Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Grief is visceral, not reasonable; the howling at the center of grief is raw and real. It is love in its most wild form.” —Megan Devine

*** 

It’s a cold winter day when George enters a small, quaint coffee shop by the end of his downtown alley for the first time.

He doesn’t really intend to go honestly. You can’t even see the coffee shop at a specific angle on the road, only when you’re directly walking by is when you notice the rectangular wooden sign with “Surgari” engraved in gold on the front porch of a hole in the wall store. It’s not attention-grabbing or particularly interesting in fact, just a simple, downtown alley coffee shop.

What surprised him, however, was how lively it seemed to be at that hour: with the warm golden light spilling out of the windows and onto the frost-covered sidewalk, as well as the smell of fresh baked goods and roasted coffee beans coming from its doors. He could hear the faint sound of giddy laughter and high-pitched giggles arising from the shop; almost alluring him over with its sense of home.

It’s cold. The November breeze pricks his skin, even under thick woven gloves. The falling snow paints his oak colored hair a platinum white, and his cheeks a bright flushed red. 

George sighs, a breath of hot air mingles with the cold. Maybe it was a bad idea to go out so late at night to get writing inspiration for upcoming final school projects. Maybe it was even worse to go out in the middle of winter with only his phone and laptop. 

For George, the quaint coffee shop by the end of downtown alley looked somewhat like heaven on earth. So, with another baited exhale, he enters.

The sound of the door chimes ringing and the chatter of other patrons instantly ground him back to reality. There’s soft jazz playing from the stereo, some old-timey nineties song that echoes through his barren mindscape.

“Welcome to Sugari.” George looks upwards to the front counter. There stands a man in a mustard-colored apron with a white bandana on his forehead (George tries not to question whether the shop allows it or not), and a bored look on his face. 

George almost jumps at the sound. He was so absorbed in the warmth that began to seep through his body that he forgot the place was a public establishment to begin with- where you have to order.

He chuckles awkwardly, social interaction was never his strong suit. “Uh— Hi?”

The man at the counter looked back at him, exasperated. “Are you going to order or?” 

George feels a wave of embarrassment wash over him as he walks towards the counter in quick, long strides. He glares at the menu overhead, not wanting to humiliate himself more than he already has.

“Can I get uh—” He stammers, “The cinnamon hot chocolate? Large.” 

The man at the counter punches something in the register before turning back to George. “Anything else?” 

George feels a rumble in his stomach, “A strawberry scone please?” 

“One large cinnamon hot chocolate and one strawberry scone.” The machine makes a whirring noise before the man rips out a printed receipt and hands it over to him. “Your order will be up in around 10 minutes.”

“Can I get your name?” The barista asks, holding a sharpie to one of the cups. 

He tries not to stammer with his words. “George.”

George nods hastily, hands latching tightly on the receipt. He spins on the heel of his foot, walking over to the tall stools by one of the windows.

As he’s navigating the crowded room, he scoffs at the fact that a small coffee shop like this could have so many customers this late into the night. It’s almost ridiculous- he thinks, before he bumps into another woman.

“Hey!” She cries. George panics when he sees the large coffee stain in the middle of her sleek white blouse. His mouth frantically darts to apologize.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t—”

The woman cuts him off with a sharp groan, her dainty manicured fingers going to her blouse

“ Ugh— watch it next time.” She hisses, eyebrows furrowing at the ugly stain. George cringes at himself for being so reckless, he begins to walk away, bowing his head down in shame, he wants to bury himself deeper so the world can never see his flushed cheeks again. That’s before he hears a faint voice reach his ears.

“Stupid guy, I can’t meet Dream like this!” 

There’s something familiar about that name- it makes George turn around so fast he almost gets whiplash. Only to find that the woman from earlier had vanished amongst the crowd. The only thing left in her wake, was a hardbound book left on the floor.

His eyes widen when he sees the title.

A Guide to the Unpredictable, by Dream

That’s why it sounded so familiar.

George couches down, and gingerly picks the book up. It looks almost like his copy at home- well, newer of sorts. His had the spine breaking out, the pages scribbled with the multiple analyses on paragraphs and paragraphs. His was well-loved and it showed. 

It occurs to George at that moment that the woman was specifically meeting Dream.

George may be a brain-dead college student, who uses all their thinking capacity to cram literary analysis’ late at 4 am- but he can certainly put two and two together.

He’s in a crowded coffee shop, and now that he looks around more, he can finally realize the fact that they’re all holding at least a copy of the same book in his hands. All with gleeful expressions smile looking so wide that they hurt, eyes dancing with mirth.

Why wouldn’t they be thrilled? Who doesn’t know Dream by this point? Highly acclaimed prodigy with a hand that could write the most poetic of prose. Whose stories delved you into the deepest of thought and the most vivid of an imagination.

Dream is George’s inspiration, his muse.

The realization finally comes to George when his name is called at the front counter.

“I have a cinnamon hot chocolate and strawberry scone for George!” 

That felt like a lot less than 10 minutes. He thinks while walking toward the counter, book in hand.  

The barista doesn’t say anything, he simply pulls up the order with clear ease, hands working to quickly wrap the scone in plastic and sealing his cup. George watches avidly, eyes glancing ever so often to the shiny metal name tag on his apron engraved with the words Sapnap.  

“That's 6 dollars and 25 cents.” He says with a flat monotone voice. George observes him. He looks to be no younger than he is, with barely growing facial hair and deep eye bags. But even under all the weariness, George can see this flicker of a flame in his eyes, something akin to mischief.

Fishing out his wallet, he sets aside the book on the counter in front of him. He doesn’t get to see the way the barista's eyes widen when he does.

When George finally pulls out a ten-dollar bill to give the other man and slowly gets the book back. 

“Y’know, the author of that book’s a close friend of mine.” The barista says coyly, sifting through the cash register for George’s change. “Did you come for the book signing?” he continues.

George’s attention is instantly grabbed. “Book signing?” 

He beams, and now George can truly see what was behind those dull, work-worn eyes. They gleam with a sense of pride, the dull spark behind them now a bustling flame, his smile a beacon. 

“Dude!” He says excitedly, hands waving in wide gestures. “There’s a late-night book signing going on right now.” 

George can feel a sudden pool of anticipation well up inside him. Dream— in person?

“Is he still available?” George manages to keep his voice steady, hoping none of the inner fanboy would seep and taint his words.

The smile on his face was wide and proud. “Yeah, though I think he’s closing up for the night. You’re lucky to meet him on time.” 

There’s a sudden fear that fills him, leaving him grounded to the floor. 

“I can meet him?” He asks tentatively, fingers playing with frayed edges of the cover. “This isn’t some joke right?” 

The barista laughs. “No, no I’m actually just fucking with you- yes there is a book signing and I’m surprised a fan like yourself wouldn’t know there is one.”

“Haha.” He laughs sardonically. “I’m too busy with my college exams by this point to even care much about the outside world.” 

George is normally scared by coming off too rude or foreboding- but there’s something about this one coffee shop barista that makes it feel like they’ve been friends for the longest of times. He feels as if his laughter is something he’s been hearing all his life.

“Very relatable random patron. If you want, my shift ends in a bit. I can show you to the upstairs where the signing is.” 

There’s a sudden skip in his breath, he didn’t expect his night to go like this. “You sure?” 

The smile on the barista’s face is the only answer he needs. 

“Go up the stairs by the door.” He grins, going back to serve the next customer. “And don’t freeze up, he’s actually a really nice guy.”

George’s fingers curl up around the cardboard casing of his drink. Knuckles alabaster white, he can feel the dread and anticipation rolling around in his stomach as he painstakingly walks up the stairs to the second floor.

It all happens too fast really. One moment he’s entering this random coffee shop by the end of the road and the next- he’s astride away from spontaneously meeting his long time inspiration for writing.

George vividly remembers the nights when he would pour over the works of the acclaimed author. How he would get consumed into every word and complex sentence. There was just something about the way other man wrote, George would normally say. How the words danced off from the pages and into the caverns of his mind, making their home in his vast imagination. Dream has a way of luring in any reader just from the first word.

George admires Dream, he admires the writing and he admires the man behind it.

And George is going to meet him. George is going to open this door and meet his idol-

“Ugh- another one?” 

George’s breath hitches at those words. He quickly turns his head towards the sound.

“Your friend at the counter told me you were still signing.” George says, trying not to let the venom seep into his words.

He groans. “Sapnap’s just giving me more work.”

He doesn’t know what to expect really, Dream is known for not being fond of recorded interviews or live talk shows. His face isn’t exactly anonymous either. He is a bigshot writer whose books sell worldwide. Staying particularly faceless isn’t an option by this point.

Ashen blonde hair with dull viridian eyes. Maybe it's the way he holds himself? George pondered. He's slouched over mahogany, pouring over scattered papers with calloused hands. George can see how weary he is- with lips pressed into a thin line, and the air of frustration looming over him like a storm cloud.

“Are you just gonna stand there or?” The author grumbles, and George can feel the vibration of his words roll across his skin. 

He didn’t know what to expect , is what he’ll say. Deep down he'd been wishing for someone who wasn’t— this. This—this…

“Are you always this bothersome?” George rolls his eyes, lingering by the door frame.

George notices the smallest peak of interest in Dream’s eyes. A coy smirk graces his face.

“You’re quite precocious, aren’t you.” The other man chides, his back straightening.

His eyebrows raise daringly. “Using big words now?” 

Dream laughs, he notes the way it sounds oddly reminiscent of a tea kettle boiling.  “You started it.”

George scoffs, “You’re the writer here, aren’t you? Besides, your book is filled with such a wide vocabulary that one would assume you would know what bothersome means?” He says, tantalizing.

The grin on his face now made itself to a full-blown smile. Teeth and everything as he coaxed, “So you’ve read my work?”

George tries not to look at him dumbfoundedly.

“Why do you think I’m here?” He points to the book in his hand.

It’s somewhat rewarding to see Dream, who’s already established himself as a bit of a presumptuous ass- fall embarrassed. George can feel the pride in him fester when he sees the way Dream’s cheeks color red.

(He also tries to ignore the fact that Dream has freckles, and that they only show when he’s blushing. He really tries to—)

“So,” The blonde coughs into his hand, noticeably avoiding George’s gaze. “Uh—the book?” 

George can feel a shit-eating grin crawl its way onto his face as he approached Dream’s desk. Loudly slamming the book on the sleek mahogany. He crossed his hands against his chest, as he watched Dream grumble to himself while he roughly jots down on the paper. 

Some part of George feels uneasy. As if he still wants to make a good impression on Dream. His mind tries to reason with him however, that Dream is rude and ungrateful. That the saying Never meet your heroes is true, and that the author he'd admired throughout his teenage years, is truly and ultimately a self-entitled douche. 

But at the same time- there's something about the disgruntled expression on Dream’s face that makes George reconsider.

He sighs in defeat.

“You know, I did a book report on one of your earlier publications once.” He says softly, secretly hoping that the other man doesn't hear him.

But sadly enough for George, he looks up and sees Dream’s eyes staring back at him.

“Really now?” Dream asks, the same spark of interest in his eyes. “Which one?” 

George doesn’t miss a beat. “ Designs Of The Solstice if I recall.” 

George watches in vague amusement as Dream groans and shoves his head beneath his arms. Muttering a wide array of profanities while running a hand through his ashen locks. 

“You good?” George tries not to laugh while saying it. Dream whines.

“No. I am not.” He says curtly, it makes the laughter roll out of George’s mouth like honey. 

There’s this strangled and pained sound that escapes his lips. He kicks his legs under the table like some toddler throwing a tantrum and George couldn’t be more amused. His impression went from that of an acclaimed author to a stuck up socialist- to now, a whiny and slightly less pretentious brat.

Dream is a man of many faces, and George can’t help but release a series of hiccupy giggles at this one. 

“I was like-” Dream waves his hands in pantomime gestures. “So illiterate back then.”

He tries to be sympathetic, but he just can’t find the words to say other than; “How profound of you.”

Dream purposely lifts back his gaze at George just to glare. “Really?” He asks sarcastically.

The other man shrugs, beginning to trail off into thought. “I don’t know. I find it that your words were more sincere back then you know? You had this way of being oddly poetic in just the simplest of phrases. Maybe that's why I decided to become a poet myself, your words just- inspired me I suppose.”

George doesn’t even notice the way he begins to ramble. “I think I prefer your old works better honestly, you know that feeling where you just deeply connect with something? Ugh— wait no I can rephrase that better. You know- when someone’s writing can invoke such strong emotion in you? To the extent where you just— I feel—”

George suddenly pauses, realizing how the words were slipping out of his mouth too fast for comfort. He presses his lips firmly against each other, hoping not another sound would escape them. Hands clamped firmly on the hem of his shirt, he feels the shame flush his cheeks and warm his stomach. 

“What do you feel?”

George looks up, and he’s met with Dream’s expectant gaze, eyes wide and ears perked to listen. He opens his mouth again- but this time it feels as if the words are glued to the roof of his mouth.

“Sorry… I just got carried away— ”

“No.” Dream interjects, standing from his chair. George watches with wide eyes as the acclaimed author slowly inches closer.

He holds in a breath, feeling his walls slowly tear down, bit by bit. Until Dream is in close proximity to him.

“Tell me what do you feel?” He asks again. George can actually feel the heat radiating off him. Or is the room just cold? Is George cold? Either way-

Dream is warm.

George feels it slip without knowing.

“Enamoured.”

Before he can even process the word, a boyish grin crawls it’s way onto Dream’s face. 

There are things George will never know the reason for. Like how lightning strikes not once— but twice, and how shooting stars are just burning rocks. How there’s a whole universe of unsolved questions, waiting to be seen and discovered. Yet, George can’t care less, save the one question left in his mind.

“That so?” Dream asks with a teasing lilt.

George asks slowly, cheeks flushed scarlet. Trying not to let the stutter reach his words. “I don’t lie.” 

In turn, he’ll chuckle, and George will learn to acknowledge it as the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Then, would you mind if I-”

Somewhere in Dream’s eyes, there is a reluctance. In the way he stops himself in his tracks, the way he averts his eyes, expression almost sour. He takes a step back.

“Never mind, sorry.”  

George will always wonder why he was so hesitant.

He’ll take in a heavy breath, and exhale sharply through his nose. 

“Actually,” George says, words wavering slightly. Dream looks back up, eyes brimming with interest.

George coughs into his fist, feeling a sudden surge of confidence, he asks “Would you like to get a coffee together sometime? You don’t have to of course.”

If there’s one thing George will know, it’s that the smile on Dream’s face is the brightest thing he had ever seen.

“Meet me again here, tomorrow at 10.” 

George will never know.

“Save me a seat.”

***

Dream is late.

George is sitting on one of the high stool chairs by the window, staring idly at the cars passing by. The coffee shop is less crowded now, probably due to the lack of Dream. Now that he ponders on it, that was probably the most attraction the small little store had ever gotten. 

He sighs wistfully, letting the heat of his drink seep into his hands. 

Dream is late, and George is waiting.

In the corner of his eye, he can make out Sapnap glancing at him ever so often. George can make out the gleam of concern in his eyes, the way his hands inch towards the phone in his apron’s pocket. George tries not to look, stead focusing on the front door of the shop with avid interest. Heart quietly yearning for a certain someone with ashen blonde hair and viridian eyes to walk through and greet him with a freckled smile.

So George waits, with a cup of coffee steadily growing stale. He’ll wait, ever so often glancing at the time on his phone and ordering another strawberry scone to munch on. He’ll wait.

It isn’t until it's somewhere in the peak of the afternoon, and George’s stomach is filled with nothing but disappointment and shame. He had hoped to have it full of food from a nice lunch with a cute boy, but not everyone can have what they want, can they? 

He gets up, scraping the metallic base of the chair on the hardwood as he does. Angrily throwing away the remains of his food.

(He swallows down the thought that he'd known somehow— Dream would leave him.)

He takes one last look at the window before he exits the door, lips tugging down on his face. George feels the cold bite at his skin, the snow falling against his face. He turns around to start walking back to his dorm.

“ Hey! You!” 

George whips his head back , the snow falling from his hair, breath heaving. 

“Shit I— I forgot to ask your name, dammit.” Dream says, panting. George looks at him wide-eyed.

“That's really the first thing you say?” The other man laughs sardonically. “Not even an I’m sorry or an excuse for being so late?!” 

Dream looks up at him, wide-eyed and disheveled. He looks as if a strong gust of wind just blew him over, hair askew and face red. 

“I- Wait fuck-” He curses, reaching from behind him to pull out a bouquet of soft pink flowers. “Do you know how absurd it is for a single flower shop to have such a long line on a Sunday? It’s ridiculous.” 

George is left silent, staring at the flowers in his hand. He tries to say something coherent, but just ends up sputtering instead.

Dream’s expression morphs into a panic. “God, wait. I don’t even know if you like flowers! I’m sorry for being late— I really should’ve just went straight ahead but I saw the shop and thought about you and— shit wait, I wasn’t thinking of you!— I just thought that you’d like flowers and-” 

“They’re nice.” 

George mentally berates himself for being so- stupid? Frank? Simply illiterate? Who responds with nice to such a kind and sweet gesture? George was simply dying at this point.

Dream laughs, it’s soft and tender. It’s the kind that makes the smile lines at the side of his face more noticeable. The kind that makes the freckles on his cheeks stand out. The kind that’s beautiful.

“Here.” Dream gently presses the bouquet to George’s chest, cheeks the same color as the petals. “Pink hydrangeas.” 

George’s hand gently fiddles with the leaves. Running his fingers through the silky petals, he presses his face against them, breathing in their comforting floral scent.

“Do you like them?” Dream questions, his hand fidgeting at the nape of his neck.

George hides his smile behind the flowers. 

“I’ll forgive you, for now.” 

He slowly begins to walk back towards the cafe, bouquet in hand. Until he suddenly remembers the first thing Dream says when he arrived.

He turns around, and with a bashful grin he says,

“My name’s George.” 

*** 

If he has to admit, George has gotten awfully fond of Dream.

Personally, if George could bottle up his emotions and throw them into the ocean, he most certainly would. Because admitting anything even related to feelings to Dream? Teasing, charming, intelligent— and more importantly teasing , Dream? It would be like digging his own grave.

So George in turn, tries not to act up too much about it. Even when Dream brings him to a local gallery in their area a week after their date. (is it a date? Would George even consider it a date? Or were they just two guys hanging out on a weekend in a coffee shop sharing book recommendations to each other?)  Or when he drops him off by his dorm right after. Even when he promises to dedicate his next book to George, the other man tries not to show how much he’s falling.

But it’s hard to, because for fucks sake it’s Dream .

Funny, intelligent, charming, laughs like a boiling tea kettle and writes like a literal prophet. Dream.

Dream who makes George smile. Dream who makes George laugh so much his stomach begins to cramp and his cheeks start to hurt. Dream who makes George’s days worthwhile- that it makes him forget what life was like without him in the first place.

Dream has become such an integral part of his life by now. It feels as if the cold of winter is non-existent with the warmth Dream radiates.

It’s before George knows it, that the realization seeps in.

