All he ever did nowadays was cry, but no one could see.
No one could tell.
He regretted everything he had done to her. Every little mistake he had made, every sign and show of ignorance. It was petty of him; she had told him, in the voicemail, that she had tried to tell him.
"Hi." Her voice brushed against his mind, taunting him. "If you're listening, it means I'm dead."
She knew she was dying. Whether it had been days before, months before, or even weeks before—why hadn't she said?
Why hadn't she just blurted out, "I'm dying"?
He would've listened. He would've cared.
But he had had no idea.
And when his dad had come, tears falling down his face, his eyes red, a tremble in his lips, he had gotten worried.
"What's happened?" he had asked.
"She's dead," his dad had told him, and his heart raced.
"Who?" he had demanded. "WHO?"
He buried his face in his hands. "I would've been there," he said. "I would've...I would've done something."
He remembered the way she used to spin him around and how they used to giggle endlessly. He remembered how she used to throw him onto his bed and run away, squealing.
He missed her.
He described the feeling like he had been torn apart—after all, he had. She had been the person who had always been there for him, no matter what happened.
Even when he stopped talking to her.
Even when he kept on giving her the cold shoulder.
She had still cared.
And that made her death all the worse.
She was the kind of person who would smile at whatever he said, would encourage him to do what he wanted.
But she was gone now.
He would never hear her, ever again; he would never see her, never speak to her, never ever, until he himself died.
But she ensured he wouldn't do that. Her last words had told him to live his life to the fullest.
"Don't you dare think of doing anything stupid," she had said, her voice a whisper. "I don't want to see you where I will be going anytime soon."
Where was she, anyway?
Was she watching him?
Did she see him crying for her, crying for her to come back? Just so that he could apologize, just so that he could say sorry?
"Why did you go?" he whispered. "Why didn't you say?"
He couldn't wish for her to come back.
It wasn't physically possible.
"I love you, I love you," he chanted under his breath. "I..."
His shoulders shook as he sobbed. "Why..." he whispered. "Why is life so unfair? Why did you have to LEAVE?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. "I should've done something," he said, standing, moving toward the photo album that now permanently lay on his desk. He flipped through the pages, staring at her bright smile and eyes, at the way her arm slung around his shoulders, the way she grinned, her pearly white teeth glinting in the light.
She was the definition of perfect; while she had her own insecurities, her own problems, she dealt with them. She didn't watch her life fall into ruins.
Maybe he should've warned her more.
Maybe he shouldn't have let her go.
Maybe he should've fought.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
It didn't change anything.
She was still dead.
He still never got to say goodbye.
He remembered how he had felt when he'd learnt about her death. His legs had trembled. His eyes had widened. And he couldn't breathe.
It was like trying to breathe underwater; he choked. He sobbed. He felt himself break in two.
He had broken into pieces that day.
And he still was like that, two years later.
He traced the outline of her silhouette dancing in the rain, tears dripping down his cheeks, to his chin, and then to the photograph.
"You deserved more," he whispered. "You deserved the world. You didn't deserve to die..."
"I'm sorry, okay?" he shouted, thankful no one was home. "I'm sorry I didn't listen. I'm sorry I never let you explain. Just...just...just WHY. WHY did you freaking have to go?! Why are you gone?! WHY CAN'T YOU JUST COME BACK?"
He collapsed, his knees weak as he swallowed back the tears. He rocked back and forth, his head resting against his knees as his fists clenched together.
Her laughter.
The way her smile cheered him up.
The way, when he'd been younger, she used to toss him an apple before he ran out to get to school, her running after him.
The way she had always cared for him.
Had always thought of him before herself.
He was empty.
He was broken.
And he would probably never heal.
~ Lyn
Words: 827
827 words of nothingness. I'm so, so sorry, I literally blanked out while starting this chapter. And for the people wondering, no, I am not going to reveal the drama of the Reidall twins Charlotte and James.
Not yet.
Honestly, I think like why I wrote this chapter is because I'm still suffering from a nightmare I had last night...it scared me to death and I actually cried and got out of bed to see if he was actually still alive and wasn't dead :(
I actually thought it was real...
(Not telling you who I dreamt of, though, because I don't want it to happen in real life).
Anyway, yeah. Sorry for the trashy chapter :((
Also, this is actually genuine, do you guys like Rosemary? Because I feel like this book is more about Will's point of view and Mr. Italic's point of view more than Rosemary's.
Eagerly awaiting your response!! <33
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𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝...
General FictionA game against time. A story of sibling love. Would it be all right at the end? At twelve years old, Rosemary Miller had been part of an accident that had sent her into a coma for two years. Two years later, when she woke up, she wasn't the same...
