A/N: I'm sorry for the super long wait! And I apologize in advance for the next super long wait. Suffice it to say: the next two weeks are the last weeks of my first college semester. ... Bleck.
Then I'm on vacation.
I will promise a Christmas special though! Hows that? And it will be really good. In fact, I'll read it two my directioner sister to make one hundred percent sure that the content is awesome. KKKK?!?!?!
Also, this is super short for the same reason I put before>>>college finals. But I had to put SOMETHING up. So, again, sorry!!!
Dedication to: mysterywritersa 'cause her comment made me so happy last chapter!
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:
Discharge Papers
There’s something that happens in that moment between sleeping and waking. This kind of … peace that settles over you, seeps into every part of your being, brittle-izing your bones, while cuddling your soul with false content. Because the moment does not warrant any sense of calm, it just feels like it does.
I read once, that when you’re in the snow long enough, when you’re face is white and cracking, your lips blue, your toes black, as if the cold has literally beaten the sense right out of you, everything becomes warm; that when you are freezing to death, the world goes still and quiet and the snow becomes the warmest blanket; that, so certain are you of the sudden inexplicable heat, you begin to pull more ice over your tired frame in an effort to increase that warmth.
There’s this moment, between sleeping and waking, exactly like that. Where you just let go. And you’re okay with that; you’re at peace. Somehow you’re okay with giving up your own consciousness, your very existence. In fact, you welcome the blackness with open arms.
When you’re dying- When you find out the day of your death is drawing ever nearer, you think about it. Hoping as no other can, that you will have the same peace in death as you do with sleep, pray that you will greet it with open arms.
But for me, that morning all I could think about was how gently firm his hands were. I mean, I knew about Sarah. I’d found out and I did want to see her again. More than I could even say. The fact that she was alive was just-
But all I could think about that morning was the way his eyes sparkled when he smiled, in the most cliche way possible, was the way his face scrunched up when he sang, the way his voice rasped when he’d just woken up, the way his hair curled over his ear, the crooked little smile he had and the sideways look he’d give when he’d told a bad pun, waiting for laughter. Because all his puns were bad and he always looked for the laughter. He reveled in making me laugh.
Him.
I’d been told- They said that I would have at least-
I was positive that I would have more time. And that’s what it all comes back to isn’t it? Time.
Time. People always think they’ll have plenty, but I didn’t. I knew I didn’t have very much, but that didn’t bother me; I didn’t want more. Until him.
That’s another thing. When your dying you want every word to count. Every thought to mean something, to be deep. But you can’t help being you. You can’t help but notice small things. The way he his nose crooked, and his chin tilted, the way he looked at you straight on, the way he played with his lip when he spoke. None of these were deep, meaningful things. But they were beautiful. They mesmerized me because I loved them.