Sitting back in the coffee shop. Both their drinks sit beside each other on the table, his usual cinnamon hot chocolate, and Dream’s outrageously sweet caramel apple cider decaf (he always insists that his drink was the incredibly superior one, and George would just sit there and roll his eyes fondly at him.)  Dream is rambling about some famous author he met abroad once, hands gesturing wildly as he paints a story.

George is half listening, half typing his midterm essay on his laptop. His eyes are half-lidded and weary, he’s starting to be lulled into sleep by Dream’s voice. Smooth and easy, like a ship on calm waves. George feels at ease. 

Maybe it’s the lighting or the color of the snow. Maybe it's the way Dream’s eyes sparkle like gemstones in the afternoon sun, a shimmering jade. Maybe it’s the way a soft halo of light outlines his figure. Maybe it's the way Dream smiled. Did he always have dimples? Or was he just noticing them now? Were his freckles always that prominent? Maybe it was just the lighting-

“George.”

George’s eyes snap open, his laptop rattling the table with a sudden shake. 

“Whoa— easy.” Dream chuckles, “Were you staring?”

The heat rises to George’s cheeks. Was he that obvious?

“What’s wrong George. ” He says playfully, emphasising his name. “Growing some attachment to me?”

He laughs, trying to hide the rising embarrassment. “You wish.”

Dream scoffs, lightly shoving George in the side with a grin. 

It’s quiet now, with George going back to his mindless, robotic typing and Dream, normally the one to start their conversations, left silent. The clicking and clacking of George’s keys being the only sound between their tense pause.

“I do wish.” Dream whispers, the sound almost lost in the wind. 

He probably expects George to be focusing on his essay when, in reality, the only thing George can focus on is the tender- almost vulnerable tone in his voice. 

But for both their sakes, George pretends not to notice.

Instead, he plays the oblivious card, pushing away his laptop and standing from the high stool. He turns to Dream and smiles, he smiles as if he isn’t falling deeper and deeper in.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” George asks, staring straight at Dream.

Something flashes in his eyes and George already knows the answer.

He’s in love before he knows it.

*** 

He’ll tell him. 

George repeats that to himself while getting ready for his day, he sings it in the shower, whispers it under his breath while cooking, and says it out loud one more time before he exits the door to his apartment.

He’ll tell him. 

Is it too early? George thinks while walking down the street, shoes scraping the pavement. They just met a few months ago, yet it feels like decades have passed in his bones. It feels like the butterflies in his stomach have created a full forest in the concaves of his chest. He’s ancient with these feelings buried deep inside him. They’ve made a home in him and now George is slowly starting to accept their presence.

George will walk to their usual spot, the cafe at the corner at the downtown alley. They’ve been meeting at least every weekend now. Usually, George would finish his classes and head down a path from his college to the cafe, where he’ll see Dream waiting by one of the lamp posts. He’ll be wrapped in a forest green parka, a beige scarf swung lazily across his neck. 

George will call out his name, and Dream will turn around to greet him with a smile. Sometimes he’ll have another bouquet of flowers for him. Ranging from vibrant bouts of dahlias- to a quaint handful of columbines, dirt still staining at the roots.

“Did you pick those from someone’s backyard?” George remarked teasingly, the thought of that day still lingers fresh in his mind.

Dream gasped, scandalized as he said “You called me on such short notice, I had to get something. ”

George rolled his eyes. “You don’t always have to come every week you know.”

Dream smiled. “Oh, but I want to. Besides, I’ll always be here.” 

Those words will forever sit with George. It’s something about their frankness and plain undertoning meaning, that carry so much weight to them.

He chuckled, hoping to shake off the rising unknown emotion in his chest. “That’s stupid. I’m quite boring to meet every week. ”

The blonde laughed. “You aren’t wrong.” 

Now George stands at their little meeting spot, cold, and a little bit disappointed. Dream is usually first. Is he just late today? Did something bad occur? Maybe he was late, he did have a tendency to get side tracked often, or even just forget the simplest of things.

George reaches for his phone in his pocket. The metal is cool against his skin as he looks through his contacts. Dream is easily saved in his favorites, so he taps the green dial button and presses the screen against his ear. He waits in baited breath while the line rings.

Soon enough, there's a clear break, and all George can hear is radio silence. 

He feels the concern well up in him. “Hello?” 

There’s a rattle in the background, oddly familiar to when pills are shaken in a bottle. It doesn’t dampen George’s sullen mood even more. 

“Dream? Are you there?” He calls out, leaning on the metal lamp post. 

Static floods the line before a soft voice comes through. “George?”

It’s raspy and raw. His fingers clench around his phone. 

“Hey, are you still coming by? The shop’s closing early today I think?” He chooses his words meticulously.

The man on the other man groans, and the volume of it makes George’s ear drums wince.

“God… We were supposed to meet up today right? Oh fuck—are you there right now? I can still come by just let me get my coat—”

“No, no. You’re good, don’t worry.” George cuts sharply, he hopes he doesn’t come off as too upset. 

“Are you sure?” Dream asks again, George can clearly tell he’s in distress. “I technically ghosted you.” 

George huffs, a small cloud exits his mouth. “I’m sure. Are you sick? You sound— nasally .”

There’s a soft chuckle on the other end. “Nice wording Shakespeare. I’m in tears right now.”

“You’re making it awfully difficult to care for you.” 

“Aw, you’re so sweet George.” Dream wheezes weakly. “It’s just the seasonal flu, you know snow and shit.” 

George feels a laugh bubbling in his throat. “Snow and shit? You’re the true poet here, Dream.”

“I hate you.” Dream says stubbornly. George rolls his eyes.

“You love me.” 

There’s this brief silence after his words. George thinks he may have stepped too far. He doesn’t even know if his words are a joke or not— was it even a joke? Did Dream think it was a joke? He’s never said it aloud before. Somehow the words fit weird in his mouth, as if they're falling out too early for him to even notice. He blames himself for being too comfortable with Dream. He probably hated him, oh god he—

“Unfortunately, I do.” 

George lets out a long dwindled breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

“Anyway, I think you should get some rest.” He manages, biting his cold ridden lips, skin peeling. “There’s always another day for us to meet.” 

Dream hums. “Another day.” 

George nods, flushed red. “Another day.” 

A million thoughts passed by George’s mind all at once. The fact that his feelings might even be mildly reciprocated sent him on a field day. His heart pounding in his ears, and face flushed from something other than the cold breeze. George feels embarrassed, a bit brash but most importantly-

Alive.

“I’ll see you soon, Dream.”

He tends to avoid goodbye with Dream, because deep down he knows they’ll meet again. No matter when, nor how.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Soon the line promptly cuts off, and George is left with the white noise and aching heart.

He’ll tell him he loves him another time.

***

It’s around 2 am, when Dream calls him while working.

At first, he doesn’t pick up the phone. He’s too absorbed with the endless amounts of papers that seem to flow down his desk in waterfalls and the blasting of music through his headphones speakers. He stifles a yawn, stretching his limbs in almost a feline-like way. He feels the weight of hours upon hours of being cooped up in a desk, sink into him and leave his body heavy.

He doesn’t know Dream is calling him until he decides to take a break from his full binge of studying and checks his phone to see six missed calls from him.

George, ungracefully, jolts out of his seat. 

Hands clamoring to his phone, his fingers press against the cool glass of the screen. And before he even processes his actions, the line is already ringing.

“Shit shit shit—” He curses loudly, fingers fumbling to press the end call button, but before he can press it, a voice filters through the speakers.

“ Georgeeeee” The familiar sound of Dream’s voice rings in his ears. George’s eyes widened.

“Did you need something? Why are you calling so late—”

“You up?” He slurs, words mixing into each other. George tries to hold in the groan in his throat at the sound of it.

“Are you really calling me drunk?” He asks, exasperated. Running a hand through his unwashed hair, he really needs to take a shower sooner or later. He’s been cramped up in his dingy dorm for a week now, living off stale chips and instant coffee which he’s sure has destroyed his liver by now. 

He smiles in the dim light of his kitchen. He hasn’t realized how much he’s missed Dream’s voice until it was blasting in his ears. 

“ Noooo ‘m not drunk. I hate ‘lcohol remember?” He says, and right after releases a long wheezy laugh. George rolls his eyes.

“Then you’re sleep deprived I assume?” George walks over to the quaint kitchen in his already cramped dorm. The counter is littered with mounds of anonymous things, like unopened tostitos and empty monster cans are some to name a few. 

He walks over to his well used coffee machine, which is covered with a multitude of tacky tourist stickers he’s collected over the years. He shoves a spoonful of grounded coffee beans into the dispenser and watches as the steaming water pours into the cup. 

“ ‘m not sleep deprived.” He slurs again, this time more quiet. “Meds.” 

George’s eyebrows raise, “You’re still sick?’ 

Dream laughs, almost bitter. “ for a long looong time.” 

His lips press into a thin line. He’d ponder more on his words if it wasn’t for the incessant beeping of the coffee machine, breaking George out of his train of thought.

Holding his phone up with one hand, he reaches over to one of the cupboards above his counter, pulling out a bottle of creamer and sugar for his coffee. The car headlights from outside his window are the only light in his room, besides the weak glow of George’s phone.

“ Wha’re you doin’?” He asks, mid yawn. George uses this moment of quiet vulnerability to memorize the softness in Dream’s voice.

“I’m making coffee.” He responds dully, focusing on his hands. Mixing and adding the sugar and cream in slow motions.

“Wha’ time issit?” His voice falls and rises, he sounds almost giggly. 

George sets down his mug and takes a tentative sip. The coffee is creamy and goes down his throat smoothly. He lets out a satisfied hum, taking the cup in hand and walking over back to his desk. He listens to Dream’s slurred ramblings with a fond smile on his face.

“It’s almost 3 in the morning.” He replies, the fondness he has for the other man reeks in his voice.

The man on the other side of the phone groans.

'Hey," Dream giggles, voice floaty and feather-like as the words almost brush against George's ears. "Y’ know... a pencil got stuck in my hand once."

George stiffles his laughter. Dream’s words jumbled and loud, but George listens. He listens to Dream retell stupid stories from his youth in his sleep laced state, his laughter mixes with mirth and George feels like he too is high from happiness.

He’s so, so utterly fond.

" Yeaaaaaah like— owwie— but ‘twas funny."

George bursts out giggling.

Dream talks and talks until his mouth is dry, and George laughs and laughs until his stomach hurts and his eyes water. It's almost poetic how Dream has this ability to make George lose track of time, how he can make George feel lost in a ramble of incoherent sentences and still depict them as symphonies.

Dream has this way of making George feel utterly lost- yet found at the same time.

He’s clouded by the bliss and serenity by hearing unhinged Dream, rough and loopy as he laughs, that he puts his guard down.

So when Dream keeps asking him questions, George begins to answer them halfheartedly.

But it’s the one question that Dream asks, that completely captures George’s thoughts.

His voice is soft, almost childish as he whispers into the phone like he’s uttering some dark secret. “What are we?”

George’s breath falters, 

He stands, breathless in the dark hallways of his home. Knuckle white grip on his coffee mug as he tries to collect himself.

What were they? 

George doesn’t like labeling things. He has this odd belief that if he does, he’ll grow more scared of losing it.

But if there’s one thing that he knows, it’s that Dream is an ocean of words left unsaid. He is the late night texts and calls that George adores so much. He is the soft smiles in busy coffee shops, and the warm embrace he longs for in the winter. He is tentative, yet bold. Brash, yet demure. He is all that George admires and loves.

Love.

He doesn’t ever want to say it aloud, but if George were to ever label this makeshift, unsteady relationship of theirs, he would call it love.

It could have been love, if the world had a little more sand left in the hourglass, it could’ve been everything else and more.

He wants to scream it from the rooftops. Shout until his throat is raw and his words are heard. He wants to cry until he believes them for himself.

“It’s late.” George’s stomach twists and the thought of Dream looking at him with eyes of disgust makes him want to lurch. “You should go to sleep.”

We can be anything you’d want us to be.

“ Noooo ‘m not sleepy.” George can hear the pout in his voice, and it makes his chest combust with a plethora of unnamed emotions.

“Please? For me?” He says, trying to pour all the conviction he can into his words. His face is hot and his hands are red, but George tries to pull himself together for both of them.

I’d be with you, for as long as you’d let me.

“Hmmm, only for you.” Dream replies, and George can feel himself combusting.

He sits down on the edge of his bed, fisting at the sheets as he whispers softly. “Goodnight.”

Dream hums, a melodious sound that George couldn’t get enough of even if it played on loop for the rest of his life. He leans into the phone, as if to savor their moment together.

This is all he needs, this is all he wants.

“G’night. I love you—”

George promptly hangs up.

He sits at the edge of his bed. Face burning crimson, his chest alight with what feels like a raging hellfire all across his body. His eyes are the size of saucers as they stare idly at his wall. His heart, pounding against his ears so loudly that he can’t hear anything else around him. 

G’night. I love you— 

He doesn’t mean it. It's late, and he’s not in the right mindset to be saying stuff like that-

He doesn’t mean it. George is nothing more than a suffering college student, who’s terrible time management skills would be the death of him. Dream is bright and successful, who’s talent and admirability could get him anywhere he wanted in life. They are two unlikely friends in the first place, what would happen with anything more?

G’night. I love you— 

He lays down in his bed, curling into the scratchy sheets. The mountains of unfinished papers lay at his desk forebodingly, but George couldn’t care less about his deadlines for once. All that mattered was the burning feeling in his chest and the ever present question on his mind.

George turns around, throws his phone on the floor, and closes his eyes shut.

(The next morning Dream will call him again while he’s trying to sort through the endless amount of paper and scraps on his desk, and just like before. George will answer without a second thought.

“Oh shit— I checked my phone and saw I called like— six times?? ” Dream stammers, voice edging towards hysteria. George’s grip on his pen tightens.

“Yeah, yeah you did.”

“Fuck did I— did I say anything? I checked and saw I downed all my prescriptions—” He explains, words slurring together in panic. “I’ve been told that I say stuff when I’m loopy and I— ”

George waits patiently by the phone as Dream tries to pull himself together. He stays quiet when he talks, the rising fear in him begins to surface.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable I guess.” Dream says with a sigh. “Whatever I said last night- completely disregard it.” 

G’night. I love you—

“Yeah,” George says, monotone. “Yeah of course.” 

G’night. I love you—

“I’ll talk to you later?” He asks, tone almost plaintive.

George feels his heart break a little bit more.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

He waits until the line goes silent, and he’s left nothing more with the aching feeling in his chest.

He doesn’t mean it.)

***

It’s late. George doesn’t know the specific time, but really, when did he care? All that he knows is that it’s somewhere around the midnight zone, and he’s laying on the soft woven quilt in the middle of his living room couch. His hand nursing a pint of harsh, cheap liquor.

Why he’s drinking in the first place is a mystery, why he’s calling Dream is also one.

“What’s your favorite word?” Dream asks from the other end, his voice overlaid with static and frayed at the edges. George hums, running a finger around the brim of his glass.

“Are you asking me because you’re a writer?” George scoffs good heartedly, a lopsided grin playing at his lips. The soft glow from the bathroom door is the only light in his dingy dorm. He would mentally beat himself over it later, he had more important matters to attend to.

“You’re a poet aren’t you?” Dream chides. George can hear the faintest rustle of papers in the background of the call. “I like to have intellectual conversations with those of a wide vocabulary.”

George releases a delighted chuckle at that, it rolls off his tongue like honey. “Now you’re just fucking with me.” 

They exchange a series wheezy giggles. With Dream’s sounding oddly reminiscent of a tea kettle, and George, who’s laughter racks through his body and makes him feel lightheaded. 

“No,” The man across the line says after another fit of bountiful laughter. “I’m serious.” 

It takes George a solid minute of tough deliberation, he hums softly while scaving through the long catacombs of his mind for the perfect word that would validate his acclaim, but even through some long and strenuous thinking- his mouth just couldn’t provide an answer. He looked to the small crack in between his bathroom door and sighed. 

“Hm, illuminate maybe?” He said tentatively. 

Dream chuckled again. “You sound unsure.”

George made a sound of amusement, swishing around the clear liquid in his glass. “You caught me off guard, that's all.” 

It’s as if George could hear the smile in his words.”Caddywhompus” he said slyly.

George almost choked on his drink; “That doesn’t even sound like a word!” 

Dream’s wheezy laughter returned, louder than ever. Even if it sounded a bit obnoxious at times, George himself found it endearing. 

He was a man of many words, he had waxed poetics about men before in the past, but there was something about Dream that made him completely and utterly—

Speechless.

“Ok, how about your least favorite word?” Dream asks again, his words quieter. George could faintly make out the way sleep had affected them. 

He doesn’t skip a beat. “Moist.” 

“What?” Dream replied in between bouts of wheezy giggles. 

“It just sounds gross okay- we didn’t need to make a word describing something semi wet anyways.” The man huffs, cheeks blaring crimson. He’s secretly glad Dream can’t see how flustered he is.

Dream hums in agreement. “Almost.”

This time it’s George’s turn to ask. “What?”

“I said my least favorite word is almost.” 

George’s eyebrows raise. “Why?”

The man on the other end snickered. “Do you really want me to start ranting to you at 2 am about my choice of least favorite words, George?”

Maybe it’s the way Dream says his name, how the vowels curl and lick into this euphonious symphony. How they sound like church bells in distant heaven. Dream says George’s name like it’s gospel and he’s a preacher.

And George gives in.

“Sure, I’ll listen.” 

“I think it’s because almost, has so much failed potential, you know?” Dream starts, “That it represents our ability to be just not good enough. That we were on the brink of something beautiful.”

George considers it, in the low light of his apartment with the soft glow of the bathroom light. He kindles a glass of alcohol as he listens to the man he’s yet to find the words to label. It seems to come out of a scene of poetry, wrapping and curling itself like wet ink on parchment, George thinks about all the possible almosts he had. 

He yawns, feeling himself drifting further into the temptation of sleep.

Dream’s voice dips. “But we fell short so many times, so, so many times. We even had to craft a word for it.”

He hums, listlessly fading off to the soothing sound of Dream’s voice.

He chuckles, it's faint and pained. “Almost is everything we could have been, and everything we have failed to be.”

There’s a soft sigh on the other line of the phone, George can barely hear it over the lull of sweet slumber.

“It’s beautifully tragic.”

Dream is a mountain of secrets untold. George likes the little secrets in their conversations, how Dream would leave only the littlest of clues for him to find and decipher, every word being another step to unraveling the vague mystery that was the man on the other side of the phone.

George is already closing his eyes, before he can even hear the line go flat with Dream’s last words.

It could have been love, if the world had a little more sand left in the hourglass, it could’ve been everything else and more.

“We’re tragic.”

George won’t ever know his last words, even when he wakes up in the morning with a head splitting migraine, or an empty glass of tequila left on the glass table. George won’t ever know, even when he looks back to their old conversation, and sifts through, trying to find the little hints that Dream would leave behind for him. 

But even after two whole years he just— can’t.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever know what he meant with those words.

***

FINAL ASSIGNMENT: DUE APRIL 17TH

Requirement: A 100 page literary compilation of either poetry or prose. This is to be submitted at the end of the year on [DATE] as your final project. Failure to comply with the given deadline will result in retaking the year or course given. All works will be individually graded and recorded through the standard grading system.

