Greetings lovelies! So sorry for not posting for forever, life has been kind of busy! I hope you enjoy this post, it’s a bit of a word vomit that came to me out of the middle of no where and I knew that I had to get it written quickly!!
He loved her. He loved her dark eyes and short hair and her mannerisms and the way she listened to her music too loudly and how she was forever speaking too softly. H loved her poetry and broken ramblings that he found scattered on paper scraps all over her house. He loved every part of her and he told her so, every time he found her crying as he gathered her into his arms, whispering soft nothings to hush her whimpering. He loved her as she called him, her breath coming in ragged gasps over the phone, because she woke up screaming from another one of her night terrors and he loved her as she stared at nothing, completely apart from the waking world, lost in some foggy darkness of her mind.
“You look sad,” he murmured as he sat hesitantly beside her. She wrapped her slim hands around his, intertwining their fingers.
“Do I?” She asked, looking surprised. “I suppose I’ve been sad long enough that I just stopped noticing.” He glanced at her for a moment, a look of confusion crossing his face. And then he looked at her, really looked at her, as if he was seeing her for the first time and he saw in her eyes a deepness, multitudes of universes and a thousand glitters of dying stars and he saw her sadness, deep and expansive as the sea. He drew a startled breath and on his exhale, he breathed,
“I love you.” She smiled indulgently at him, tight-lipped and rigid.
“You love the thought of me.” She said slowly, as if the words physically pained her. “You don’t love me.” She stood, her joints creaking as she stretched before she walked slowly away, tossing a brief smile over her shoulder. “But I’ve always loved you.”
The next day, she was gone.
The funeral was stereotypical, but it had her spin on it. She had apparently left pages in her journal detailing exactly how she would want her funeral to look. The casket was black marble that looked horrendously expensive, the only thing that deviated from her wishes. Her parents wanted a nice casket, she hadn’t wanted them to spend the money. There was no cheesy music, just an oppressive silence broken only by an occasional sniffle or the soft murmur of voices. Fake mourners, she would have said. Most of them are just fake mourners.
There had been a horrendous skidding sound, he was sure. The rush of panic as wheels spun on water and the gut-wrenching crash of a car breaking through the barrier. Police said it was an accident, that she slid on the water and her car sank too quickly in the river, that she couldn’t get out. He knew better. She loved the water and it became her grave.
She was achingly beautiful, but there was nothing beautiful about her pain. She bled in red and died in black, shrouded by fragments of broken poetry as she breathed her last in her water tomb. Her soul was beautiful, but broken; he realized that now.
And he looked up at the dying stars and made a wish, the way they used to on chilly October nights as she rested her head on his shoulder and mused in her own peculiar way about the stars and the concept of wishes and wondering if her wishes would ever come true.
There was just him, by himself, a nameless boy mourning a nameless girl whose soul was lost among the stars.