Don't Give Up On Me - Dreamnotfound

Epilogue

Several years later...

George rummaged through his closet, checking to make sure there wasn't anything left. He was moving out now, moving to an apartment in Brighton. He had told his family he was moving out because he just wanted to go somewhere new, move away from the bustling city, but the truth was, he was moving out because he couldn't bear the memories that came with the house. The last house Dream had been alive in.

Yeah. Even after years and years, George still bore the pain of losing Dream. George had just broken his thirties recently, his YouTube channel still going strong, but he still couldn't shake that empty hole in his heart. Sure, he'd dated a couple of guys and girls throughout the years, but it never felt right. Perhaps George was putting them up to an impossible standard; Dream was, well, Dream, he was irreplaceable. So George hadn't dated anyone for two years.

His fingers closed around a pen, and George pulled it out of the corner of his closet, inspecting it carefully. It was a plain red sharpie, nothing too special. George went to toss it into his trash bin, but he decided against it, feeling as though it might have some sort of significance. He tucked it into his pocket, and began rummaging again. His fingers grazed past a sheet of paper, causing George to wince slightly, pulling his hand back to look at his papercut. It was pretty minor, so George just went and rinsed his finger off before going back into his closet to retrieve the sheet of paper. He pulled it out, and was immediately pulled back into a whirlwind of memories.

It was that sheet of paper, with the red sharpie numbers scrawled on it. To this day, the last number hadn't been crossed out. George stared at it momentarily, then cast it to the side with the sharpie that he dug back out of his pocket. He reached back into his closet, looking for something this time.

George found it quickly. The letter. The letter. The letter Dream had addressed to him a few hours before his death. Dream's death by euthanasia. He paused, hesitating, starting to second guess whether or not he really wanted to read it again, before taking a deep breath and unfolding the paper.

The ink was a little faded, and the paper brittle and delicate in George's hands, but it was still his words. It was still the letter Dream had addressed to him, all those years ago. George's hands shook a little as he read through the words, and he felt tears well up in his eyes again. He placed the letter on the nearest table before the tears could drip onto the paper and sank down onto his knees, head bowed.

And George just sat there quietly, not sobbing; that phase had gone past, although the wound still felt just as fresh and just as tender. George had learned how to cope with it, and now he stared at the carpet of the floor, remembering. Remembering those small moments with Dream that he only knew to cherish once Dream was gone. Remembering Dream's smile, the feel of Dream's lips on his forehead. Remembering Dream, as a person.

After what felt like an hour passed, George stood, walking over to the desk and staring at the paper on which Dream's countdown was scrawled. He slowly took the cap off the red sharpie, lowered it to the paper, and crossed out the last number. He stared at the paper a little longer, then crumpled it and tossed it into the trash bag, along with the red sharpie. The letter, on the other hand, George folded gently and slipped it into his wallet. He rummaged through the closet a little longer, and deciding it was empty, he went to dump the trash outside.

On the way back into his apartment, George bumped into a little dark haired girl.

"Uncle George!" The girl squealed. George smiled, kneeling down to her level. Julie, the dark haired girl, was actually one of his cousin's daughters, who had just turned 7. Julie had taken an interest in George in one of their family reunions, and she'd requested to see George before he moved to Brighton.

"Hi there, Julie!"

"I saw you crying, through the window. Are you okay?" Julie asked, eyes wide.

George smiled in response, leaning forwards to ruffle Julie's hair. "I'm okay, I'm just-" his response was cut off as he thought of an idea. "Actually, Julie, do you want to hear a story?"

Julie nodded rapidly. "Yes, a story! They're my favorite!"

George chuckled, standing and taking Julie's hand to lead her into the house. "Come on in, then. My train doesn't leave for a while, I have time to tell you about him."

"Him?" Julie asked questioningly.

"Yes, him. He was one of my best friends. More than a best friend, really." George smiled sadly, but Julie didn't catch on, instead skipping in front of George, pulling open the front door eagerly.

Once Julie had gotten herself situated on the clean, empty mattress that had recently been stripped of all it's blankets and pillows and the mattress cover, George sat down across from her in a chair.

"So he was my boyfriend, really. His name was Dream." George began.

"Dream? That's a cool name!" Julie interrupted excitedly.

George chuckled again. "Well, his real name was Clay, but I always called him Dream."

"Okay." Julie leaned forwards, eyes wide, a clear indicator for George to continue. And so he did.

George took a deep breath, and told the little 7 year old about Dream, his best friend, his boyfriend, his first true love, his first heartbreak. The one who taught him about love, who taught him about pain, and so many more things in between. He was sucked into the story, recalling bright moments with laughter and smiles, and the darker, later times with a sigh and tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He told a story about love. He also told a story about a broken boy, a hurt boy, but also, what George saw as a perfect boy. He told the story of Dream.

As George finished, he felt a slight tear slide down his cheek, but it contrasted the wide smile on his face and the growing flame of happiness that filled his insides.

Only when George ushered Julie out of his house and boarded the train with almost all of his belongings in two rolling luggage bags, staring out the train window, he finally came upon the word that perfectly described what he was feeling.

Closure.