Note that all sources and quotes should be cited in Chicago format.

***

MANUSCRIPT: #1 FOR FINAL ASSIGNMENT.
NAME: GEORGE DAVIDSON

ENGLISH MAJOR, POEMS. 4TH SEMESTER
DRAFT NO. 1

Hiraeth: The feeling of coming home to a place that does not exist
Metanoia? A journey of changing one’s heart
Precocious, almost, incredibility.

The exploration of grief and mourning-and the constant search of new meaning within the loss of another life-
Emotions to incredibly powerful they invoke change wishes, a homage, letter

I wish i could've said this all sooner

All the words I couldn’t say


For Dream, my muse and inspiration.

***

Two years have passed since he walked the street at downtown alley.

He never expected to actually come back here, the worn pavement that used to be covered with piles of white snow, was now bare, and he could now see the cracks in the stone of the lines that etched the sides. The discoloration of the paint on store fronts from the passing seasons left them almost unrecognizable.

George felt like a stranger in a foreign land. The bulbs of what used to be flickering street lights have finally been replaced, and the musty old cricket bench next to the towering lamp posts has been scraped clean of their rust and soot. The moss covered sign on one of the shop windows, was now scrubbed to show its metallic-like gleam, added on with shiny metal accents. George took in all the change. It’s as if the whole street itself was brand new.

It’s the little differences that leaves George appalled. He couldn’t believe that this was the same street he used to walk on only a handful of months ago. Everything felt like nothing at the same time. George could still see the old downtown alley that lurked beneath all the glamorous embellishments. 

It’s still home, even with all these changes. 

He grimaces at the dark storm clouds that he vaguely makes out in the abyssal night sky. The sharp winds brush across his face and ruffle his hair. He clutches his messenger bag, filled with papers and pens with chewed caps and treks on forward, trying to find a store that wasn’t closed at the hour.

It takes a while, and he can genuinely admit that it's his fault for exiting his study session so late, as the sky progressively gets darker and darker, and stormy clouds edge closer.  His final project was due in only 2 months, and he had just barely scratched the surface of its entirety. It’s looming deadline and his depravity of inspiration made him dread even touching it.

So he begins to wonder about places. Letting his heart guide his feet aimlessly through building and parks in a search for a fleeting sense of willpower to help him finish college. This was it, his final project that would decide the outcome of all the years before it- and he just have to writer’s block mid way

But maybe looking for inspiration so late in an oncoming storm wasn’t his best idea.

The first fall of rain hits the ground, and soon, thousands of little droplets follow after; hitting the harsh pavement and splattering onto his shoes. He glances at the street around him, trying to find anywhere to seek shelter from the barrage of droplets.

George doesn’t read the rectangular wooden sign engraved with the shop’s name in gold on the front porch, he goes in without a second thought.

Quickly darting inside, he dusts the stray fickles of water that drop from the strands of his hair, checking  his messenger bag in case any of his untouched documents were affected by the rain. 

 He lets out a relieved sigh when he sees them dry and pristine. Fiddling with the clasp of his bag, he begins to walk further into the shop.

The walls are painted a soft yellow, with tall wooden beams holding the ceiling and reaching out from the polished marble floors. Potted plants hanging from every crevice of the place, and string lights dangling down from entryways and arches. George feels mesmerized by the warm and comforting ambience of the place.

It feels a bit like home actually.

He breathes in the scent of roasted coffee beans and pine. Looking around the shop he can see almost no one in sight. He assumes it’s due to the weather. Well, that and the fact that it's almost midnight. Yet the alluring ambience of the shop lulls him to stay longer.

Awkwardly walking to the cashier, he fumbles with the papers in his bag. He plans to order something to warm his insides and clear his head from the stress and worry of his project. Hot chocolate maybe? Or maybe tea, he hasn’t had tea in almost a year, after—

“Yes, I’ll be home soon. I just finished my shift right now.” 

George looks up with feigned interest. In front of him is a familiar face. The barista is on his phone, pressed tight against his ear as George listens to a one sided conversation.

“I can pick up food for dinner too if you want— yes, I’ll be careful. I’m always—”

The cashier and him meet gazes. George gasps softly, he’d remember eyes with brimstone and dull fire like those any time. Obsidian irises widen, as the man at the register opens his mouth in shock.

It feels like time seemed to stop, and he was stuck in the making of a moment.

“George?”

His voice sounds like a distorted old song, one from somewhere nostalgic and homeward. It gives George whiplash, he hasn't heard it so long that hearing his name from it feels almost alien. He looks back at the barista with a white bandana strapped to his forehead with the same amount of surprise.

“Sapnap?”

He’s thrown back suddenly into what feels like forever ago. 

“Sap? Are you still there? Is something wrong—”

George watches as Sapnap lurches for his phone, hastily pressing it against his ear and he mutters something among the lines of  “Sorry Karl, I’ll call you back.” and “I love you. Bye.”

George watches, as Sapnap puts down his phone and grounds himself on the counter. His eyes downcasted. The color of his knuckles go alabaster for a moment, and George can feel a tight knot of fear rise in him. 

“Where— ”

“Sapnap? We’re closing up for the night already.” 

Both their heads turn to the back of the counter. There stands a man with messy brown hair, and wired glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He dons a kind smile, the same mustard-colored apron, gently folded into one of his hands. The other, an umbrella.

Sapnap turns to him, all the previous aggression falling out. “Bad— sorry, I’m done cleaning up the shop.”

The bespectacled man hums, tucking away his apron in one of the lower cabinets under the counter. “It’s alright. I just thought we were done for today.”

George freezes up when he turns to him. It only occurs to him at that moment that the words the other man was saying were directed to him.

“S-sorry.” He stammers pathetically. “I’ll leave now.” Taking a step back, he begins to walk to the exit.

“No.” A firm hand clasps his shoulder, jerking him back to the counter. George whips his head to Sapnap, who’s conflicted gaze meets his fearful one.

“Sorry Bad,” Sapnap says through gritted teeth. “Can I stay for a bit longer? It’ll be quick I swear.”

George inclines his head to watch the two of them converse, his grip on the messenger bag tightening.

There’s the same gentle smile on his face. “Don’t worry. Just make sure to close up afterwards, and take some leftover muffins from the display. I made too much from yesterday anyways.” 

Sapnap nods, “Will do Bad. See you tomorrow.”

The other man nods back as he opens up his umbrella, “Don’t be late to the morning shift.” 

And with that, they both watch as the bespectacled man exits the shop, wind chimes on the door jingle. George looks to Sapnap, who’s back is faced the other way. It’s just them now.

He glances at the barista, “Sapna—”

“Go sit down. I’ll go get those muffins.” He says with the wave of his hand, ring glinting in the light. He walks away before George can even utter a word in reply. 

He feels hurt, though he doesn’t know why. He just— does. 

There’s this ancient feeling in his chest. Almost somber, almost forlorn. He can’t put a name on it. His heart pounds in his ears as he walks towards a seat in the center of the room. Picking at the wood chips on the table and the stubs of his nails. 

He waits, until Sapnap comes back with a tray of muffins and two glasses of something steaming hot.

They don’t speak. Tense silence fills the room, while George stares intensely at the blueberry muffin in front of him. He feels Sapnap’s gaze on him like holes burning on the back of his head. Adjusting a bit in his seat, he tries to start a conversation.

“So- uh. How are you?” He manages, picking up the muffin and biting into its sweet crust. Sapnap raises an eyebrow.

“Fine. I’m doing my exams, but still alive.” He says casually whilst crossing his arms and glazing away. “Still here though for the time being.”

George takes another bite. “It’s changed so much…” He whispers into his muffin.

Sapnap chuckles softly. “It has, hasn’t it? Ever since Bad became the manager he insisted on fixing up the place. Now we’re the most popular coffee shop on the block.” 

He manages enough courage to smile.“That’s great. It’s a lovely place.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap drags a breath. “It is.”

George reaches out for the steaming mug. The liquid inside is a bubbling, rich brown color. He inhales the rising tendrils of white smoke and lets out a giddy smile.

“Cinnamon hot chocolate!” 

Sapnap laughs, loud, boisterous and oddly reminiscent.“Couldn’t forget, even when I wanted to.” 

They share this moment of happiness together over blueberry muffins and bubbling hot chocolate. He thinks the feeling he was having before could be something along the lines of nostalgia. A sickness for home, or a place with bustling memories once lost, finally being found again.

The cafe at the corner of downtown alley gives him nostalgia to a time when he was happier.

“So,” the other man says after their bout of laughter. “How are you doing?” 

George shrugs, “College sucks, but I’m in my last year and have one project left to go before I’m out of here.”

Sapnap’s lips tighten to a thin line. “You’re leaving after college?”  

“Yeah, once I submit my final work I plan to start travelling maybe.” He says into his mug.

There’s this disgruntled look on Sapnap’s face that he couldn’t quite decipher. He looks as if he wants to say something, yet his mouth is sealed tight with frustration, eyebrows furrowed and eyes glazed with confliction. George tilts his head to the side.

“Something wrong?—”

“Aren’t you tired of running?” 

George’s mouth is suddenly dry. “What?”

He watches as Sapnap turns in his seat restlessly, his grip tightening on the muffin. “You haven’t been here since Dre—”

“Don’t.”

Sapnap’s eyes widened. His grip on the muffin going slack as George cuts him off with a sharp tone. 

The barista looks into his eyes, cold and steely. He grits his teeth. “You’re doing it again.”

The steel legs of his chair scrape loudly against the marble floors. George stands up abruptly, the seat clattering onto the floor. His face is hot with anger, and fire rolling off his tongue.

“You don’t know me.”  He spits, strapping his messenger bag over his head. “You don’t know what I feel.”

 He zeroes out on everything else. His head starts to feel dizzy with anger. 

Sapnap looks remorseful. “I couldn’t imagine.”

George hates the sympathy in his voice, how it’s calm and comforting. He hates how he feels guilty for lashing out, for not being the bigger person in this.

He’s better than this, he knows this- Sapnap knows this.

“You never could. You would never know what I feel.” He says, choked. 

His steps are heavy, and as he closes the distance between him and the exit door, it feels as if a boulder had been weighed on his chest. Like his heart was tethered in the memories etched and forgotten, it aches for him to turn around. It aches for him to go back.

“You’re not the only one. ” Sapnap says, almost bitterly.

George grasps at the handle of the door, metal cool against his fingertips. The moment he steps out the door is the moment the aching in his heart stops, and he’ll stop missing a place that’s long gone in the first place. He’ll stop feeling nostalgic for things that don’t exist anymore- for people who left long ago.

Maybe then, he’ll stop reminiscing.

Right? 

“He left me too.”

There’s something in the way his voice cracks, or how the cold air hits his face, rain splattering onto his clothes. Sapnap’s voice is drowned out by the thousands of other emotions he feels.

He spares him one last glance, before walking away again.

***

change only happens,

when someone notices that they’ve 

been stuck in one place 

for too long.

*** 

When George opens his eyes, he instantly knows none of it is real.

He’s standing in white barren room, floors and walls painted top to bottom in the same blindingly blank color. The only splot of color seen was a mahogany table in the center of the room. Flanked by two high chairs on both sides, he instantly knows it’s a dream, one being that it all felt too surreal to be reality, and two- there was another man sitting at the tall high chair on the other side of the table. 

George watched the other man warily, because even though he knew it was a dream. He could still sense this presence of something— familiar  to him.

He circled around the table, like a shark eyeing it’s prey. His feet dance around the topic of confrontation.

“You don't need to do that you know.” 

George jumps a bit, his feet leave the ground slightly as his heart lurches within his chest. The man’s voice felt like the feeling when you’d reopen something from your childhood. Old and tainted with the soils of time, yet still recognizable from all the memories it held. It was odd to say the least. 

He feels a twinge of discomfort grow. “Who are you?”

The man’s laughter echoed. “You know who I am.”

George looked at him, his face was blanked out by a white censor bar. His clothes looked like they were meant for colder weather. Thick green windbreaker jacket hugging his top, with a dark maroon scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He had this slouched posture, as if disinterested in everything around him. George swears he has never seen this man in his life.

“No. No I don’t.” George’s eyebrows furrowed as he took a step back. 

“Take a seat.”  The man said, offering an open palm to the empty seat in front of him. George felt sudden anger curl flare inside of him.

“No.” He repeated again, voice steady and firm. 

“I don’t know who you are.”

“You don’t need to.” The man chides again, crossing his legs under the table in a bored manner. George doesn’t know why, but for some reason the anger begins to boil inside of him. “It’s not that important. What’s important is that you take a seat and have a chat with me.” 

“This is my dream, I do what I want.” He spits, turning sharply on the heel of his foot so his back faces the man. “And I don’t talk to strangers in blank spaces.”

The man laughs, bitter and cold. “Says one stranger to another. A bit hypocritical isn’t it?” 

“Don’t say it like you fucking know me.”  His hands curl into fists. “You’re not even real.” 

This is all a dream, he repeats to himself. Hoping that the more the words lose their meaning, the more he’ll believe them. He turns sharply to the side, looking around the barren white room for any sign of an escape door- or a window or hatch— anything to get him away from the man.

But he can’t. Even no matter how hard he tries to make his own door, thinking that this reality of his mind would still be sentient enough to listen to him. But ultimately it all becomes futile when George cracks his fist in frustration. Feelling the ever increasing discomfort he feels with the man. 

“You’re right.” His distorted voice chimes. “But the more in denial you are, the more difficult it will be to get out.” 

George feels the last string of patience in him snap. “ What are y—”

“You keep saying that no one truly knows you, but then again. How will they if you keep closing your heart to the world? No one knows you, George, not even yourself.” 

His stomach drops, and the world around him slowly begins to fade, leaving only a hazy vision of the man on the high stool chair, watching him with his blanked out eyes. 

Feeling the rising panic in him surface, he begins to shout. 

“What do you even mean ? You can’t just leave without answering damnit!” He curses, willing his feet to move in place—but he’s in shock to find them glued to the ground, stuck with adhesive as he begins to fade in and out of consciousness. George wants to rip his legs from the floor and break out into a run, hoping to get more answers from the man.

He struggles and struggles… the point where he can feel the ache and tiresomeness seep into his bones, even if he was in a dream. George felt as if he was slowly being sucked away.

He watched, as the man in winter clothes stood up from his seat, and very gently pushed the high stool chair back to its place. He stood up with the grace of a breeze, light and weightless. His nimble fingers going to the buttons of his windbreaker, hastily buttoning back the buttons together before turning to George, one last time.

“Come back when you actually feel like talking.” 

And with that, the whole world faded black. 

George woke up in cold sweat.

*** 

He goes back to the coffee shop the next day.

Maybe it’s his lack of self preservation. Maybe it’s the heart wrenching feeling in him that drags him back to the shop, every, single, time.

He stands at the entrance for a moment, hand reaching and pulling away at the handle continuously pondering his options. 

Something doesn’t sit right in him. As he plays with the tingling metal under the pads of his fingers. He questions whether or not he should enter. 

“Aren’t you tired of running?” 

He’ll never admit it out loud, but if there’s one thing he must admit, it's that his feet have walked thousands of miles away from his problems, they ache and blister from the weight of them. He is a wild beast on the scent of a fresh kill, the carmine blood stains his hands with grief and regret. He is cowardice and abhorrence made flesh and bone. Not wanting anyone to see all the ugly and disgusting parts that he’d so much rather tuck away and run—

He won’t ever say it aloud, but George is tired of running.

When you’ve walked on daggers for so long that you don’t even know how to trust the sand between your toes.

He looks back to the door of the shop. Open and waiting.

He’s so tired, he opens the door and steps in.

The smell is different in the mornings.

It’s not the normal roasted coffee beans, and light rosemary of the evenings. Instead, it's of fresh pastries and chamomile tea with the slightest hint of vanilla. It makes all the tension in George’s body dissipate, his limbs going lax at the comforting smell. 

He’s back in temporary bliss and serenity.

Looking over to counter, he half expects to see Sapnap, the other half dreads to. He doesn't know how well he’ll fare against the other man after their conversation last night. So with a tentative look, he peeks over to the cashier, only to see-

another man at the counter.

George cranes his neck further. He notices the truff of unruly brown hair, and thin wire frame glasses on a bridged nose. It’s the man from last night, probably Sapnap’s coworker if he recalled. He was there, serving customers with the same kind smile, and gentle eyes.

He released a long, and heavy sigh. Relief washed over him like a tidal wave, seeing Sapnap so early, especially after last night, really would’ve taken a toll on him. And it seems like the gods have finally taken pity onto his poor soul, sparing him a day without any mental strain.

His steps to the counter are slow and languid. Inhaling the warm aroma and humming to himself while waiting in line to order, he feels incredibly at peace. The ache in his heart is numbed by the tranquility of it. 

When it’s finally his turn to order at the counter, he knows exactly what to say. The words sit ready in his mouth, and a surge of confidence rises in him.

“Next.” The cashier calls.

“Espresso Macchiato.”

The bespectacled barista looks at him, and with a gentle smile asks. “Size?”

George shifts his body weight to each foot. “Grande.” 

He hums, scribbling his order onto a cup with a sharpie. “Anything else?”

George ponders for a moment. Looking at the silver plated name tag on one of the straps of his mustard colored apron, reading in bold letters Bad. 

“Strawberry scone.”

He scribbles a bit more, before looking back up at George. “Have I seen you before?” 

The college student gulps, “You have. Last night.” 

Bad continues to hum, setting down the cup on the side of the counter, and lifting his head to fully face George. “The one with Sapnap? If you’re looking for him today then tough luck. He’s out sick.” 

George raises an eyebrow to that. “He’s sick?”

Bad nods, crossing his arms. “A bit unbelievable I know. He seemed fine yesterday.” He murmurs, “Can you come closer?”

He awkwardly leans in, and Bad whispers in his ear- quite loudly. “I don’t think he’s actually sick. Might just be avoiding someone.” 

George’s heart drops to his stomach. “Avoiding someone, huh?” 

He’s stupid. He’s an actual idiot to think that he’d actually get away scot free after that conversation last night. Sapnap’s mad at him , and he’s painfully aware of it, but George can’t blame him for being so. He has every right to scream at George, he has every right to hate him with every bone and fiber in his being. 

Sapnap has every right to hate a coward. 

“You’re George right?” 

He turns his head back to look at Bad.  Who’s beaming back at him, smile so large that it looks like it hurts. 

“Uh- yeah. I am.” He answers stiffly, scratching the back of his head. 

“I know you! Well- from what people have said at least.” He babbled, and George’s interest piqued.

“What people have said?”

Bad nods his head vigorously. “Don’t worry, they’re all good things.”

That’s not what I’m asking. George thinks to himself, moving to the side of the counter to let the next person in line order. He’s avoiding the question.

“Hey!” Bad calls out from the counter. George spares him a glance from over his shoulder. 

“Save me a seat. My break’s in a bit.” He says with a cheery grin, so light and good mannered that George can’t even muster the courage to say no.

