brainchild | z.m. & n.h. au

i.

Dear You,

I cracked my fingers today. My knuckles popped and I ogled the scar that runs across my middle finger on my right hand—the one that’s shaped so precisely like a V, I wonder if it was carved into my skin. It’s funny; I don’t remember where it came from. I have no recollection of childish activities leaving me bruised—no memory of catching my finger in a drawer or a hinge when I was being careless. It’s like it’s always been there, only I know it hasn’t. I can’t explain how I know. After all, I don’t know much of anything these days.

I’m a bit empty, see. And by a bit I mean extremely. My head is cavernous most days—quiet and resonant like the Grand Canyon, only I am not a landmark. I am in no way grand or spectacular or thrilling. I am an empty glass shell. Not even my soul is visible and I am absolutely terrified, most of the time. I am a black hole, devouring all that is bright and colourful in the universe, and yet I am nothing.

But I am not bad. I promise you this. No matter what they tell me, or how many yellow pills they force me to swallow, I am not bad. Please remember this, because I’m not sure I will, and you are the only person on this earth who I trust.

And I miss you. Please remember this, too. I miss you so goddamn much, and I don’t even know who you are. It’s maddening, being so forgetful. Other than the fear, all I feel is you, and yet you have no face or name or physical boundaries to be aware of. But I know you must, because the dips in my hips and the craters above my collarbone are molded to fit your fingertips.

I am alive when I think of you. That’s the purpose of me writing this, I think; to tell you that you make me feel alive. Your essence fills my head with a thousand different colours and lights and sounds. My lungs no longer breathe dust when I remember you. My heart no longer pauses when it realizes there is purpose.

I think, maybe, you are a landmark, and my head has enough empty space to accommodate your magnificence. And I would be amazed by the fact that we fit together if I wasn’t positive that I’d make room for you if we didn’t.

I think I am in love with you. And it’s a bit ridiculous, coming out like that, because when you tell someone that you are in love with them, I think you should be sure. I wish I could speak with more conviction—I really do—but that’d make me a liar. That’d make me a bad person and I have already promised you that I am good.

I do not know what love is. I am small and the universe is enormous and I am rather ignorant. But you make me feel alive, and I guess that will have to be enough.

Niall

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[a/n: so, I hope this is okay. I hope you like it. Dedicated to Isabeau because she’s very special to me and I love her very much x]