𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 ~ | 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘝𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯 (2)

037 || I forgive you

I cut my finger.

It wasn't a big cut. Made by a simple mistake, a slip of the knife.

It was strange.

As I looked at the tiny droplet of crimson forming on my skin...

I felt nothing.

No pain,

no surprise,

no fear.

It was as if my body had gone numb, my heart had slowed. It felt as if the air inside my lungs was just the same as the air around me.

The blood left a small red stream, and it slipped slowly down my finger, pooling in the palm of my hand. I watched it curiously.

I glanced at Max, who was sitting on the floor, playing with Clemmie, oblivious to the small mishap I had just encountered.

He was oblivious to so much more.

Just because my heart was failing shouldn't mean that his had to be broken. That I should be the one to break it.

Again.

I looked at him, really looked at him, as if for the first time. His hair was mussed from where he'd been running his fingers through it, his skin flushed from laughter. He was wearing the same blue sweater I'd given him for Christmas last year, the one with the small tear at the cuff.

His eyes were slightly crinkled at the corners, and when he smiled, it was like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. I felt my heart ache, not just from the knowledge of what I was about to do, but from the sheer beauty of the man sitting before me. The man who had loved me unconditionally, who had promised to never give up on me.

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint sounds of laughter and the gentle patter of rain against the window.

Now I felt the sting.

I looked back at my hand, at the blood that continued to trickle out, and felt a sudden, overwhelming sense of fragility.

As if everything around me were made of glass, and at any moment, it could all shatter into a thousand pieces.

The pain was there now, a sharp, stabbing sensation that seemed to radiate out from my finger, spreading through my body like wildfire. I could feel the warmth of it, the weight of it, and with each passing second, it grew stronger, more insistent.

I liked it.

It was a cruel reminder of my mortality.

The blood that trickled down my finger, the pain that throbbed in my hand. It was as if nature herself had decided to play a twisted game with me, taunting me with the knowledge that my time was running out.

Time.

It was slipping through my fingers like grains of sand.

Time.

It was funny, really. Time was a strange thing. It was always there, always moving. But we never really appreciated it until it was gone. Until we were left with only the memories, the what-ifs, and the could-have-beens.

But now what I was really thinking about was something more important. Something more powerful than time, no matter how short or precious it was.

Love.

I hated love sometimes.

The times when it felt like the world was caving in on me, when it felt like there was no air left to breathe.