So he nods begrudgingly, walking towards one of the seats in the middle of the room. He sits down with a thump and places down his laptop on the table. 

He stares at the screen for an uncomfortable amount of time. The blinding witness of his google docs sends him into a trance, the flickering line at the start of his mouse stares back at him tantalizingly, mocking him for his lack of words. He wants to slam him head onto the table, for fuck’s sake he’s a poet.

The thought of the looming deadline sits in his mind uneasily. He wants to rip his hair off his scalp in frustration, maybe a knock of two on his skull would get the gears in his brain to start working and finally produce something good for the project that would decide his future.

This is his life, his future and worth. All on the line for this damn project. 

Yet whatever make-believe God that sits in the sky, laughs. Hanging loose strings of inspiration down onto him. And like Tantalus, he is always just so close, but ultimately too out of reach.

He hates it. He hates this project, he hates his brain, and he hates himself.

He’s so busy beating himself up over it, that he doesn’t notice Bad, coming over to the table and dropping his cup of espresso right in front of him. Along with a fresh, strawberry scone wrapped in quaint yellow parchment, still fresh from the oven, tendrils of white smoke rising from it.

“Don’t push yourself too much. I can see the gears in your head turning from here.” He jokes, pulling up the empty seat in front of George. The other man scoffs.

“Just a bit wound up really.” He sighs, pushing away his laptop. 

“Can’t think of anything to write about?” Bad asks, chewing on his own scone. George’s eyes widened.

“Yeah… How’d you know?” 

Bad chuckles. “I know a writer in a slump when I see one.”

George grimaces, he turns away in favor of nibbling on his scone. He lets out a silent curse under his breath. 

“So,” Bad starts, setting the baked pastry aside. He latches his hands together and smiles. “I wanna know if what I’ve heard is true.”

George looks at him in the corner of his eye. “Depends on what you’re hearing.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Like I said! Only good things.”

The poet turns to him, and staring straight into the other man’s eyes asks. “And from who?”

The smile on Bad’s face turns almost melancholic. “Good people.” 

George holds in an incoming groan, instead he presses his lips together tighter and grits out another question. “Yes, but what did they say about me?”

He doesn’t want to come off as rude, or too frank even, but his patience is a thin string about to break at the slightest interference. He wants to know why the look on Bad’s face is so conflicted, he wants to know where his name’s been uttered and spoken. George wants to know with a personal grievance.

Bad’s eyes wonder. “You don’t like bitter drinks, that's for sure.” He says, gesturing to the steaming cup of coffee on his side of the table. “You always order something with at least the smallest bit of sugar.” 

George frowns. “I don’t—”

“You’ll always deny it too. Trying to seem all high and mighty when you can barely even start a conversation by yourself.  Your favorite color is blue and you have a personal soft spot for ‘ Whiskey Words in a Shovel' because you wrote your first literary analysis on it when you were in highschool.”

“How did you—”

“And you wanted to become a poet because you loved how words could translate the deepest of emotions of the human heart.“

Bad looks into his eyes, and George’s words falter. “ You loved poetry, because it brought people together.” His voice grew more desperate.

“You loved poetry.”

There’s a silence after Bad’s words. Suddenly, all George could hear was white noise, loud and cackling in his ears. It felt like the world was drowned out in water, and he was submerged again in that ancient, unknowing feeling. His head felt light from the lack of oxygen.

But then- as clear as day, a voice reached through the static.

“Why do you write?”

“Because,” a laugh echoes in his ear, sweet like honey and light as sunshine. “It makes me feel alive. When I can create worlds beneath my finger tips, and stories weaved from almost nothing. It’s magical.”

A soft hum follows through, “That’s a great reason.”

“I know it is.” a deep voice chuckles. “What about you?”

“Ha,” A pathetic laugh arises. “I’ve never thought about it actually.”

It’s blurry, vague and unfocused but there— George can see it. The outline of soft, ashen blonde hair, bathed in golden light. Eyes the color of wet grass, and a smile as bright as the sunbeams raining down on him. He looks ethereal, happy and whole.

“C’mon George,” He drags out his name. “Why do you write?”

George feels like he’s in an ocean. Lapping with the waves, and water submerging him in the cool, soothing memory. Lost in the shifting tides and murky depths, he no longer fears drowning. For whatever monster that lies in the deep blue, would never hurt him more than he already is.

“I like writing because I can express what I feel with no one else to tell me it’s wrong.” He says bashfully. “Also because— “

He doesn’t even notice the tears that begin to well in his eyes before they fall onto the wood of the table.

George remembers hair as blonde as sunbeams, and a smile as warm as sunshine during harsh winter. He remembers wheezy giggles and day-old tequila on his tongue, he remembers the floral scent of pink hydrangeas and cinnamon. He remembers, all too much.

“Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Something inside his heart pulls,

“You…” He stammers, hands reaching to wipe the tears from his face. “You know him?”

Bad smiles. “I did.”

George will laugh sardonically, trying to mask his feign of hurt. “He never told me about you.”

Pain flashes in Bad’s eyes, and George can make out the glimpse of vulnerability peeking through the gentle exterior. There’s something so satisfying in watching the kindest of people, finally break.

“That’s alright.” He says, “He didn’t need to.”

There’s this tense silence between them, with George’s tear stained cheeks and Bad’s somewhat disgruntled expression, makes them quite the sight for bystanders around them. But George lacks the words to start any worthwhile conversation with him.

Until someone from the backroom of the coffee shop calls his name, and the barista stands up from his seat, picking up his hald rate scone.

He glances at George in the corner of his eyes. “So, what are you going to do now?”

George is bewildered by the question; it had only occurred to him then that he had been so mulled over the present— that he never even considered his future.

“I-I don’t know…” He lets out slowly, trying the words tentatively on his tongue. “I’m lost.”

Bad’s gentle smile returns. “I think that’s a good place to start.” 

George looks up at the man, who he barely just met, and feels a strange- yet almost safe presence towards him. He feels like he can whisper all his darkest secrets into his ear, and Bad would hold them under lock and key for no one else to hear.

“What do I do now?” He asks, pathetically.

The barista puts a hand to his chin, and hums. As if in deep thought. George waits in baited breath for a response. 

Bad turns to him, before spinning on his heel and heading back to the counter. He beams,

“Come back when you’re free.” 

Then as quick as he was there- George was alone again, but this time, he knew someone was coming back.

His hands form into fists over his keyboard, as he feels a knot form in his stomach, his mind a storm of untouched feelings, waiting to shower into bouts of writing and ideas.

He hovers his fingers over the keys, feeling the inspiration rise in him.

***

It was love for a while, wasn’t it?

For me, it was love.

And it still is.

-elegy for the wonted hearted

***

George hasn’t been this busy in ages.

He sits at the coffee shop table, word editor open and waiting, his hands itching to press onto the worn keys, a cup of coffee sitting beside his screen for later. He’s irking with thoughts and beautiful ideas, all waiting to be written down and immortalized. 

The days are shorter, now that he has something to write about. He’s grown accustomed to a repetitive routine, where he will wake up, check his schedule, go to class, and try to survive the day and make it back before 6 pm while the night is still young and fresh. It’s all too mundane and boring really. Even for someone like George, who likes the comfort of repetitive actions, it makes him feel safe and familiar.

But the magic truly happens when he runs down the street on downtown alley, pushes the door to Sugari open and hears the sound of wind chimes clatter above him, as he takes in the odd scent of roast beans and chamomile tea. 

He’ll go by the counter, and depending on whoever is serving—he’ll order something between the bizarre and new weekly drink, or his usual go to cinnamon hot chocolate just to be safe. Then, he’ll walk over to his now permanent spot in the coffee shop, a quaint, secluded table by the corner of the window.

By then, George would be fully awake and ready to gruel over writing another piece for his ever growing collection of prose and poetry. 

It’s been like this for almost a month, and he couldn’t be happier.

***

I’m a soft believer in the wisdom of loving someone in such a way that sets them free because love blossoms in appreciation. Love blossoms when it’s watered with gentleness, tenderness, and care. Love blossoms when it is given the space to be beautiful on its own. 

- And I believe in loving you.

***

There is a moment where you know you should stop.

Your body can only take so much strain. The wonderful thing about it is that no matter how many times it is broken down and bruised, it always comes back a little bit stronger. Though a bit scarred and worn, it comes back and the scars that riddle you are a momentum of a time you survived.

George is not like that.

He doesn’t notice it at first, how his hands shake uncontrollably when he types, or how his vision slowly blurs, as if he was looking through distorted lenses. He doesn’t notice it, when he loses his breath more often even from a simple walk around his apartment. He doesn’t notice how much his body is physically breaking down.

George doesn’t notice it, but he’s slowly killing himself.

But work has to be done, so he starts cutting his classes shorter so he can make faster walks to the cafe at downtown alley. He’s adjusted his sleep schedule to fit his urges of writing since his body has gotten used to the late hours his mind stays awake at. And now he’s completely set aside cinnamon hot chocolates in favor of darker, more distinguished blends.

Today is no different, his professor called off the only class he had to attend today- so basically had a free period for the next 20 hours or so. 

So George, like a dysfunctional human being, marches up straight into the coffee shop. Laptop in hand and a strong determination to make the best of his day. His mind has been going haywire with all the untapped ideas he has yet to elaborate on, so now, he’s going to act upon them.

He pushes past the doors, files up in line, and inhales the newest scent of tea that’s steaming by the counter. All of these actions are muscle memory to him by this point.

Sapnap’s serving today, and as usual, less than ten words are exchanged between the two of them..

“Order?”

“Coffee. Black.”

“Size?”

“Tall.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Have you been eating lately?”

George slowly looks up. That isn’t part of the routine.

“What?” He asks, gripping his wallet. The words come out more aggressively than he intends and he can see the way Sapnap flinches.

His gaze is conflicted, and in his dark stormy eyes something akin to concern swims. “You look… thinner.”

George holds back the scoff that bubbles in the back of his throat. “Yeah? And why do you care?”

George himself doesn’t know why he acts like this. Irritable, brash and frank. He’s all the things he hates in a person, yet why does he impersonate a fool? 

Sapnap hands him his receipt. He glances at him one more time before opening his mouth.

“George—”

Only to get cut off by the other man’s cold glare.

“Thank you for the coffee.” he says, before walking off.

***

To you, love was about numbers.

For me, love was meanings.

I wanted to say I love you, and you would ask how much?

I couldn’t ever find the words to answer you,

But they have found their way to me now, and this is what I could’ve told you.

I would gather clouds and brew them into storms, and let the rain scatter across your skin, then let you count each and every droplet.

I would drain the seven seas, drop you beneath the ocean floor and let you touch every piece of the far ends of the earth.

I would gather stars, peel them off like stickers from the sky and compare them to the ones of your cheeks. Then drop them in your arms and whisper soft lullabies into your ear.

That is, how can you count all the immeasurable things?

That said, how can you measure love?

And as I would look at you in awe at the sheer magnitude of my admission, I would take your hand in mine and tell you; if only you had let me, 

This is how much I loved you.

***

It's another late night and the routine still haunts him.

It’s no more of a hassle than it is an obligation to George, sometimes the methodical typing gets boring, and he has to rest his eyes from the blinding screen. 

There are days where he loses the urge to push forward, to make it though. 

That day is today.

“Fuck.”

His hands abruptly stop typing on the keyboard.

His fingers cramp and shake, spasming every so often when he lays his hands on the keyboard. He hisses, burying his hand in the crooks of his elbows in frustration, letting out a string of unceremonious words that for sure would've gotten him a beating or two if anyone heard him. But then again, he was alone. Alone in the barren, dimly lit for comfort-dorm, with nothing more than the laptop in front of him and stale coffee by his desk lamp. 

He stares at his flickering cursor with disdain, the flashing line over the unfinished sentence glares back at him menacingly, and George simply wants to grab his laptop and throw it across the room at any given second.

His eyes sting, dry as he tries to shut them close and do some meditative breathing exercises that he googled online. But still, the frustration boils in him like a volcano ready to burst into fury.

Running his hands through his hair he takes the stale coffee by the side of his desk, and takes a tentative sip- then immediately regrets said tentative sip.  Just like he thought, the drink had gone too long without him, and was now sour like his mood.

With a grueling sigh, he turned his desk around, standing with cup in hand as he marched over to the kitchen. Small and dingy with low hanging lights overhead the counter, which by now collecting a thin layer of dust covering the top.

He turns over to the sink, still filled with unwashed dishes from the week prior. He hasn’t found the time to actually do them yet of course, not when his valuable time could be spent hunched over his desk, pouring his heart out.

Spilling the dark grimey liquid in the sink, he watches deadeye as it slowly filters out of the drain, spinning and curling before it disappears below. Going over to his water dispenser, he gently flips over the heater switch and sits down on the granite tiled floor. Watching the red light with an intense amount of focus.

The floor is cold, as he lays his back on the countertop. Everything seems so— dull . As if the colors had been diluted down with too much water and splattered itself across his dorm walls. It feels dead, more of a morgue than a home.

But then again, when did it ever feel like home.

It’s one of the moments where he lets his mind wander, hoping his brain can somehow configure the slightest string of inspiration for him to expound upon. He’s a poet, he can make magic out of the mundane if he wished.

So he sits on the cold granite floor with the low hanging lights of his kitchen and thinks.

“If you could go one place on earth where would it be?”

The voice sends a shiver down his spine. Goosebumps trail across his skin, his eyes squeezing themselves shut.

A laugh, low and husky, whispers in his ear. “Anywhere but here, honestly.”

There’s a giggle. Soft and shy, as it whispers back. “Why not? Don’t you like the city?”

“The city’s fine but,” it stops, and as if something brushes a ghostly finger over the fringe of his hair, he feels his breath stop and his heart pound. “It’s too stuffy for me.”

The other voice laughs louder this time, bold and free with all the carefree attitude of a boy in love. “You sound as if it’s gonna kill you.”

The beeping of the water dispenser is barely heard by how deep he is into his thoughts. Slowly, everything around him starts to disappear.

A gust of wind brushes past them, and he can feel the way the cold air hits his face. Running through his hair and cooling the flush in his cheeks.

“It wont.” The man says, conviction in his voice. “But there’s so much more out there you know. All the places you could see past towering skylines. The smell of an unknown place, and rustle of trees. I want my feet to hit grass that no other man has touched before.” 

He squeezed his eyes harder, visualizing the sound into something he could envision.

George can hear the smile in his voice. He can see it. How the sun circles his ashen hair, forming a soft halo of light around his head.  Stray wisps flying out of  his low ponytail, like spuns of golden wool. His eyes, a bright unwavering viridian. The color of the leaves that hung above them like falling snow. They stared at him, bold and daring, and he could see the mirth dancing in them. 

He was beautiful.

“I bet there is.” an unknowing smile plays at his lips. “The world’s big enough for just us.”

The man chuckles. “ Too big. There’s so much to see. And I want to see all of it—”

By then, everything around him started to dissipate. The beeping of the water dispenser had flooded all into white noise, drowned out by the rustling of leaves and the whispers of the wind. The darkly lit dorm, now replaced with bright and lush leaves and golden sunlight that bathed them. 

George was stuck in a reality that seemed all too good to be true.

“What about you? You seem to have more ambitions then I could ever dare to dream of.” He says with a teasing lilt, tongue clicking about the roof of his mouth. By then, George couldn’t imagine him more than just a boy with wide viridian eyes that dreamt of the world in his hands, and the earth beneath his feet.

He hummed for a moment, the question not meaning too much to him as he answered nonchalantly. “I think the city’s fine. I don't know, I haven't really looked to any other places, so I can't tell if I would prefer elsewhere.” 

And without missing a beat,“You’d prefer it here. Trust me.”

He cranes his neck to the side. Flowers blooming in his chest, as he leans in closer. He’s addicted to the nectarine and honey, it leaves him rotten and asking for more. He’s addicted to the sound of his voice, and the wheeziness of his laughter. He’s addicted to the man in his fabricated fantasy, the one who’s hair reminds him of a field of golden rye and eyes like dewy grass after the rain.

He leans in hoping to convey all the heartfelt infatuation he has. 

“Why’d you think that?” He whispers.

The man in his dreams turns around, eyes tender as the crinkle with something akin to love. Atleast, George hopes it is love. He opens his mouth, and he’s already listening before the words come out.

He opens his mouth and—

Another gust of wind passes by them, even stronger this time. As George struggles to keep his eyes open without the air blowing at them, he holds a hand to the side of his face, hoping to still catch the words that he was saying.

“Sorry,” he says, rushed. “What did you say?” 

The man frowns, nose scrunched in a way George would find endearing if he wasn’t so eager to know what he said.

He opens his mouth and—

His heart drops to his stomach. Standing abruptly from his position, it feels like his whole world had been placed off center, and now he was falling without even realizing.

No words came out in the first place. His mouth moved and yet-

No words come out.

“I—” He stammers, stepping back from the beautiful scenery. Slowly, the world around him starts to break apart, the soft dewy grass begins to crack and tremor beneath him. Threatening to break open and pull him into the abyss below. His stomach lurches, legs suddenly failing him as the rising terror surfaces. “Wait I—”

He looks back up in desperation, hoping to get another glance at the man he fell so deeply for in the fragment of a moment. His heart screams, pulls, cries and pleads to see the man again.

But as he looks back up from the ever growing sinkhole- his heart breaks a little bit more.

His face— the wool spun golden strands of hair faded out, phasing in and out as if they were disappearing from this reality entirely. His viridian eyes were crossed out by the bar of white, shrouding his face completely.

No matter how hard he tried to reconfigure it, even in his own imagination. George couldn’t seem to remember his face. It was all just black and white, with a little bit of distortion and frayed edges.

He fell deeper and deeper in. Until the light started to fade into nothing but the faintest speck. And he was stuck. Falling and falling endlessly in this dark abyss with no semblance of the comfort he had just a second ago.

George reached out his hand, still hoping to grasp anything he could get. But just like the fool he was for even believing any of this was real- he ended up with nothing open palm, and an aching heart.

His eyes snap open.

George stands up so fast that he almost falls over from the inertia. The sudden unbalance in him makes him latch onto the dusty countertop table so tight, his knuckles turn the shade of alabaster. His stomach lurches, and his eyes feel like bags of bleach. 

He still remembers falling, he remembers how the static filled his ears and drowned him an ocean of white noise until he was drowning. How the light faded slowly from his vision, the face of the man who sat with turning fuzzy and unfocused. Like a dream he’d long forgotten after waking up.

George stands up, leaving the water dispenser beeping and his glass, unwashed in the sink. He’ll have to make due tonight without coffee. Only staying awake on the sheer adrenaline in his veins.

He looks off to the side, this unsettling feeling still bubbling in him. 

Shaking it off he walks out of his unkempt kitchen, with nothing more than the starving need to finish his project. He doesn’t need soft laughter, and boys with hair like the sun. All he needs is to survive this deadline.

Turning away from the thought, it’s already beginning to fade away back into the catacombs of his mind, until it finally becomes a ghost of an afterthought.

He’ll think about it another day.

***

He was never mine

but losing him broke my heart.

- Do I remain heartbroken forever?

