the last brushstroke destroys the painting [muke af]

thirty six

thirty six

Six months. Half a year. It was starting to truly hit Michael that his first—and most likely only—love was truly gone. His brain couldn't accept that the love of his life lost the light from his eyes. Even after he watched the casket sink six feet underground, Michael refused to believe he was dead.

Dead is a scary word.

Michael can't hold a brush anymore. His fingers shake and drop the wooden brush. He cries out as it falls to the floor of his studio.

Everything really hurts. It hurts far more than Michael thought it would. He's unable to leave the house, he just can't face the ugly world without his pretty boy by his side.

The art store is a disaster to Michael. He walked in on Luke's shift and the man at the counter was not Luke. Michael is pretty sure that's when his world collapsed. When he realized that Luke wasn't in his bed, wasn't in Mike's loft, and wasn't at the art store.

It hit him like a fast train: Luke was really dead.

Michael constantly feels like he's suffocating. His heavy eyes can't stay open. He just needs Luke like pills. Luke is a drug, and he was forced to quit cold turkey.

Mike tries to tell himself that there's an after life where Luke is happy and living freely. But, Michael isn't sure. He never believed in religion, which makes him feel like he isn't allowed to believe in an afterlife.

Michael hopes that Luke is at least content now.

The nineteen-year-old wonders if this is what Luke felt like every single day. Did he feel physically ill every time his feet hit the ground? Was he able to watch the sun rise without letting his tears fall? Did sleep feel like death to Luke?

Michael knew he just dug himself into a really deep hole, and nothing was helping. He didn't want to die, but he didn't want to live, either.