Chapter Text
The day you left, Dream thinks, some part of me died.
This is what Dream remembers: the last night they had spent together. The awkward conversations in the days leading up to when George was meant to move. How they didn't actively avoid contact, but Dream could still feel George's stare, sometimes. How quickly George would turn away if Dream tried to meet his gaze.
"Do you want to take anything?" Dream had asked, one afternoon. "There is -- I have a lot."
"No, that's yours -- I don't want to owe you anything." Dream can tell from the way that George flinches that he didn't mean for it to come out like that, but it still stings nonetheless.
"Don't worry," Dream had answered, before fully thinking about it. "You don't owe me anything." They had locked eyes, at this point, and they both knew that Dream wasn't talking about the furniture.
Dream doesn't think about that time often -- of George leaving. He turns over on his bed to stare at the ceiling. Dream thinks of a few days ago, when he had gone to pick up George at his apartment.
"You seem more like a memory than a person, sometimes," George had said.
I know what you mean, George, Dream thinks. I don't like thinking of you like that either. In the past tense.
Dream sits up. He glances to the corner, where he had thrown the shirt that George had slept in. Dream walks over and picks it up, intending to put it with his laundry, but he stops himself.
Dream holds the shirt, for a moment, thinking of George in it, how it was oversized on him. He thinks of how George had looked, curled up in his bed, burrowed in his sheets. Dream glances to his bed, to the side where George had laid last night. He thinks of sleeping beside him, being able to reach over and hold him.
Fuck it, Dream thinks. He changes his shirt, putting on the shirt that George had worn. After he pulls it on, he throws his old shirt onto the floor, then goes back to lay on his bed. He lets himself lie on the side where George had slept. In the empty space that he had left behind.
Dream closes his eyes, then inhales deeply. It smells like you, he thinks. He brings the fabric of the shirt up, inhaling deeply once more. It's always been you.
This is not my shirt anymore, Dream thinks. You wore it. I can't separate it from you. I won't be able to think of it as mine anymore.
You are not mine anymore.
The thing that made him ache the most was the inevitability of it all. How, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't think of a realistic way he could have convinced George to stay. George had clearly grown out of content creation. He no longer enjoyed the things he did. Dream, honestly, had figured this out long before George had. They knew each other too well.
George leaving was the best choice for both of them. But it still hurt to think about.
He asked you to go with him, Dream recalls. To move away from everything and start over. You said you couldn't. He must have known you couldn't. For him to ask was cruel.
That's not fair, Dream reasons to himself. He knew that you wouldn't go, but he needed to ask. Just in case. You know better than that.
Dream had offered to drive George to his new apartment. He had refused. Something in Dream had broken at the polite refusal, the obvious rejection. The unspoken reasoning for everything. It hurt.
There were things that he shouldn't have left unspoken. But there were also things he shouldn't have said.
"Look at me. Look at me and tell me that you don't need me. Tell me that you would be okay if I left," Dream had said. Some part of him knew that this was cruel. That George was leaving no matter what.
"I am just a person," George had responded. His voice was steady, but there was hurt clear in his tone. "Nothing more."
This memory breaks him. Dream tears up, not for the first time that night, and feels an overwhelming hollow in his chest. It hurts, to feel like this. To feel everything and nothing at the same time.
I turned off my emotions when you told me you were leaving. The moment I realized you were leaving me, I turned them off. Felt nothing. I've never been able to do that with anyone else before. Maybe it hurt too much, or maybe not enough. I don't know. I don't know anymore. You know me most, you know us. You must know how this feels. Do you feel it? Do you feel anything? I bet you don't. Maybe you just don't care like I do. Like I did.
The first night that Dream had spent alone, in this house, that was and still is too big for just one person, he had sent George multiple texts. George hadn't responded to any of them.
I probably shouldn't have sent you those, Dream thinks, a moment of logic in his emotional breakdown. He glances to his phone, half-tempted to see if he could scroll far enough back to get to those texts, but decides against it. He can still recall the premise of most of them. It burns to think about, but Dream lets himself remember anyway.
I didn't know you could feel so much but also feel absolutely nothing at all. I don't know which is worse -- being hollow or being too much. There's a hollow in my chest now -- the empty space you left behind. It's still yours, even if you're not here. I don't think it could ever belong to anyone else. It's you. Always you. But you are not here. That's the hollow. Maybe you were the too much. Maybe this was too much. I still don't know which way it hurts more.
Dream remembers the last night they spent together, two years ago, before George moved out for good. He thinks that some part of him still lives in that memory. That it will always be part of him. Dream doesn't know if that makes it better or worse.
You make me feel dead and alive all at once. I think some part of me died the day you left. It feels like so long ago but it also feels like it just happened. You killed some part of me. It's like you don't even care. Even if it wasn't good for either of us, I wanted you. I want you still maybe. I don't know.