***

The routine continues. He wakes up, eats breakfast, sits in class for how long his schedule tells him to. Then he dashes out of campus, and heads straight to the coffee shop. This time he’s changed it so that he only orders on Sapnap’s shift hours, so he doesn’t have to confront the other man whenever he simply wants to order his coffee.

So far it’s been working, and now his deadline of submission is in a month.

So of course, he only pushes harder.

Sometimes he has to take a break from typing, because the shakiness of his hands would make him misclick on keys. Now, he has to look away at the screen every so often, the blinding whiteness he’s grown accustomed to is beginning to hurt his eyes. He considers getting glasses now, because every now and then his vision would begin to spot and decay, like an old movie film, frayed and blurry around the edges. 

Today is no different, only when he wakes up he feels his world is out of orbit. Head light as if he was stuck up high into the clouds. He feels as if everything around him is falling, like the floor is a sinkhole that’s sucking him into the abyss. His body aches all over, muscles weary and tense, like the remnants of an ancient city lying within his bones, creaky and fossilized.

But still he pushes onwards, prying himself out of scratchy bedsheets and pulling on the first clothes he can see. He doesn’t care about outward appearances anymore, the thought of his deadlines, his manuscript, his future— plagues his mind like tar.

He’s lucky enough to remember he has no classes today, all the alarms on his phone blare at him, screaming into his ear and sending shockwaves of pain through his head. He groans, shutting it off on silent and throwing it back onto his bed.

Standing in his barren dorm, he tries to recall what comes next? Breakfast? It’s around late afternoon already… A bath? Didn’t he take one yesterday? Or was that the day before? 

He knocks his head, hoping that something good will jog his memory. 

And if a metaphorical lightbulb grew over his head. His eyes widened.

Oh. He’s supposed to be writing.

Scoffing to himself, he slings over his half empty messenger bag over his shoulder and ruffles his messy knotted hair, moving to stand over the door. 

There’s a full body mirror beside the place where he keeps his shoes. George’s eyes peer over to it when he’s grabbing his pair of worn loafers. His eyes glaze over the reflective surface, sunbeams hitting the dusty edges as it glows in the darkness of his dim room. He’s tempted to look over, to see who stands on the other side when he does. 

His stomach knots, as he takes a step in front of the screen. There’s this sense of dread that wells up in him, like a dam about to burst, he feels tight. Breath hitching ever so slightly as his fingertips meet the cool glass.

They say mirrors are the only way we can see ourselves. Though distorted and slightly lopsided, the reflective surface is the closest thing you’ll ever see to know what you truly look like to the eyes of others. 

That’s not him. George tells himself.

The man has heavy purple bags that rest under the sockets of his eyes. His eyes themself are bloodshot and dilated, shaking as they stare into themselves. His hair messy and matted, poking out sporadically. His skin almost alabaster, lips chapped and flaking. The man in the looking glass isn’t him, he isn’t—like this . Decaying, wilting and-

Dying.

George takes a step back from the mirror, but the fear in the reflection’s eyes sends him spiraling. Savaged and withering, he feels the world around him slowly start to break apart. The ground caving under his feet as he clamors for the handle of his door.

He’s spinning, the world is spinning- why is everything fucking spinning? He thinks to himself angrily, hastily unlocking the keyhole with trembling hands. He fights with the handle, forcibly beginning to ram the door in attempts to escape the horror in the mirror.

He’s terrified of the man with sad eyes and a tired expression.

George manages to unhinge the locks on his door and stumble out. Breath heaving out of his chest in heavy pants. He looks back to his dimly lit apartment, a newfound fear rooting itself in him.

He glares at the door. Slowly getting up onto his feet, he slowly walks towards the wrenched open door. Grimacing as he reaches for the handle.

Sometimes you wonder, how far in you already are before you even consider getting out.

Grip tightening on the knob. He pulls in all the force into his arm and slams the door. The walls of his apartment shake every so slightly. 

The sound of glass shattering is almost harmonic, like music to his ears. He thinks that he’ll clean up the broken shards of it another time. But for now,

He has work to do.

*** 

“What do you mean I’m not allowed in?” 

The words leave his mouth a little too quickly, stuttered and frantic as he stands in front of one of the coffee shop employees. Face contorted into one of dismay, and arms crossed against his chest tightly. 

“Sorry George. Bad said I couldn’t serve you.” He says through gritted teeth. George can see the flash of guilt in his eyes- before he turns his head sharply to the side. Afraid to meet George’s hazy gaze.

“Ant—” 

“I can’t disobey my manager’s rules George, and even if I did. We would have to forcibly remove you from the establishment.” 

The writer’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. “Forcibly remove?” 

Ant grimaces. “Ban you.” 

His breath falters, and he is left aghast. He doesn’t even know what to think of by this point. His mind is a thunderous, rainy expanse of sky, seeming to grow and stem into a bigger, and bigger storm. 

“That’s— he can’t do that.” George spits, “I need to go in there— I have stuff to finish Ant!” 

He steps closer, his feet inching towards the other man- until surely they’re only a few inches in breathing space. 

“Ant.” He says, voice nails on a chalkboard. 

The barista in the mustard colored apron steps back. His eyes, glinting with rising terror. Lips quivering to utter a response, but George cuts him off before the words can even form in his mouth.

“Let me in.” 

If he looked at himself, just for a second- he would be able to see the darkest pits of Tartarus in his eyes. Burning and brimming with fire, his mouth dripping poison as he glares at the man with a stare as sharp as knives. 

If he saw himself, tempered and savage. Pupils dilated and shaking, hair matted and untamed. With ghostly pale skin. Glancing at the windows of the coffee shop— he would’ve seen it.

He'd look almost like the man in the mirror.

But all he could focus on was the primitive fear that was shown in Ant’s eyes. The way he was all in control of these emotions, the way he could predict reactions and thoughts- it was addictive.

“George you’re scaring m—”

He relished in it.

“ George! ” 

He was almost there- just a little bit closer—

“George stop.” 

His head is thrown back by the force pulled at his side. He snaps his gaze to the right. Feral and unhinged as he prepares the mouthful of needles for words, baring his teeth ready for whatever interference he may encounter. 

When did he become so wild?

“George.” 

He turns to see Bad. Face painted with the colors of dismay and confliction. Eyebrows furrowed as his grip on George’s wrist tightened. 

“Bad.” He says back, equally spiteful.

“Ant, you can go back inside. Take the front desk.” The bespectacled man said to the barista. Who nodded eagerly. Quickly scrambling for the front door, he glanced one more time at George before closing it. 

Now it was just them. With Bad’s hand wrapped around George’s pale wrist, unknowingly twisting it so the faintest of red marks could show. George hissed, pulling away from the other man’s grip with all his strength. 

“George.” Bad starts off tentatively. “George, go back.”

He scoffs, rubbing at the marks. “I can’t, Bad.”

“You can. You just don’t want to.” Bad replies sardonically. It’s almost jarring to see the difference between the man which George usually knows— to this .

“I have things to finish.” He scoffs. “You can’t actually ban me from the shop.”

Bad’s eyes are steely. “Yes. Yes I can. I can ban you so that you don’t have to detriment your health every single time you go here. I can ban you so you can finally start taking care of yourself—”

“I’m fine.” George interrupts, his voice surprisingly calm. “I’m doing fine. I don’t need your care. 

Somewhere deep inside him, in the dark catacombs of his heart which haven’t been touched upon in years- George knows he isn’t fucking fine.

He is a boat in the midst of a storm. Waves raging as the strike against the sides of a boat. The sails, pulling and struggling to keep it from capsizing. He is so close to falling into the viscous sea below, and no matter how far he looks out. He can’t see the shore.

Bad can see the raging sea. He can see how close George is to falling in, and he’s trying so, so hard to keep him afloat.

“George…” He mutters, trying to let all the sympathy he can pour into his voice. 

“This isn’t you.” 

This isn’t him. 

“Aren’t you tired of running?” 

“No one knows you.”

“You’re scaring me—”

“Then who am I?”

He doesn’t even register the tears that begin to run down his face, before the small droplets hit the dry pavement. The sobs muffle his breathing, as they start pouring like waterfalls from his eyes. Nose runny and red, throat scratchy and raw, the boat on unsteady seas has finally been tipped over. And now he’s drowning, in an abyss of emotions untapped and wild.

He hasn’t cried, in so, so long.

“You’re angry, George.” Bad whispers softly, taking a reluctant step forward as if he was some sort of wounded animal.

Angry? George isn’t angry he’s just—

“And you’re tired. You look like you haven’t slept in days.” The bespectacled man continues, voice gentle and kind like the first day they met. 

Tired. Is he tired? It feels like the weight of a thousand years have laid in his bones, dormant and waiting, he feels weary. Joints stiff and restless, eyes burning from the tears.

“This isn’t okay, George. Pushing yourself to finish this project that’s only hurting you more and more, and coming here almost everyday isn’t helping either. We’re worried about you. Sapnap was the one to even recommend the ban in the first place—”

The muffled sound of his uneven breathing drowned out the other man's words. It’s all coming too fast. Bad’s words begin to slur together and become a string of incoherent sounds, washing and overlapping with the waves. He’s distorted by the water around him, the sea that continues to drown him more and more.

“You aren’t okay, George.”

He hasn’t been okay in a long time.

And if suddenly the storm stopped, and the clouds cleared the sky, he felt as if the world had stopped rotating.

He wants to be okay.

The dam breaks, and everything comes crashing down.

His sobs rack his body like ripples in a pond. As the tears come in heavy pours, his sobs drown out most everything else, the environment around him a cacophonous symphony to the highest degree, and now all he can hear is the sound of his breaking heart. Aching and forlorn as it struggled to beat against his weight of his grief. 

Heartbreak is an ocean he will never learn how to swim in.

George feels a hand, warm and steady as it takes his arm and leads him to one of the outside chairs. He gladly appreciates being able to sit down, for his legs have been aching from the weight of his sadness. He buries his head in his arms, hoping to curl up into himself far enough so he could simply just disappear. 

They sit in silence, with the only sounds being the small sniffles that would often come from George, and the passing cars that sped past them. He hated the silence, he hated how he sounded like while crying, he hated how sympathetic Bad looked at him, as if he knew how hurt he was. He hated how nothing else could make the pain in his chest any better.

He’s filled with hate, and for what?

“George,” Bad begins, low and hushed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

George wishes he could, he wished he could pour out the ocean of words that spill from his mouth on late nights- but now he feels dry and barren. 

“Even if it’s hard, even if you can’t say it now. You know something’s wrong.” He admonished, and George felt like some boy getting scolded by his parents in the nicest way possible. Albeit with his head buried in the nooks of his elbows, George hung onto every word that left his mouth as if it were gospel. 

How long has it been since someone cared enough to ask him what’s wrong? 

He lets out a small, intelligible sound. Somewhere in him he’s afraid that he might annoy Bad off, to the point that he’ll be castrated aside and left forgotten to continue the same dead end routine-

But Bad doesn’t do that. Instead he hums gently, fixes his back straighter and gives George time to cry. Let's sob out the ocean that’s drowning his heart in depths far deeper than he can imagine. Bad listens, he comforts him, but most importantly he stays.

“George,” the manager mumbles. “What’s wrong?”

It’s not that George isn't particularly wrong. It’s just— there’s so many wrongs there that he doesn’t even know where to start.

“I know it’s hard,” He chides, hesitantly reaching to grab George’s arm, and pat it reassuringly. “But maybe try to think back? There’s always a reason.”

George sniffles, nodding slowly. He relaxes his grip and begins to sink into the untapped abyss of emotions.

There’s a reason there’s always a reason-

“Why are we here?”

His heart lodges in his throat, as he squeezes his eyes tighter. It’s the voice again, the one from those nights long ago. Soft and muted as it whispers into George’s ear. He lets himself sink back into his thoughts.

“Because.” The voice says, hazy and a little distorted. “Galleries are beautiful.” 

He’s felt like he’s heard this before, like- in some shape or unrecognizable way, George is in this hazy, unfocused memory. Like old cinema tape, frayed and slightly weathered at the ends, his surroundings sound so— muted, as if the man was talking underwater. 

There’s this breezy, tentative laugh that plays in the background. “I’ve never been to a gallery before.” His voice was like a clear spring. 

If George could describe it in a metaphor- he would say it was like old cinema tape that they play in those old timey esque movies. The ones with tinged sepia like film that they’d put into specified players, projecting the video onto a blank white canvas in a dark room for people to watch. 

 If George dug into the crevices of his mind, he’d be able to pull out a distant memory of his childhood, when his mom used to have the same old black-and-white colored tape that she’d put on for him in the bare walls of their old home living room. He’d remember sitting down on the hardwood floor, eyes eagerly watching the illuminated screen as crudely animated figures danced around in slow frame rates. Even if the quality was bad, or the light would cut off sporadically at times, to the point where his mother had to beat the machine working again. George loved it. He loved how he associated the smell of grainy old cinema tape with childhood. He loved how familiar it was.

He chuckles, “Today’s your lucky day I suppose. I promise you they’re lovely.”

George sucks in a breath, he’s a writer. He repeats to himself like a mantra. He can paint the most vivid of thoughts from the most foundational of ideas. So he does,

Soon, the image began to form. George was standing in the large, white washed room. With large pillars coming down from the ceiling and rising up from the ground. Beams and support wires dangling from the open glass roof, letting all the beautiful sunlight bathe them in golden light. George turns slowly, observing the modern architecture in all its glory. He’d never been to an art gallery before, yet he’d never find it anything less than beautiful. 

He turns to his side, and suddenly. He could see him.

There’s a man with an aviator jacket standing by one of the pieces. Back straight and chin held high. He has this air of confidence and poise to him, making it seem like all the other people in the room didn’t matter- as if he was the centerpiece in the middle of a dining table. Bold and made it be gawked at.

His feet are pointed towards George, and before he even notices he’s staring. The man in the jacket is already smiling at him. 

“Do you like it so far?” He asked, a childlike glee evident in his tone. “It’s one of my favorite places.” 

George smiles, “I can see why. It’s incredible.” 

The man in the jacket smiles, stray hairs falling from his bun and onto his face. George watches in interest as he walks towards one of the displayed pieces on the wall.

Hesitantly, George follows. His footsteps echo across the gallery as he makes the slow walk beside the man’s flank. 

“This.” He whispers, peeking at George through the corner of his eyes. A cheeky glint sparkles in the bright jade. He gently nudges towards the wall. “This is my favorite piece.”

George looks up, his eyes wandering the vast expense of it all. 

It was this wide- landscape canvas that stretched itself out across the whole gallery wall. This beautiful shade of eggshell white with nothing else on it but two pieces of red string, reaching out from the farthest corners and cutting off right in the middle.  

George tilted his head, he could have interpreted it as some modern, simplistic contemporary work that most museums put on their walls. He tilted his head, hoping to get the piece from every single angle possible, but even from the oddest of glances. He still couldn't understand the undertoning meaning to it.

He huffed a frustrated breath, turning his head sharply to look at the man. George immediately met his gaze.

His ethereal eyes bore into him. “Having a hard time?”

George scoffed. “Seems a little too vague for me.”

The man smiled, “Well it’s art, you can interpret it however you want to.” 

A grin plays on George’s lips, “Then how do you interpret it?”

He hums, lifting his hand ever so slightly to gesture at the piece. In turn, George’s hand ever so slightly- brushes against his. 

Goosebumps run across his arms like wildfire, as he feels his heart was doing somersaults in his chest. George tries to fight down the burn of embarrassment that rises and colors his cheeks, and as he watches the man trail his hands across the artwork, he knows that the smile on his face is more cheeky than elated.

“See,” he waves his hand across the splots of patchy paint. “I think it’s about soulmates.”

George tries to push back the bubbling laugh in his throat. “Like the people tied together by myth thing?”

The man in the aviator jacket chuckles. “Not exactly, there’s different variations to the myth than just what the generalized Plato subscript is. My favorite is personally the red string of fate from east asian mythos—”

George doesn’t know why, but if he was given a bottle of the man’s words, wrapped tightly under corkscrews and translucent bottles of glass, he would get drunk off the sound of his voice without a second thought.

“Am I talking too much?” He says, hand dropping slightly. George’s eyes promptly widened. 

“No. I like your voice.” 

Before he could even regret his words, the man in the aviator jacket grinned.

“I believe in soulmates.” 

George didn’t think of his words as much, instead he looked at the large canvas and imagined it in a way that wasn’t one-dimensional. He tried looking at it as if the two distant scarlet strings, as if they were two lovers. Their adoration for each other spinning and looping into shapes and sizes, ranging far across the canvas like snakes reaching for their heads.

His eyes trailed the string, watching it abruptly cut off at the middle without warning.

“And what about the sudden cut?” He inquired, leaning ever so slightly into the taller man’s warmth. Their shoulders brushing against each other.

The man in the aviator jacket glanced at him, an incomprehensible look shining in his luminescent eyes. 

“Some things aren’t just meant to be, I suppose.” He says, tone almost disappointed.

On the other side, Bad pats his back comfortingly. He’s still cocooned tightly in his bundle of tears and solitude. Pretending the world is nothing more than his imagination of the stark-white gallery and the man with an aviator jacket. 

Nothing else matters than the sweet moment their hands brush against each other ever so slightly, or how whenever he looks around to glance at him— the other man is already looking back and smiling. 

George wants to stay in this place forever, and at the end of time. Even if it isn’t real.

He cranes his neck to the side. Eyeing the man in the aviator jacket. “You know, even if soulmates are real. The concept itself seems a bit odd.”

The man in the aviator jacket hums, “Why’s that?”

George doesn’t know why, but the topic of pre-destined lovers brings an ocean of words to his mouth. 

He shifts awkwardly. “I feel bad for the ones who can’t find their partners, you know? It’s this endless search looking for this person, and then for what? To not even be sure? To second guess? Maybe that’s why the concept itself is so beautiful, to have someone, who already loves you with no qualms unconditionally. Just— waiting who knows where?”

George fears the man’s answers, so he avoids his gaze, looking to the ground as if it were more interesting than the art on the walls. 

Instead of what George was expecting- the man laughs, and says in a whisper. “Is that so?”

The words prick at his lips. “It’s all just, hard to grasp at y’know? I can’t really say I’m a believer.”

“I don’t blame you for not believing it.” He laughs, hands shuffling to the pockets of his jacket. George feels a sudden loss at the side of his hand. 

“But then again, how do we forgive ourselves for all the things we didn’t become?”

“That’s awfully poetic of you.” He chides, the space between them becoming  progressively smaller.

A grin plays itself on the corners of his face. “Well I am a writer.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. Letting the tears roll down his face in secret. The words pull at his heart, working them like an instrument of mismatched symphonies. George lets himself be played. 

The man in the aviator jacket’s wheezy like chuckles haunts George. 

“Your words definitely perceive you as one.” He blurts, leaning in closer into the other’s warmth. He smells a mix of petrichor and something familiar that George just couldn’t put him nose on. 

He laughs, the sound of mirth dances across the gallery walls, and George couldn’t be more enraptured. 

“I only find words to describe beautiful things.” he coaxes, looking over to George again. He feels as if the butterflies in his stomach have made themselves a home in his chest. Fluttering around in the concaves of his heart and filling his lungs with pollinated flowers. He feels utterly and completely, enamoured.

