Work Text:
Is it better to speak or to die?
Maybe it’s better to speak.
Talk endlessly until it ends in a fit of giggles. And then keep going because it makes one feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Talk endlessly until it ends in blubbering tears. And then keep going because it hurts in a way that needs words to explain.
And then the realization dawns that words carry quite the weight.
And with that they can kill; they kill the soul, kill confidence, and kill relationships.
But words can also resurrect, something the dead can never do. But do people always want to take that chance?
The brave do.
Or maybe the foolish do.
They string together eloquent sentences or stutter through their consonants. They speak because the words scratch them up inside, tearing at their hearts and minds until the pain becomes unbearable and the words must spill out.
Is it better to speak or to die?
Maybe it’s better to die.
Is it a requirement for every thought to be vocalized? What’s wrong with quiet? With silence?
There’s beauty in unspoken agreement and chats based on facial expressions.
So die with unspoken words- without ever knowing the reaction of the ears it lands on.
Avoid rejection and heartbreak. Creeping around arguments and pent-up anger. Narrowly missing trauma and anguish.
Take your words to the grave the same way promises are taken to the coffin, and for every nail that keeps the wood in place: a person that doesn’t have to hear your wretched voice.
Maybe it’s better to speak.
Speak with love and adoration. Joy and wonder.
For every letter to pass through your lips at least thrice. And for syllables to start sounding rhythmic.
To never die with words unspoken.
Maybe it’s better to die.
Die after life has had its fill with you. Die because you’ve had your fill with life.
Die with words stuck behind your lips, saving your breath.
For less than kind words to never bathe in sunlight.
Or for the moonlight to be savored in silence.
Is it better to speak or to die?
Maybe it’s better to speak and then die.
Because one cannot die and then speak.
And even if it was possible, it would only be ghostly paragraphs and mourning speeches.
Because the living and the dead can never truly have a conversation.
“What do you think? I have to turn it in tomorrow.”
The repeating click of a pen follows the question. A sign of anxiety or maybe impatience.
“I forgot a comma somewhere….” The voice trails off and flips the pages, looking for a mistake to correct.
The spring wind blows and it carries the sweet smell of budding flowers and yesterday’s rain. It sweeps up the assignment, scattering it about the ground. And the boy begins to quickly pick it up, hoping the lingering rainwater doesn’t cause the ink to bleed. But a small fumble of the finger results in a paper cut and blood stains the sheets instead.
“Ha.”
It comes out in a short puff of air.
Then another ha accompanies it. And another and another until they all just turn into laughter.
Then laughter into devastating tears.
“I must look fucking insane, bleeding and reading my homework to you. You can’t comment on anything, you can't even look me in the eyes anymore.”
His hands grip the grass, tearing a few blades out of the ground. He sprinkles them back on the ground and grabs a tissue from his backpack, using it to wipe away his tears and to clean the blood from his small wound. His back hits the wet grass and it soaks his thin t-shirt but he doesn’t care, the uncomfortable feeling of wet clothing could be ignored.
“Would you believe me if I said this was a love letter?” Jean whispers even though no one is listening.
It wasn’t a lie, it truly was a love letter even if I didn’t sound like one. And it wasn’t supposed to be written like that either, the words were once arranged in different order and the stanzas weren’t twinged with such helplessness.
The brown-eyed boy remembers when the paper was covered in a hundred different ways to detail her beauty, when he compared her to the cosmos and her voice to the calming sound of the tides. But that’s all he can remember, he can only remember the words he wanted to say.
His mind is full of conversations they could’ve had and the paths he could’ve taken.
Jean’s emotions, maybe the second most important part of this entire ordeal, only grow as the days go on. And he realizes humans are liars by design, not only out of ill-intent. He knows they were trying to make him feel better but all these emotions, the ones everyone said would subside with time, haven’t and he’s starting to doubt they ever will.
The only thing that’s become faint are the memories. They have started to fade and it’s absolutely terrifying.
What happens when he forgets the sound of her laugh? Her face of sheer determination and utter concentration. What about that quiet exasperated sigh that always left her glossy lips when she would explain something to him for the fifth time? (Even though he got it the first time but adores her pronunciation). When he can no longer recognize the scent of her perfume? When he forgets the way she slightly trips over her untied shoelaces, or how she saved him a seat every Wednesday because he was always fifteen minutes late.
And how horrifying it will be when he forgets how absolutely wonderful and heartbreaking it was to only be her friend.
“I was supposed to confess to you, you know.” A sad smile bends his lips, and the tears roll down his face once again but not as fast as before.
“I had a whole plan and it was pretty brilliant, it had all these flowers and pretty lights and a love poem. You would’ve loved it- if you liked me back and I guess that’s the worst part of it all. I’ll never know if you would’ve accepted my feelings or rejected me. I’ll never get a chance to find out.”
His voice cracks with grief as he continues speaking, “I really loved- love, I really love you and it isn’t fair. What good is it that only I know the love I have for you? You should know, you deserve to know, it’s something that should be shared between the two of us.”
A single droplet of rain falls onto Jean’s cheeks and he confuses it with his tears until more follow. It starts as a light drizzle but within seconds it begins to pour and it drenches him. But he doesn’t move, he lets the rain wash over him and cover every inch of his body.
And he cries.
He cries tears of sorrow, of regret, of desperation, and arguably the most important and painful: tears of love.
He cries out her name and pleas for his lover to be returned back to him.
And the last thing he cries for is an opportunity, an opportunity to tell her how much of his heart she owns.
The downpour starts to slow and the long-haired boy thinks it’s a sign telling him to leave.
So Jean sits up, his clothes heavier and his heart even moreso. His papers were now reduced to mush on the ground and he couldn’t even read the title. He collects his rain-damaged belongings and stands up, mustering up the energy to leave. And as his parting message to his beloved, he places a single pink acacia atop the disintegrating papers and whispers out a very shaky,
“I like you. I will always like you.”