This is how not to love someone: lie in bed with him, arms length apart. Ignore the little voice that tells you to turn towards him. Ignore how much you want to wrap your arms around him. Ignore the urge to forget that there are bad things. Hold your own hands together; intertwine your fingers so tightly so that you can't reach out to him. Stare blankly up at your ceiling. Let yourself feel the ache in your heart, convince yourself that is all that there is -- nothing more than an ache. Nothing more.
Maybe this is what hating someone feels like. Maybe I hate you now.
This isn't what love is supposed to feel like.
It's a few months before Dream apologizes for that last text. Even now, thinking back to it, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.
It tastes like a lie, Dream thinks. No part of me could bring itself to hate any part of you. Maybe I said it because I felt like you were a part of me. I don't remember. I don't want to. This hurts.
Dream thinks of the past few days. Of seeing George again, how much had changed. Too much had changed, but there were still some things that were achingly familiar. How George let himself be held, how they slept in the same bed, how some part of him always seemed to be touching some part of George. They were part of each other. No amount of time could change that.
Turned off my emotions with you. Never been able to do that with anyone else. Isn't it crazy what you do to me? Never felt that sort of hollow with anyone else before. Never felt so much and absolutely nothing at the exact same time before.
Dream recalls one of the last conversations they had. It's been a while since he has allowed himself to remember like this, to actively try to recall their last moments together. It's cathartic, in a way, to let himself feel. It still hurts the same way.
"Don't wake me up in the morning," Dream said.
"Dream-"
"Leave before I wake up," Dream said. George didn't fight him on this. He left before Dream woke up. That's how it ended.
Did you look back, George? Dream thinks. Did you look back?
The day you left, some part of me died. It's still dead now. It's haunting me, or maybe haunting you? I don't know anymore. But when I saw you, I felt alive. To live is overwhelming, I think. Maybe it's not that to live is overwhelming. Maybe to love is overwhelming. Maybe just loving you is overwhelming. I'm not dying. I am alive. You make some part of me feel alive. I don't think this is what dying feels like.
The ghost in me tries to unkill itself when I see you.
It's not like George ignored him completely. Though, there was a part of Dream wished that he did. The hope was worse, somehow. Every phone call filled with small talk ached. The light-hearted banter between them felt worse, somehow. It was like George was taunting him. Telling Dream that things could have been the same, if Dream had been enough.
Dream knows this isn't true. But he feels like it is.
You make me feel like I am too much and not enough all at once. I'd love you, still, if you'd let me. I'd love you over again and you could do so many things but I'd still be here. You were the best thing that never happened to me.
When things start to hurt in that way, Dream tells himself that this is what healing feels like. It will hurt and ache over and over, but this is what healing feels like. He's not sure if this makes it better or worse.
He lies in bed now, half-asleep, thinking about everything, feeling absolutely everything at once but still nothing at all. He doesn't know if it hurts, he doesn't know if he wants it to hurt.
In this state of almost full unconsciousness, Dream thinks of the past two years. The memories float by idly -- he's not awake enough to focus on anything, for a bit. But then, he thinks of George's contact on his phone. How many hours he had spent staring at the number, thumb hovering over the call button.
This line we constantly cross and then uncross. I didn't even know you could undo something that quickly. I didn't know. Did you know? You must have.
If I were braver, I would have told you I loved you. That I was in love with you. That I still am.
Dream couldn't bring himself to call. There was never anything to say. What Dream wanted was to call, and tell George the truth. Just have George pick up the phone, be able to simply say that he missed him. But there was nothing they could speak about beyond that. The conversations they did have were light, as if they carried no weight at all.
Even now, he couldn't tell which was worse. To mean nothing at all or to mean too much. To feel nothing at all or feel too much. No matter how badly he wanted things to be okay, no matter how badly he wanted to call, he couldn't.
He thinks of how much he wished that George would call him. How much he wanted his obnoxious, default ringtone to wake him up, for George to be on the line, for them to talk for hours. Some nights, when he began to think of this too much, Dream would lie awake, staring at George's contact photo.
It was an old photo, one of the first that Dream had ever taken of him. It was slightly blurry, as George had been trying to duck away from the camera, but the smile on his face was clear.
Dream is asleep, but even in this unconscious state his mind still toys with him. His dreams are filled with hazy memories, old jokes, and phone calls that never happened. Of that photo of George, lighting up his phone screen, signaling an incoming call. How that never happened. How, even now, Dream wanted the phone to be ringing.
The ringtone is so clear, that Dream can make it out. He's a little annoyed, honestly, at the obnoxious sound of his phone ringing.
The sound of his phone ringing.
Dream jolts awake, but the sound of the ringtone doesn't fade.
His phone is ringing.