The smile on George’s face is almost painful.

While he’s looking at the painting with a newfound sense of realization. Fixated on the way the strings never meet- the man begins to walk away.

At first George doesn’t say anything, thinking that maybe all the man in the aviator jacket was space, but as soon as the floor began the crack and curl at his feet- he knew what was happening.

The world was slowly deconstructing itself back down to what it originally was. A memory.

George watched helplessly as the man faded into the stark white walls of the gallery, the paintings falling onto the floor and getting sucked into the ever growing sinkhole in the center of the room. George was all too familiar with the feeling of falling by this point.

He tried reaching out his hand, hoping to latch onto any semblance of the happiness he was feeling just moments ago. 

He knew this all too well.

“Wait—” George yelled, the anguish in his heart heard by everyone except for the man in the aviator jacket, falling, fading into the background as the seconds slipped by. “I still have more to say!” 

George tried yelling out his name— 

Clamoring himself from the ever growing hole, he watched in horror as the walls started to cave in. All too sweet before it inevitably came crashing down.

He watched, as the man in the aviator jacket turned around, and even as the world fell apart, George couldn’t be more in love.

Just like the old cinema tape that used to play in his childhood, it would eventually finish, and fade. The screen turning black and soundless. And no matter how many times his mother would try to knock it back to life- the projector wouldn’t turn back on. Just like the old cinema tape that ran out too early in his childhood; he was gone as fast as he came.

Even as his face started to fade away, and the sounds around him static and deafening, George could hear the quiet way he said it. How his voice cracked at the edges and frayed at the ends, how he faded away into the caverns of a forgotten memory.

“I hope you find the person who’s trying to find you.”

George’s head shoots up from his arms like a fish out of water, struggling to breathe he chokes on the words he’s about to say before they can even escape his mouth. Bad’s by his side, gently patting the small of his back while whispering soft assurances as George breaks down on the table.

It’s the longest he’s ever cried.

Bad holds him, he cradles him in his arms and lets George stain his apron with tears. George holds on with shaking fists as he sobs his weeping heart out to him. He hasn’t felt the genuine 

,and the comforting touch of another human being in so long. He relishes in the warmth of it while it’s still there.

It takes time, time for George to calm down from his fit of hysteria, and time for him to finally start speaking.

And he breaks .

“He left—” His cries rack his body and jumble his words, “He left me.”

The soft pats on his back abruptly stop, “George…” 

He wants to yell, scream his heart out on rooftops and curse at the world for hurting him so deeply. He wants to put the burdens from his shoulders on someone else and hope the grief in his heart will finally alleviate and he can finally breathe without feeling the weight of all his problems burn into his chest.

“He left me— and he keeps leaving me, Bad.” He sobs, “and I keep—forgetting over and over and- he keeps fucking leaving .” 

He thinks back to the man with ashen hair and dullen eyes. Who’s hands were calloused from pen grips and stained from ink blotches.  Recalling a smile like sunbeams, and eyes like dewy grass after storms. George remembers him, in an aviator jacket, standing in an art gallery but yet still being the most beautiful thing there. He thinks back to all the happy times and wonders where he went wrong.

If he could find a way to describe him that could encapsulate the supernova of emotions that erupt in his chest, every time the man in the aviator jacket with hair like spun gold wool and eyes of viridian looked at him. He’d still find himself finding. 

Because, nothing hurts more than almost.

At that moment George realizes his mortality, and how painfully human he was.

“George,” 

Flesh and bone with a soul weaved through. He feels the most human emotion of all.

“George, Dream has been dead for two years now.”

***

When his mother died, George didn’t mourn.

Not because he didn’t love her— no, loving her was the only thing that made him human. He didn’t cry when her casket was lowered into the ground, or when her eulogy was spoken. He didn’t mourn for her because how could he?

How could he let her go like that?

He can still remember it, bright as the stars themselves. He can still the phantom warmth of her touch, pressed lightly against his skin. Her gentle voice, always soft and mellow, whispering stories of constellations into his ear, as she traced inanimate shapes from her fingertips.

“You make wishes on dying stars.” 

He remembers laughing. Tickling his small baby nose with hers as her gentle giggles cascaded with the crescendo of stars that trickled above them. He remembers her eyes, dark pools of the night, staring down at him with a fire that couldn’t be stoked by any ocean. She was beautiful, the starlight raining down on her and making her skin glow. George thought she was the most beautiful person alive.

He remembers the clearing which he sat at, how the grass poked at his knees and dirt stained his legs with soot and mud. The trees rustling as the cold winds brushed past them. The unwavering smell of pine in the air that stained his clothes well after they left.

He hasn’t looked at the stars ever since his mother died.

“George,” Bad breaks, trying to coax him out of his shell shocked state. “George please answer me.”

He simply can’t. His mouth feels as if it’s been glued shut by some invisible force. His heart pounds against his chest like a gong, and he can hear it reverberate across his body. He’s shaking.

His mother— he hasn’t remembered her in so long.

He tries to conjure the image of her ghost, still as beautiful as the night they sat together under the stars, but he just can’t . 

It’s like she was cut entirely from his mind completely, and all he could remember of her was the whisper of her voice and the faded warmth of her touch.

“We both knew this.” Bad says again, voice breaking. George didn’t look at him, but if he did. He would see the tears that have slowly begun to fall from them.

He pays no sympathy for the other man. He’s all too focused on grieving.

He’s grown to resent the stars. Because every memory that comes with watching them reminds him of the way his mother would cradle him gently in her arms, wrapping him in an embrace he had long forgotten.

(he wonders how long it will take until he’ll start hating Dream too.) 

“George.” Bad’s voice cracks. “This is hard for me too.” 

He was never good at mourning.

He was never good with coping at the fact that the people he loves may leave him, their smiles and laughter now are now simply things in a long collection of things he misses. Their ghosts haunt him and riddle his mind ill stricken with grief.

The pain is too much for him to handle, and so, in a way of coping, he forcefully makes himself forget.

Forget until his mother’s bubbly, soft giggles are nothing more than distant echoes, slowly fading out into the background. Forget until her love for the stars is nothing more than an afterthought. Forget, until he doesn’t need to feel the pain of losing.

Forget bright viridian eyes that seem to burn at the back of his mind and bright smiles that resemble the stars. Forget wheezy laughters that resemble some sort of a tea kettle, with freckles that dust his cheeks like the constellations that George’s mother used to tell stories about. Forget him and his stupid almost s and what are we s.

Forget all of him, even if he’s hurting.

He’ll bury all their memories in a grave where they belong.

“You can’t stop running from it any longer.” His voice is almost on the verge of breaking. “It doesn’t make it any better-”

“I know.”

He’s always known.

It’s at that moment he learns that denial is a very, very powerful thing.

“Let me forget, Bad.” He chokes out to the other man. Hands tremble as he grips onto Bad’s shoulders. He doesn’t even know how much he’s shaking until Bad slowly coaxes him to calm down and breathe. It takes him a few, the years of suppressed memories and untold emotions clog his chest and make it hard to cry. “I don’t want to remember it anymore.”

He doesn’t want to remember golden spun hair, shimmering gold in the sunlight. He doesn't want to remember dew green eyes life fresh spring. He doesn’t want to remember his smile, his laugh, the little way he has a lisp when he talks too fast, or the shy way his cheeks flush in the winter. He doesn’t want to remember the man he had loved and lost.

He doesn’t want to be hurt again.

“You can’t forget him, George.” Bad whispers, his tone oddly reminiscent of a father talking to his heartbroken child after losing their first love. “If you forget him then it’s like he was never here.”

The words run dry in his mouth, it's like he can’t do anything but cry. His chest is overflowing with so many emotions that have laid buried dormant for years. It feels like a dam breaking, every spilling out in front of him, and for once it’s like he can breathe.

“You can’t deny the fact that he’s gone, no matter how much you try to.” Bad holds him tighter. “But forgetting him won’t do you any good either, it’s like saying his memory didn’t matter at all. ”

George gasps, turning up abruptly to look at Bad. “He did matter—”

his mind runs he was all that mattered, he was everything and more and he's gone he's gone he's— 

“Then don’t push him away. Don’t act like he was never here.”

There’s a fierce fire in Bad’s eyes as he forces George to look at him. George feels the breath suckerpunched out of him, Bad has the eyes of someone who has known pain and thus knows kindness. They are soft, but ultimately hardened and jaded by unknown sorrows.

They stare into his soul, unashamed and pure. They look at George not with judgement but rather sympathy, like he knows what he’s feeling. 

And in some way he does, some way they both lost someone, someone they both loved in different ways.

“When will it stop hurting then?” George says, voice hoarse and scratchy. “When will I stop missing him?”

The same sad smile. “You… won’t” 

The slow and painful realization settles in George like a dying flame. “I won’t.”

“You never stop missing someone, especially when they’re gone. But that just means you love them enough to not forget them, doesn’t it? It makes it feel like he’s still here.”

Bad holds him in a tentative embrace, reluctant as he slowly pats George’s back. It’s somewhat awkward and uncoordinated, but it brings a sense of comfort to George, to feel grounded, to feel like he can talk about all these suppressed feelings for the first time in years.

It’s...nice. Having someone to finally understand.

“When will it get better?” George whispers into the wind, his voice like the breeze that carries a wildfire.

Bad’s gentle pats falter for a second. Before he slowly says; “Eventually. It’ll take awhile, and you’ll need people to help you more than I can. But it does, in fact, get better in the end.”

“When?” He chokes out..

A pause, a sigh, a moment of vulnerability.

“There are no better days George, only the morning after.” 

His fingers stop, and Bad takes a moment to firmly grasp on his shoulders and let them look face to face. George would honestly be embarrassed at how red and puffy his eyes are and how much he resembles a kid who’d just got into their first fight, if he wasn’t so heartbroken. 

“It’s up to you, whether or not you want to get over this.” Bad says slowly, keeping a tight grip on George’s shoulders to keep himself grounded. “It’s not going to be easy, it never is. But it’s a choice you have to make if you want to stop hurting.”

Bad’s words sting like alcohol to wounds he has only begun to reopen. 

“What do you think I should do?” George asks brokenly.

But Bad, sweet, kind Bad. Bad, whose smile is tainted by sorrows but still shines, offers his hand.

“When I— When I first lost him… I was kind of like you. I never witnessed someone die before, nor did I care for them as much as I do now. But it hurt, hurt to know that I was never going to see them again, hurt to know that I never got to properly tell them how much I loved him.” 

George can’t manage anything but a nod, somber and slow. Something stirs in his chest, it’s an ugly, ugly feeling. It feels like a fire, crawling up his throat and clawing its way through his lungs making it hard to breathe. But Bad’s hand stays firm on his shoulder, keeping him grounded.

“I’m still not over it, and I don’t think I ever will. But you don’t have to stay like this. There are people who can help you better than I can, and you can start with that.’ 

He offers his hand, and almost like fire, he flinches.

There’s a flash of guilt in Bad’s eyes, a hesitancy in his touch and a tremble. George instantly freezes up, turning away he avoids eye contact. 

“I’m scared.” 

It’s the first time he ever voiced something out like that. So— raw, so painfully visceral, that  even his own voice sounds alien to him. It’s the most vulnerable he could ever muster.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be ready now.” 

George wonders when he will ever be ready.

“But if you ever need— “ He watches as Bad draws out a piece of spare parchment from the front of his apron pocket. Along with a ballpoint pen with the cap chewed, he writes something on the paper, before handing it to George with a gentle smile. “You can give me a call and I’ll tell you about it.” 

The paper in front of him sits open and inviting in the palm of Bad’s hand. Like an apple of eden hanging ever so temptingly from the tree above, he looks at it. And incomprehensible emotions stir in his chest.

“Why are you even helping me…” George says, soft and quiet, almost hoping it gets lost in the thumming of the wind.

But Bad smiles, and he hears it. 

“Because,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You loved him too, didn’t you?” 

You loved him too, didn’t you? Who didn’t? Boy with golden spun hair and eyes of fresh spring. The one who haunts his dreams and whose laughter echoes through empty halls. Boy with the world in his hands and soft flowers at his feet, the one who adored winter mornings and coffee shop dates. Boy who loved with a heart too big, and lived a life too short.

Of course he loved him.

“I never told him that—“ His voice trembles. “I never told him I loved him, and he never told me he was dying.” 

Dream had left them both, he had left them with holes too gaping for anyone else to fill and places that no one else could live in. He had left Bad, his friend, someone who cared for him and knew him longer than George did. He had left Sapnap, a brother, a best friend, his almost family.

He had left George, after all that time he had spent, painstakingly falling in love with him and infatuating himself in everything that was Dream. He still left. Like sand slipping through his fingers and wind brushing past his hair, everything about him seemed so fleeting.

“I’m sorry.” Is all Bad says. George’s fingertips ball into his palms, digging into supple skin as he tries to stop himself from crying more.

“You shouldn’t be.” He says bitterly. Why can’t he stop himself from feeling so angry? “It’s not like you were the one he left behind. I bet he never told you either did he?” 

He still can remember it— in bits and fragments that come washing over him in dreams and slivers of memory.

The muffled sound of the phone going silent. The doctor’s emotionless voice as he spoke, George had long chosen to suppress it— but sometimes it haunts him, brain tumor, malignant, incurable. Remembering, recalling, forgetting. 

George thinks even to this day, he thinks he’ll never completely understand Dream. He was too much of a mystery, an enigma, and ever moving puzzle. Even when the medical jargons never fit right in his mouth, or when he tries to look online about it— but even two years later it still feels like an invasion of his privacy. But even after all this time, the wound still festers and grows as George remembers it.

Bad looks guilty.

“He never wanted anyone to know because he didn’t want to burden anyone.” Bad whispers. “He said that just because his life would end shorter than everyone else’s, didn’t mean he had to be sad about it.” 

“He was dying! Telling people would’ve been better than leaving us in the dark and with all the things he left behind!” George, for the first time, yells. 

Bad is taken aback, hands flinching away as he gently attempts to coax George.”That’s not what he wanted—”

“Then what did he want, Bad? Did he think that we wouldn’t get hurt?!” George grits his teeth, vision tinting red from anger. 

Bad stays quiet after that, his gaze turning crestfallen as he bites on his lip— probably to avoid saying something that could potentially make the situation worse.

George chokes back another sob, a sharp pang in his heart and the cruel realization that hits him.

“Or did he just not care enough to tell me?”

Something inside George finally breaks at the thought— Everyone knew, everyone was aware that his life was hanging on loose thread, that his mind was a decimate timebomb. Everyone around him knew about it, everyone but George. 

“Dream had his reasons. I always told him that it was a bad idea, but he never listened.” Bad shook his head. “He thought that trying not to get close to you, would make it hurt less in the end.”

George wasn’t just angry. He was devastated. Not only was he left behind, but he was also lied to.

“So he really didn’t care, did he?”

Bad looks up abruptly after that comment, His eyes wide.

“No, George. He did it all because he cared too much. He didn’t mean to hurt us— to hurt you. He thought that if he distanced himself to a certain point that he wouldn’t get attached to anyone he could potentially hurt in the end.” Bad says quietly, almost as if he’s sharing a secret yet untold. “But he couldn’t. Even in the end. No matter how much he tried, he found himself getting too invested into whatever you two had. He broke his own rules to love you.”

George goes quiet after that, mouth running dry at the lack of words. 

Bad reaches out to him tentatively again, fingers brushing against his shoulder. George doesn’t flinch this time, maybe because the warmth of Bad’s hand practically makes him curl into it, or maybe it’s because he’s too in shock to process anything. 

“I guess in the end. He didn’t regret it.” 

It’s quiet after that, the conversation goes stagnant and all George can do is stare at his shoes with the bottomless pit that is now the void of his heart. It’s a numbing feeling, it’s like nothing else around him matters besides the agony in his soul and the crumpled piece of parchment paper in his hand. 

“I’m sorry.” Is all he says to Bad, turning away in shame. 

In the corner of his eyes, he can see Bad smile again. It’s something so easy to him that George wonders if one day he’ll be able to smile so effortlessly like that too.

“I’ll consider accepting your apology when you go home and start taking care of yourself from now on.” 

George huffs, and Bad can’t help but smile wider.

***

“Finally feel like talking now?” 

George opens his eyes, he had gone back to his dorm at least a few hours ago after Bad had given him that talk. He had immediately passed out on his bed right after, collapsing onto the soft covers and burying his face into the comfort of his pillow, it had been so long since he slept so calmly, he felt like he could finally breathe for once. Like the foreboding stormcloud in his mind had dissipated into light rain. He smiled when he felt himself drift off into unconsciousness. 

But that smile immediately fell off his face when he heard the man’s voice.

He’s back in the white space room again. This time he arrives already sitting in the mahogany chair, back pressed firmly against the cold wood. In front of him is the same nameless man, but this time with a new clothes change. 

A battered old aviator jacket.

“Do I have a choice?” George scoffs, staring pointedly at the other’s blank, crossed out face. 

“ You always have a choice.” The man says with a chuckle, as if this whole faux-reality George has conjured in his head is some sort of whimsical game to him. 

It’s unsettling to say the least, having these conversations with someone made simply out of the canvases of his mind. The man doesn’t even have a face, but whenever he speaks, George can imagine the feigned look of a smile, or the rise of an eyebrow. It’s unnervingly fascinating.

“Okay then.” He huffs, placing his hands directly onto the table, showing he had nothing to offer. “Let’s talk.” 

The man hums, a somewhat melodic sound. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What should I say? I’m nothing more than  fragments of memories strung together by you and then put in this place.”

George groans, hands ruffling his hair as he tries not to lose his temper. 

“Then why can’t I see you?” He asks pointedly, hands gripping tightly on the fabric of his pants.

“Because,” The man says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ve chosen to forget me.”

George frowns.

And somehow he can actually imagine the other man grinning at him mockingly.

“I swear I’m going fucking delusional.” George murmurs, rubbing his temples in an attempt to soothe the coiling frustration in him. The man chuckles again- but this time it’s more of a wheeze. A light, breezy, somewhat-reminiscent-of-a-tea-kettle wheeze.

“This all does seem superficial, is it? But do you ever wonder why you’re here?” 

An aviator jacket, a breathless wheeze, a lull so familiar it calls to his heart. George knows why he’s here. He knows why he wakes up to these moments instead of nightmares that keep him up at night.

“I’m trying to remember you.” 

“Bingo! ” The man chides happily, his hands making pantomime gestures of excitement. “Your brain is trying to recall lost memories that you’ve been suppressing for so long that you made me. ” The man points to himself. “ Someone who isn’t even real.”

George grits his teeth, “I know you aren’t real.”

His heart numbs whenever he looks at the faceless man. A haunting shadow of someone he once knew. 

“You’re dead.” 

The man smiles.

“I thought it would take years before you’d finally admit it.” The man chuckles, putting his hand under his chin while watching George. “You truly are such a strange oddity, George. Maybe that’s why I had such a complex interest in you.” 

Complex interest? Is that what they’re calling it now? Is that what they’re going to label the months of dancing around their feelings? All of the flowers and shy glances? The travelling to favorite places and talks about the future? Is that what they’re going to label what George would have believed was love?

