Floral And Fading || Jonnor AU || EDITING

Part Thirteen - Eveything I Want To Say To You Right Now

I was going to start this entry off with "sorry" but since I've realised that by the time you come to read this you'll have no fucking clue what I'm actually apologising for.

January 29th 2016, the day I fell down the stairs.

Remember now?

You should, it must've been horrific for you.

You were cleaning the bedroom, singing along quietly to Fall Out Boy as you changed the bed sheets, my bad leg (the one where muscle atrophy had begun in, it was skinner than my other leg, my skinny leg, the one that caused me problems before my diagnosis, not that you knew anything about any of this, I don't even know why I'm acting like you would) had been playing up for a couple days now, spasming and twitching at inconvenient times, and it just so happened that that inconvenient time was whilst I was trying to go down the stairs.

I don't really remember falling all that well, I definitely remember hearing the crunch of my arm as it snapped under my weight, hitting my head and then waking up to your worried face towering over mine, warm blood coming from somewhere on my face (which later turned out to be my nose.)

I remember not feeling real, I remember everything being hazy, I remember smiling as I saw your face, not registering the intense worry plastered onto it, all before I fell unconscious again.

I next remember some really nice man in green (a paramedic you had called) asking me if I could hear him as his colleague was trying to console you. I answered all his questions before passing out again.

I came too a couple times in the ambulance, each time with your hand laced through my right, I smiled again as I opened my eyes to see you, even in my dazed state you till made me so unbelievably happy.

"It's gonna be alright Jamesy." You whispered to me, squeezing my hand "You're alright."

I mumbled that I was good, before, again, passing out.

Two days later and here I am, sat in a hospital bed, hazy from morphine and other pain medications, but also dizzy from the dull pain, slowing returning to its place of origin, having been banished by the pharmaceutical cocktail I had been administered for my arm, preparing to go in for surgery to fix the broken bone tomorrow morning, well, technically, as it's 2am, today, and all that's on my mind is you.

All I want is for you to come and kiss my forehead and tell me it's gonna be all okay, all I want is for you to come and kiss me better, touch me and heal my pain. Shake me awake and for this to all have been a nightmare, and I can tell you that I dreamt I was dying. That's all I want. But sometimes we can't get what we want, sometimes we're stuck with useless deteriorating bodies, sometimes we're stuck with a mind that can't cope with a physical downfall, sometimes we're stuck with a fiancé who's too goddam perfect to leave, and it fucking hurts, it hurts so goddamn much and I know I say it constantly and I'm like a broken record, going round and round but the sound doesn't change, I know I'm boring and repetitive but repetition and routine are keeping me sane, it's stopping me from giving in, my routine of waking up, telling you I love you, and going to bed reminding you for the 600th time that day, that's what's keeping me sane, sorry to put so much weight and pressure on you, but you're my sanity, you're my ground and gravity, you're my everything.

So many things have already become so much more difficult since my diagnosis, walking is frustrating, swallowing can take time, my hand strength is going.

I can't play bar chords on the guitar anymore, I learnt that the day before my fall, you were out, I wanted to write you a song, so I tried, what used to be beautiful melodies and poetic symphonies of my confessions of love and admiration had turned into a discordant mess, I struggle with some chords I used to fine easy, I can't write like I used to, I can't sing you songs like I used to. Remember when I used to serenade you to sleep or when we used to sit in our bedroom for hours and hours writing songs about your eyes and my hair, about your toes and my fingernails, about your stars and my planets.

I already miss the man I was, and I'm sure you do too. You must've noticed by now, of course you've noticed, because I've noticed that you've noticed.

You're getting thin again, we need to talk about that, I must talk to you about that, I must talk to you about that. I must t a l k to you about that. I'm worried about you, I don't want you slipping back into the wayward routine that we straightened out when you were sixteen and insecure, we caught any behaviours that were meandering out of the other of "healthy" before they caused damage, but it still changed you. It's probably nothing, you're probably fine, you're probably just forgetting to eat lunch and instead replacing it with a coffee so you don't have to leave your work desk, you're probably just forgetting, and it's okay, you're allowed to forget, but I don't want you to be worrying about me so much that you forget about yourself. I fucking love you, but I'm scared.

I'm scared of how much I love you and I'm scared of how much you love me. I'm terrified of what's going to happen when I have to leave you, and my future is so hazy, even without a curtain of drugs blocking my foresight and hindsight. I'm not scared of dying, I don't want to die, but it doesn't scare me, what scares me is your future, who will you end up with?

Secretly? I'm half praying for Bradley. At least he understands grief, at least he understands that life isn't fair, but half of me knows he wouldn't give you the time or the space you'd need, he's too impatient.

Tristan is always an option for you, he's nice and sweet and pretty caring about things like this, over the years him and I have grown apart, but you have remained close with him, so maybe he'll come and rescue you.

Maybe it'll be a stranger, I've always imagined that if you weren't with me you'd be with someone tall, dark golden skin and dark brown hair, stubble fashioned to allude to a jawline he may or may not have, he'd have strong arms and toned muscles, someone who you could just entirely engulf your petite body into and forget everything in his scent.

Perhaps that stranger is best for you.

Perhaps I desperately want it to be that stranger because I'm hoping it'll be me, it'll be my soul within him that you fall in love with, one can only hope.

I miss you, and I can't wait to see you tomorrow afternoon when I wake up from having my arm pinned back together.

Love, as always,

James