“I hate you.” He says through gritted teeth, as he balls his fists until his knuckles turn white and nails start to draw blood. 

“ No you don’t.”  Is all he replies, and George deflates. 

No he doesn’t.

“You make me miserable.” 

The man with the battered old aviator jacket snaps his fingers, “You make yourself miserable. You’ve chosen to push it all away and now here you are. Living the memory of a man who died years ago and only now are you choosing to remember him. Some might say it’s pathetic, but I think you need a nudge in the right direction.” 

George feels the sensation of phantom fingers, brushing against his own. He looks down at them, and sees the same ghostly image of calloused fingertips gently clasping their hands together in this odd display of reassurance. George lets out a shaky gasp, it’s oh so familiar, like a distant memory reaching out to him.

The man’s hands are cold.

“Take the leap, George. ” He whispers ever so softly. “You need to move on.”

His fingers tremble and shake, but the man holds them firmly in his own and draws comforting circles on the palm of his hand. He traces shapes, stars, triangles, hearts, in an attempt to provide him with the solace he will never be able to give himself. 

They sit there for a while, he has forgotten how much time has passed until the man stops drawing shapes on his hand.

“You’re leaving again.” George mummers, suddenly his hands are cold without the man’s comforting touch.

“I have to eventually.” the man whispers back, his image slowly fading into the white backdrop. “I can’t stay here forever.” 

I wish you didn’t have to leave George’s mind screams. But he doesn’t say it aloud.

“Will I see you again?” Is instead what he says.

There’s a thoughtful hum that travels in the air. “Maybe.” 

There is a sudden coldness that hits him, like the November breeze that he recalls so vividly. It pricks at his skin and makes him shiver when the warmth of the man’s hands leaves his own. 

He’s suddenly lonely again.

“When you wake up, ” He says breathlessly, the room around them begins to break apart. Slowly growing blurrier and more unfocused. There’s a sudden heaviness on his eyelids, a lull of sleep that calls to him from the void. “Try and live.”

George nods, and the man chuckles softly once again. He takes one more blink,

 before everything else turns dark.

(When George wakes up, he’s laying down back in his bed with warm streaks of sunlight trailing past the blinds and illuminating his room. There’s this calm, almost tranquil feeling that washes over him like a blanket. When he sits up, he rubs his eyes only to find dried tear stains still on his cheeks.

When he wakes up, he lets himself smile.)

***

There is a kind woman by the name of Dr. Puffy in the counselling room at the end of the hall, fourth floor, left wing, of the building. She wears silly little silken scarves with cartoonish flowers and has animal print stockings with her baby pink heels. George thinks she’s a little strange, with her voluminous white hair and age-worn smile. When he had first entered the room, she had greeted him with a lollipop and motioned him to take a seat of the velvety plush arm-chair in front of her. She never speaks too loud or too fast and she always tells George ‘You don’t have to answer if you’re not ready to. ’when he’s hesitant towards a question.

“For the first few months after the funeral, I went to several different counselling programs and support groups.” Bad said to him on their drive to the hospital. “At first I thought no one could actually help me, nothing seemed to work no matter how hard I tried.” 

George kept quiet most of the ride, but when his interest piqued he quietly asked. “Did you though? Get— help... I mean.” 

“Eventually, I did. That’s where we’re going right now.” Bad hummed, fingers kept firmly on the steering wheel and eyes focused on the road. 

He didn’t ask after that, it felt like pushing to talk more would just be a bother on Bad’s extended hospitality and kindness towards him. So instead he prompted to stay silent, only watching idly at the passing buildings and cars with feigned interest.

When they finally arrived at the small, quaint hospital near the cusp of the city. Bad walked in like he had lived in the place, with George trailing awkwardly behind him as he greeted the receptionist with a friendly demeanor. 

The hospital itself was different. George was accustomed with the usual smell of antiseptics and sterile whiteness, but that wasn’t the case here. The scent of medicine was prevalent but it was overpowered by a calming fragrance of herbal lavender and honey. The walls were in soft shades of eggshell and cream, and the sound of laughter and chatter filled the hallways and stairwells in a constant echo. 

Bad leads him up to the fourth floor. He walks with ease through the crowded hallways and greets almost every doctor and nurse they pass by with a friendly smile. George practically follows him around like a baby duckling sauntering behind its parents for the majority of the time. 

When they finally arrive at their destination. It’s a tall door with a gold plated sign hanging from the doorknob reading Dr. Cara Puffy in whimsical script, below it is a schedule of dates and appointment times. 

“I already told her in advance about you.” Bad notes, his hand already on the door. 

George shuffles awkwardly beside him, hands sweaty and a twist of anxiety in his stomach. He’s never really considered this option really.

“Where will you be?” George asks, rather embarrassedly, his cheeks grow red and his face burns when Bad laughs.

“I’ll be outside. I already told Ant and Sapnap that I would be busy today so they’ll be the ones manning the shop while I’m away.” Bad says with his trademark smile, firm hand clasping at his shoulder. “I’ll be outside until you finish.”

George manages a faint smile, Bad is too good for this world, he thinks. 

“Thank you…” He mumbles, fingers fidgeting and interlocking. “I don’t think I can ever repay you.”

“You can repay me by helping yourself. Like I said.” Bad huffs, crossing his arms.

George flushes again, his hand reaching to rub the back of his neck as he bows his head apologetically to the other man.

“No need for that, George.” Bad smiled warmly. “Now get in there, I believe in you.”

I believe in you, his mind echoes. A small smile plays on his lips. Bad’s words give him the sliver of confidence he needs to open the door, and step in.

It’s one visit at first, and then another, then another, then again, and again, and again…

Dr. Puffy is certainly what Bad tells her to be. She’s soft spoken and gentle, patient and open-minded about George’s emotions and mental states. But she is also tenacious, level-headed and thick skinned. There are moments, painful, painful moments, when George’s emotions lose their control, and he lashes out on her. But, instead of breaking under his heavy baggage, she deflects with a poise of calm that only seasoned professionals have. When George feels his heart overflow with grief and longing, she is comforting and tender with her words. When George can’t feel anything at all, he tells her about the dreams he has and the man who he sees in his sleep. She prescribes him medicine. 

She tells him that how he treated himself wasn’t okay, and that it wasn’t healthy. She tells him that his problems run farther than what lays atop the surface, that his mind can’t properly identify such strong feelings and emotions like grief, so in an attempt and self defense, it tries to unconsciously suppress all the memories and feelings associated with the pain.

She tells him he isn't’t okay, and he believes her. 

“I have these dreams—” 

“Your nightmares , George.”

She doesn’t hesitate to tell him what his heart refuses to say. She doesn’t falter when George goes quiet or starts to cry. She is a boat in dangerous seas, unwavering and undisturbed. Grounded and down to earth. 

Bad tells him that not every therapist will help him immediately, there are different people for different people. George believes this, Puffy without a doubt, is an incredible counsellor and friend. But there are moments that George feels— disconnected almost. It’s not that she isn't  doing her job to the extent George needs, it’s that something is just— missing.

When he tells her this, she simply sighs and shakes her head fondly.

“I cannot help you completely. I’m only here to guide you to a better road where you can better help yourself, George. I won't cure you from whatever thing you believe to be suffering from. But I can at least stay with you until you fix yourself.”

George thinks about that alot, when he’s laying in bed again late at night, hoping to doze off into another dream where he can see a white room and a faceless man again.

But everytime he wakes up, he wakes up with the feeling of disappointment and a wonted heart.

When he tells Puffy he doesn’t see the man in his dreams anymore, she says only one thing. 

“I think it’s for the best.”

(Somewhere deep in George’s heart, he agrees with her.)

There is a slow change, but it’s definitely there.

He starts to notice the little things.

Bad tells him to take his time, to do this all at his own pace. Sapnap sends him a text once at 4 am saying that he was always welcome to come back into the shop whenever he feels like it. There’s a cute dog at the park next to George’s dorm that comes by every saturday, he loves to pet it and whenever he sees its small tail wagging, he smiles. He starts cooking his own food now, even though it ends tremendously bad, and somehow he manages setting at least one kitchen appliance down, he still enjoys it. 

The small things; like sunlight beaming from the curtains, blanketing his room with a soft and radiant glow. The smell of earth after the rain, or the cold breezes that brush past him and howl in his ear. The sight of fresh flowers that grow by the sidewalks, the comforting feeling of being under a cloudless blue sky and letting his voice travel with the wind

It all makes him feel a little bit more human.

Of course, he still has his bad days. The days where he can’t get up from bed, and the days when storms and hail slam against his window. There are days when his heart feels so heavy he wonders if he’ll ever be able to heal.

When those things happen, and he can’t express the flurry of emotions in his chest to Puffy. He writes them down.

Poetry will always be the universal language of the broken hearted and longing. George has perfected the art of being able to communicate with an aching heart. 

There is a moment, when George goes back to the coffee shop at the end of downtown alley, this time he’s slept the day prior and made sure to pick up breakfast after his class before coming there. There is a moment, when he sees Sapnap at the counter, a bored look on his face before he sees George walk through the door. The chimes dangling in the air.

“Hey.” George says breathlessly, feet finding themselves unconsciously moving to the counter.

“Hey.” Sapnap responds, eyes drifting down to the rolled up bill in his hand.

He shifts awkwardly at the barista’s pointed stare. Shifting his weight to his right leg as he stares at the hardwood floor. He tries not to focus too much on the speed his heart is beating right now, or how sweaty his palms are. He does the exercise Puffy recommended to him one...two...three...breathe in— and then out but it only seems to calm a portion of his erratic nerves.

“Welcome to Sugari.” He says, although the greeting sounds slightly robotic and forced, there’s this underlying tone of fondness and warmth in his words. “Are you going to order?”

He falters for a moment, something familiar washes over him.

“I— uh, can I have…” He absentmindedly looks at the menu. He already knows what he wants to order, he has the money ready and the words waiting to fall out of his mouth. But the air of hesitance still heaves heavy and George can’t help but fidget in place.

“A decaf caramel sweet apple cider?” He says. “Large.” 

For a moment, Sapnap’s eyes widened.

For a moment, George knows what he’s thinking.

“Sure.” The barista says quietly, punching the order into the registrar and grabbing a tall cup from the counter. He pulls up a sharpie from his apron and holds it in front of the cup with an expectant look. “Still George?”

George can’t help but chuckle. “Hasn’t changed.” 

Sapnap nods, writing down a messy and scrawled George on the front of the cup, before gently putting it to the side. There’s a lingering quiet after that.

“That was his drink.” 

That was Dream’s drink, George thinks.

“Yeah, yeah it is.” 

The barista purses his lips, and George can see from under the counter that he’s balling his hands into fists. For a second, he worries if Sapnap is still upset at him for running away years ago.

“You know,” The barista whispers ever so softly. “He talked about you. Dream, I mean.” 

One…two...three… breathe in— and then out. 

“Did he, now?” 

Sapnap nods, slow and reluctant as he speaks. “Never could stop. I didn’t really get close to you but— I think I had a clear impression of what type of person you were just based on what he would say.” 

“What did he say?”

Sapnap looks away, his eyes trailing into the distance. 

“He called you annoying; multiple times actually.” He says with a pained laugh. “And he said you were insufferable, and that you had bad taste in literature and that you had the ugliest snore—” 

“Okay, okay okay. ” George cuts him off, a soft hue of red dusting his cheeks. “I get it.”

Sapnaps smiles, still staring off into the distance. “But he also said you were kind. That you were patient with him and that you never failed to make a room feel lived in” 

Time seems to stand still, and George was left there quiet and shocked.

“He calls you brave.” 

Brave?

When will you stop running?

You keep pushing him away!--

You’re a coward, George.

“I think he was wrong about that one.” He mumbles to himself, hands tightly nestling themselves in the confines of his jacket pockets. He hides the fact he’s shaking. “Brave is certainly not one of the terms I would agree with.”

“Well, that’s how you see yourself.” Sapnap says. “But that’s how he saw you.” 

That’s how Dream saw him.

George looks away, heart pounding in his ears. “He was an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap chuckles, and for the first time, he faces George directly, his eyes glassy with a sheen of unshed tears. “He was.”

There’s a silent agreement between them, no words, just the mutual understanding that the quiet would be better than any words said.

George turns away, his feet wander to the table in the center of the shop. By muscle memory, he pulls aside the chair by the right and sits down. The table has always been one with two chairs, and yet, George still sits there. He leaves the other chair empty, and allows the soft sunlight to hit the back of the wood and illuminate the spot where he used to sit.

Where he used to sit.

George once read in a book somewhere, somewhere he can’t remember, but there was a line between the pages that strikes him when he remembers it.

‘There is love in empty homes and lonely rooms, in people we have forgotten and places that we miss. There are ghosts of happiness that wander soundless corridors and make them echo with the memories of better times.’

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, admiring the warm glow of the sun and the relaxing smell of coffee and the sound of faint jazz playing in the background. He doesn’t know how much time has passed since he’s allowed himself to simply space out and unwind. Let himself enjoy the slowness and the quiet. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed until Sapnap walks over to his table, and sets down his order on the side of the empty chair.

George looks up to see Sapnap gently smiling at him.

There are no words exchanged between them. But Sapnap takes one look at the empty chair and lowers his head in a solem acknowledgement of the person who used to sit there. The pain is his eyes is prevalent, but the smile on his face is nostalgic.

When Sapnap leaves to manage the counter and take the rest of the orders. George stays there for a few more minutes. He takes the sweet drink and places it directly where he used to sit, a homage. 

“You know.” George mumbles to himself, standing up from his own seat and pushing back the chair. His eyes focus on the empty spot and single cup on the table. “You were always such a convoluted person.”

He talks to no one, yet he’s strangely comforted by the silence.

“I’m going to be brave from now on. For you.”

The next day, George skips his morning class and gets out of bed extra early. He fixes himself a small yet reasonably nutritious breakfast and grabs an energy bar before bolting out of the door, dressed haphazardly in one of his old coats and woollen scarves. Winter is slowly dawning again in the city and the air has become unbearably cold to step out without a coat or  jacket. He walks out of his dorm room and the first drop of snow falls.

He gets lost at first, the city is a confusing labyrinth of overlapping alleyways and roads that lead to the same place. But somehow, George manages through the sheer will of determination and google maps. It takes him approximately two hours and forty-seven minutes before he finally ends up at a two story art gallery at the end of the street.

Ash painted walls and cream colored roofs, people passed by it and would least assume it was a gallery of all things. George did too when he first came here, still fresh faced and new to the concept of actually viewing art as a fun experience. That was when he still thought all art that got put in galleries were modern abstract pieces with a few strokes of bold color on canvas that collectors paid millions for. 

He stepped into the gallery, and he was thrown back instantly at the familiarity of it.

It was like a photo, well preserved in time. The same familiar white washed wall, wooden beams and wires. Open sky roofs and sunlight streaming onto the canvases hung on the walls. George breathed in the smell.

It felt oddly like coming home.

George’s feet wander, in hopes of looking for a certain artwork.

He doesn’t know how long his feet trekk the vast expanse of the gallery. It seems like forever though, like an ever constant maze he keeps finding himself back where he started with no sight of the painting he was originally looking for. It goes on for a few minutes, then more. Until eventually, he’s sure that an hour has passed and he still hasn’t found anything.

In some desperate last attempt, he flags down the custodian of the gallery.

“Uh— excuse me?” He calls out hesitantly to a woman with a broom in her hands. She’s gently dusting off the on display statues when George catches her attention. “Can I ask something?”

The female custodian all but grunts at him, her eyes still kept on her job. “What is it?”

“I was um, wondering, if there was any painting here that you might know of?” George shuffles awkwardly.

The custodian rolls her eyes at his question. “Do you know the name of the painting?”

Shit. He did not think this through.

“I— uh— well I don’t really but— there's a red string on it?”

The custodian groans.

“Listen kid,” She says, her dusting getting more erratic. “ If you’re looking for something that’s not here then it was probably taken down.”

George pales, taken down?

“How long ago did you see the painting?” She asks again, and George flushes at the fact that he actually voiced his inner thoughts out loud. 

“Two years ago…”he mumbles in response.

The custodian scoffs, her lips twitching into a smile. “Tough luck. Most paintings get swapped out every month or so, the chances of your mystery painting being here is less than zero.”

There’s a drop of disappointment in George’s gut, somehow he knew that this would happen. That his chances of seeing the same painting years ago would be next to impossible. But yet, he can’t help but feel saddened at the fact that it was actually gone . 

Another missed opportunity for George. 

“Oh,” He says breathlessly, turning his head downcasted. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

The custodian nods, and continues back to her work.

George looks around the gallery, suddenly, it is less bright than it was when he first stepped in. Now all the vibrant colors and hues seem to be desaturated and pale, everything around him looks more— dead.

He sighs. Putting his hands in his pockets of his coat, he begins to walk around the gallery once more. This time though, he actually takes in the time to observe and appreciate all the paintings and sculptures in the home of art. 

So many things have changed in the years George has chosen to forget.

He stands in front of the empty spot where the portrait of soulmates who weren’t meant to be stood.

He wonders if he changed too.

*** 

It’s almost been a month since George has written anything.

He honestly thought he would break sooner or later and retreat back to the comfort of his laptop and desk. But it only takes another session with Puffy to finally urge him to pick up his former interest. They sit again, in her cozy office. The heater is on full blast to challenge the winter seasons cold. 

“What makes you happy, George?” She asked him suddenly one day, it had caught him off guard.

What makes him happy? The coffee shop, Bad, Sapnap, early mornings, the smell of eggs cooking on the stove, the cold winter air…. 

“Something— something you can’t live without?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Writing.”

Puffy smiles, a knowing smile. When George sees it, he can’t help but smile back.

The same night he comes back from class, he goes straight to his room, sheds off his coat and sits down in front of his laptop. The blindingly bright, white screen stares at him expectantly— and the blinking line of his cursor stays stagnant. George sits there for almost fifteen minutes before he immediately wants to give up and throw the whole thing away. He’s stumped, totally fucking stumped. No matter how hard he sits there and ponders on what to write, nothing comes to mind. No inspiration, no meaning, just him and the disappointingly empty white screen.

(Somewhere in his mind, he wonders if what he said to Puffy was wrong, maybe writing doesn’t make him happy. But instead, the opposite.) 

This was a terrible, terrible idea. 

George groans, his hands running through the thick locks of his hair in frustration. He takes one more glance at the empty document and promptly wants to throw his whole laptop away. But due to sheer willpower, he manages to refrain from breaking his laptop and instead, prompts to stand up and deal with it another time. Maybe he could eat something? Dinner might clear his mind, or maybe— 

“What are you so scared of?”

George freezes.

It's almost comical, really. He feels his heart drop to his stomach at the sound of that voice. His hand curls into fists and his breathing picks up pace. 

A voice that isn’t supposed to be... here.

“What are you doing here?” He manages through the shock. His hand grips at the door frame tightly as he tries to even out his breathing. 

“Can’t even look at me to ask that question?” The voice chides playfully. “Thought you liked my face at least.”

He turns around.

“I’m hallucinating, am I?”

Green eyes, bright green, staring back at him.

The juxtaposition between the faceless man in the white room in his dreams— and the bright green eyed boy who leans against his wall with a friendly grin is absolutely jarring to George. One second he was firmly in reality, ready to cook himself dinner and pass out for the night— the next he was seeing his dead friend stand in his college dorm bedroom.

“Hi.” 

“God I really am delusional.” 

The man laughs— wheezes , unhelpfully. He rolls his viridian eyes to the side, looking over at George’s shutdown laptop on the table with a vague look of interest. He points at it with a rise of his eyebrow. “You’re writing again?” 

“Trying to…” George murmurs, ashamedly looking away at the sight of him. Even though it might be all in his head, the thought of having an acclaimed author and writer critique his writing still kills him inside. “Can’t seem to get it.” 

“This is new, you never had this problem before, didn’t you?” The man hums, walking over to George’s laptop and gently brushing his fingers on the screen.

“No. Only now.”

“When I died?” 

George’s breath hitches.

“Yes.”  He says slowly, testing how the words would fall out of his mouth. “When you died.” 

The man keeps his head downcasted, still staring at the laptop with an unreadable look. George ponders trekking past the threshold of his room and touching him— 

“ I asked you before, but you didn’t answer.” The man says, his voice laced with a lilt of teasing. George almost keens by how familiar it sounds. “So let me ask you again.” 

The man turns to him, and now can George see how lifeless his eyes are.

Dream— his Dream, had eyes like a fresh spring, like poison oak and dew on honey leaves. He had meadows in his laugh and sunshine in his smile. That was Dream, the one he loved, the one that died with George a long time ago.

This Dream, the one who had created with the false memories he had. The one he internalized as his inner demon who lurked in his sleep, was finally here. Literally— standing in front of him, the ghost of someone who had long passed. 

“What are you so scared of?” 

It had taken George years to find the answer, it had taken him even more time to confront the problem head on. In all those years of trying to forget and push it away, he’s learned things that he only would’ve found if he hadn’t lost him.

Loving had made him strong, but losing him made him kind.

“I’m scared.” George whispers. “I’m scared of you.” 

It feels like a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest, and for once, he could breathe.

“You haunt my dreams, my memories, my life. You make me vulnerable, you make me fucking terrified of meeting new people in case I might lose them like you—’’

George doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the man walks up to him, brings his hand close to his face, and gently brushes the tears away.

“I hate you. I wish I never met you. If I didn’t—  I would have never had to force myself to forget you. Because you wouldn’t understand what it’s like, to spend two fucking years trying to make it stop hurting.” 

The man tenderly holds George’s face in his cold hands. “I know sorry won’t make anything better.”

George leans into the man’s phantom touch. “Saying sorry won’t change the fact that you’re gone.” 

He remembers his mother’s words in that moment. You make wishes on dying stars.

“You’re a selfish bastard, you know that right?” George says through angry tears, his mouth forming into a wobbly smile. 

Dream laughs, small tears of his own forming in his green eyes. 

“You never told me. You never said anything.” 

“Do you think you wanted to be my friend if you knew I was dying?” 

George doesn’t hesitate. “I would’ve loved you either way.” 

He lets out a weak laugh, soft and almost breaking. 

“It looks like you finally don’t need me anymore.”

George scoffs, and presses his forehead harder against Dream’s. He looks to the ground, where his tears slowly fall upon the linoleum flooring. He wants to keep holding on, hold on as tight as he can until he feels okay, until he feels like he can finally walk on his own two feet again. Until he’s ready to let go.

(Inside him, he knows that he won’t ever be completely okay, and that he won’t ever be ready, and somehow, it’s not as scary as it would seem.) 

“You’re really leaving now, aren’t you?” George whispers, afraid that if he speaks too loud, he’ll break the fragile moment.

“I couldn’t stay forever.” Dream whispers back, his grip tightening. 

“Forever is a long time…”

“You’ll be okay.”

How could he be so sure? 

“Don’t look at me like that.” Dream chuckles, his thumb tenderly caressing George’s cheekbone. George looks up to face his eyes, only to see him slowly fading. “You’re brave. George.”

He calls you brave , Sapnap’s voice echoes in his mind.

“I’m still scared…”George mutters, desperately trying to hold on longer as Dream disappears. “What if I forget you again?”

He simply smiles.

“You won’t.”

George follows his gaze to the laptop on the table.

Dream smiles, a sad smile. There’s a sort of longing to them, and the way he holds on tighter to George as his phantom like body slowly begins to dissipate tells him; I don’t want to leave either.

Time seems to stop when he’s with him. Dream always has a way of making the little moments seem so much bigger than they really are, even if it was just a brush of a hand— or the tears streaming down both of their cheeks. He has this magic to him, the ability to make all the dull moments in George’s life bright, and filled with color. An ever beautiful symphony, a crescendo of hearts, a final poem.

When George feels Dream’s grip get looser, he knows that their time has reached its end.

“You were always—’” George chokes back his tears, he wants to be strong. “Such an idiot.”

Dream smiles, not a sad one, but one that is perfectly content.

When he leaves, he doesn’t say I love you.

When he disappears, the silence is the loudest sound. There is no echo of last words or whisper of a goodbye. There is only the quiet brush of wind that seeps through his window sill and gently dries off the tears from George's face. 

When he leaves, he doesn’t say anything at all, there is only the beating of his heart that pounds in his ears, reminding him that he is alive. There is only the bitter laugh that arises in his throat when he tries to speak, making him laugh rather than cry. There is only the memory of when Dream was there. Standing alone in his apartment at the dead of night, with a smile that took him back to a time when he was happier, when he laughed like nothing was wrong, and he smiled like it was easy. It brings him back.

Dream doesn’t say I love you when he leaves.

But George stands in his room, looking out to his window to see the moon shining bright in the inky black sky. And for once, he doesn’t feel so alone.

He doesn’t say I love you.

George smiles, maybe he doesn’t need to say anything at all.

(In the end, George walks back to his laptop perched on the table, and runs his hands on the same spot he touched, it’s slightly warm. 

He slowly pulls back the chair and takes a seat. Reopens the closed document and gingerly touches the keyboard, he doesn’t know what he’ll write, but suddenly the thought of diving into the unknown doesn’t scare him anymore.

“This is the last poem I’ll ever write of you.”)

***

I remember once on a winter night, you asked me what my least favorite word was, I remember telling you that it was ‘moist’ and when you heard it, you laughed. 

When I asked you why, you had told me words that even past this day, still echo in my mind when no one else is around to hear you speak.

You said: ‘almost’ represents our ability to be just not good enough. That we had come, to the brink, of something beautiful— but fell too short so many times. We had to make a word for it.

You know, I’ll never know the complete reason why you left.

But I tried— years after I went over all our conversations, picking apart the meanings and the secret messages you certainly left behind for me, but I’m sorry—

That I only almost found it.

Maybe that’s why, years after you left. I had changed my least favorite word- because even if moist is gross.

Malignant is malicious .

Malignant, is uncontrollable- means a phone call in the middle of the night that no one will answer.

Malignant, is messy and unfair, and a thief.

Malignant is the reason I never got to say goodbye.

Malignant is the cause of almost .

Because you were— on the brink, of something beautiful, but you fell too far.

I’m so sorry, I wasn’t there to catch you.

***

The next day he submits a full paper stuck manuscript to his professor, the glassy printed title sits atop. He can vaguely see his professor looking through the large collection of poems, haphazardly strung together and pressed into the somewhat mess that George sets on the table. 

Maybe it’s the eyebags prevalent on his face and the sleep ridden way he speaks, but his professor reluctantly takes it and tells him to get some sleep.

George walks out of that room feeling ten times lighter, and practically skips back to his dorm just to pass out instantly when his body hits the bed.

It’s the best he’s slept in years.

***

It’s the first day of spring.

Outside George’s dorm are buds of flowers, ready to sprout from the pavement and paint the sidewalks in their blurring array of colors. The leaves have already begun to regrow from their branches and now the pathway from his dorm to the college building is filled with a little bit more life. The smell of rain still hangs heavy in the air, and the earth is still soft and muddy under the sole of his shoe when he steps outside for the first time.

Spring is the most oddly poetic season, it comes right after winter. When the world is dead and cold, the earth seems to revert and heal itself back into the wonderland of flowers and life. The leaves change and the buds bloom, and the cycle repeats.

There’s a light skip in his step when he walks across the pavement, he hums quietly to himself to drown on the incessant honking of cars and vehicles that pass by the road. The sun is hidden by the clouds today, but the sky is a brightest cerulean blue.

His feet find themselves to the small, quaint coffee shop by the end of his downtown alley for what can he can be sure to say,

The last time.

He enters the shop, and the familiar sound of chimes ringing through the air brings him a sense of coming home once again. The scent of fresh pastries, chamomile tea and the slightest hint of vanilla is potent in the air. It warms George’s stomach and makes his mouth water, he shakes it off however, remembering his intentions here aren’t to actually order.

He walks to the counter, where Sapnap is currently talking excitedly to another man.

The barista’s eyes instantly find the poet amongst the crowd of the usual customers, George watches as Sapnap’s face lights up when he spots him. 

“George!” He cheers, waving his hand. George waves back, and the Barista turns back to the man he was talking to. “Karl can you take our usual seat by the window for a bit? I gotta catch up with someone.”

George watches as the man nods, gives a peck on Sapnap’s cheek, and walks away to another table by the far end of the café. He also tries not to snicker too loudly as Sapnap’s face blooms a bright red.

“Shut up.” Sapnap mutters, hiding his face with his hand when George steps up to the counter. “Don’t look all smug like that.”

“Oh, me?” George taunts, gesturing to himself slyly. “I didn’t see anything.”

“Fucking dick. Just tell me what you want to order.”

George laughs, tears forming at the corners of his eyes at the sight of Sapnap’s fuming figure. 

“Decaf caramel sweet apple cider?” He says while looking at the menu, a habit he still hasn’t learned how to break. “L—”

“Large decaf caramel sweet apple cider for George, coming up.” Sapanp finishes, writing down his name on the paper cup with twice his usual speed. The poet laughs at Sapnap’s frantic look as he scribbles down his order on the cup. 

“What’s with the rus—”

“Did you get it?”

George laughs again, mirth dancing in his eyes and happiness exploding in his chest when he pulls out a paperbound book from his side.

Sapnap’s eyes go wide, his face contorting into one of the largest grins he’s ever seen from the man.

“Holy shit.” He mutters, awestruck. “You actually did it.”

“Yeah.” George says, proudly looking at the collection of poems in his hand. “It was always my dream to actually publish something. Let alone this young.”

“Dude! That’s great oh my god!” Sapnap says, hooking his arm around George’s neck from over the counter. “You’re going to be famous! I guarantee!”

George ducks his head, trying to push down the rise of heat in his cheeks. His face hurts from smiling so wide. “God stop— it’s literally a debut collection, famous is so out of the question.”

“Listen, seeing from how much you put into this? There’s no way it won’t be a New York Time’s best seller.”

George scoffs, eyes trailing to the side. “They put that on every book…”

Sapnap rolls his eyes, and affectionately ruffles George’s hair with his free hand. “Then yours will be the best New York best seller.”

“You’re so dumb.”

“And you’re famous. Now let me see it!”

George groans as he lets Sapnap snatch the book from his hand. He puts up no fight when the barista gingerly takes the first page, and gently flips it over as if it were made of glass. He watches as Sapnap’s smile slowly falls off his face.

“All the Words I Couldn't Say; A Collection.” He reads aloud, fingers trailing over the fine print. “For Dream,”

George didn’t know what sort of reaction from Sapnap he expected, they were never really as close as he and Dream were. A twinge of worry sat in his gut, as he watched the barista’s glassy eyes gently thumb over the inking on the paper. He didn’t look sad, in fact, he looked almost amused. 

“He would’ve loved it.”

“I hope it’s enough.” George manages shakily, his voice breaking at the end. 

Sapnap smiles fondly. Closing the book and handing it over the counter with a smile. “It’s more than enough.”

George takes the book back in his hands, fingers gracing the same spot where Dream’s name was written in his own handwriting. It’s the very first publication, and usually, first publications had significant meanings to authors. They’re usually kept as memoirs put aside to reminisce for later. But George had a different idea.

He clutched the bouquet of pink hydrangeas tightly in his other hand.

“Oh, actually George, can you wait at the side for a second?” Sapnap asks, hands pressing random buttons on the cashier register. 

“Uh—” He stammers, ungracefully sidestepping past the line in front of the counter. “Why?”

“I remembered something from last night. I was planning to give it to you today in case you came in.” Sapnap says hurriedly, taking the receipt out of the registrar and pushing it onto George’s chest. “Just— wait there for a bit. I need to get something from our backroom.”

Sapnap practically bolts off to the door behind the counter— presumably the backroom he just mentioned— and leaves George waiting off at the side, confused and holding a bouquet of pink flowers looking like he just got dumped on a first date. He eyes the area around him awkwardly, and seeing as there’s no one else in the line besides him, he steps up to the front and fiddles with the straw dispenser on the counter with a vague look of interest as he waits for Sapnap to finally come back from the room. 

It takes a couple minutes and George can hear loud bangs from the door, multiple clatters of what sounded like pans— and at least two or three things shatter. The concern in him grows when Sapnap finally emerges, back hunched and hair a mess like he had just stepped out of a hurricane rather than a storage room. When George opens his mouth to say something, he’s immediately silenced by a finger in the face by Sapnap.

“I’m not done.” Sapnap says, lowering his finger. George promptly purses his lips and tries not to chuckle as the barista goes on to grumpily walk up to the drink station.

It takes him only a moment to recognize the smell of cinnamon hot chocolate in the air.

“Hey,” George notes offhandedly, leaning his back on the counter. “That isn’t my order.”

Sapnap scoffs, keeping his focus on pouring the chocolate into the cup. “Who said this was your order?”

George’s eyebrows raise. Whoever could enjoy the same drink as him?

He doesn’t voice the question out loud, though. Instead he prompts so stay quiet, watching idly as Sapnap works to sprinkle the last bits of cinnamon powder on top of the drink. 

When he finishes, he slides the drink over the counter along with George’s actual order.

The Poet pauses, eyes widening when Sapnap gestures at him to take his drinks. 

“You said this wasn’t my order?” He says plainly. Eyes flickering back to Sapnap who lazily eyed George back.

“Someone ordered it for you.”

“For me?”

Sapnap nods slowly, as he pushes the cup forward.

George looks at it warily, before hesitantly picking it up.

His eyes widen when he sees crumpled up piece of parchment paper sitting under the cup.

He turns back up to Sapnap, “What is this?” he asks while pointing at the paper.

Sapnap heaves a heavy breath, “This is two years overdue but— do you remember the day before your exams? And you came here waiting for him but he came after a few hours? I was supposed to give this to you but you left before I could."

The barista gently pushes forward the small parchment paper out to George. His eyes forlorn and heavy with unshed tears. 

George feels his stomach drop when he turns the paper over.

And then he laughs.

Sapnap looks up at him, eyes wide and mouth hung agape. But George can‘t seem to care less. He laughed, he laughed until his stomach churned and his eyes burned with tears, laughed until the smile on his face stretched his cheeks and legs felt weak. He laughed, until his voice started cracking and his bustling chuckles slowly turned into broken sobs that echo throughout the café.

George takes the crumpled up piece of parchment paper and holds it close to his chest as he cries. 

His tears land on the ink, slightly blurring the text, but it’s there. 

Sorry, I'll be late :) 

He breath haltered, being late was an understatement.

George cries, but not out of sadness, no. He thinks he’s ran out of all the tears he could use to cry for people who have long left him. These tears are more of the ones you shed once a good moment ends. When you feel the smile fall off your face, or when you watch a sunset dip past the horizon. It’s the feeling of happiness leaving your body, but it’s also the feeling of finally being able to let go.

George reads the note, it’s his crude handwriting. It’s his silly little smiley face at the end of the sentence. It’s everything so Dream that it makes George miss him so, so much. 

He clutches the piece of paper tighter, it’s almost like he’s still here.

(But George has long accepted, through so much sorrow and suffering, that no matter how much he’ll remember Dream, It’ll never change the fact that he’s gone.) 

“Thank you.” George says, sniffling slightly. “Thank you, for everything.”

Sapnap’s touch is gentle on his arm. “There’s no need to thank me for anything. You made him happy, didn’t you?”

George thinks back to Dream. Dream rambling about authors he had met abroad. Dream asking him about the future. Dream in galleries, admiring art and meanings. Dream laughing. Dream smiling. Dream alive.

“I like to believe that I did.”

“You did.” Sapnap says, looking at the paper clutched firmly in his hands. “You really did.”

They both smile at each other.

“So, where will you go from here?” Sapnap asks, pushing himself off from the counter and quickly rubbing at his own eyes. 

George hums, carefully folding the note and tucking it in the front pocket of his shirt as gently as possible. “Out of the city that’s for sure.”

“You’re not staying in the city?” The barista’s eyes go wide. “Why not?”

George chuckles. “It just doesn’t seem right. You know?” 

“Will you call at least?”

“Do you want me to also send you birthday presents? Of course I’ll call.”

Sapnap promptly wraps him in a hug, it’s abrupt, but not unwelcome. It catches George by surprise however, he almost stumbles back and loses his footing when the barista comes crashing onto him like an emotional ball of tears. 

“Thank you for being in his life, George.” Sapnap mutters into his shirt. “You made it worthwhile.”

He can feel the smile on Sapnap’s face on his shoulder. George lets out a soft chuckle before wrapping his arms around the other man and letting the warmth of his embrace seep in. 

He was going to miss this.

“Alright, fuck you for making me cry, now get out of my shop.” The barista says jokingly, handing George both of his drinks and pushing him away. 

The poet laughs, waving off at Sapnap at the counter before he starts heading to the table at the center of the coffee shop.

George lets himself smile, as he slowly sets down the bouquet of light pink hydrangeas on the empty table. Next to it is Dream’s usual sugary drink, but this time, George placed his own cinnamon hot chocolate next to it. 

With gentle hands, places his first publication down on the spot where he used to sit.

He took a moment to step back, and appreciate the sight of the flowers strewn across the table with two cups and a book. It reminded him of a time when two people used to sit there, drinking the same drinks and talks about nothing.

George took a breath, as he stepped out of the shop. The lingering scent of fresh spring travelling with the breeze. He put his hands in the pockets of his coat, where he could feel the note still securely kept in his hand. 

He could get lost in the sea of people filtering by and walking along the sidewalk, all of them trying to reach different places. George didn’t know where he was going to end up, or where he would even go after. All he knew is that he was going to follow where the wind blew and where his heart wanted him to wander.

And for a moment, amidst the crowd, he sees a flash of green eyes staring back at him.

George turned around sharply, his body nearly getting swept up in the current of people as he tried to search for the same pair of eyes he knew were oh so familiar— 

A blonde tuft of hair, almost gold in the sunlight, walking away with the sea of people as he slowly disappeared from sight. 

George smiled, putting his hands back in his pocket as he looked back on the road in front of him.

It’s the first day of spring when George leaves the small, quaint coffee shop by the end of his downtown alley.