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It begins like it always does. The edges of the world blur, the atmosphere thick with the weight of something unsaid, something broken. The night is endless, suffocating, and yet somehow silent. I stand in the middle of it, my feet rooted to the earth, as if the ground itself is trying to keep me here. I can feel the ache in my chest, a familiar hollow space that only he ever filled.
And there, in the distance, is the faint outline of him.
Rimbaud.
It’s as if he’s made of mist—his form shifting, flickering, like a ghost I can never touch. I can see him, though. I always see him. His presence is like a weight pressing against my ribs, a pull I can’t ignore, no matter how many times I’ve tried. It’s him. It’s always been him.
I take a step toward him, the ground beneath me cold and unfamiliar, and I whisper his name, soft and broken, as if I’m afraid the world will shatter if I speak too loud.
“Rimbaud.”
He doesn’t answer, not at first. But I see him smile—just a little, a quiet curve of lips, not even real, just a shadow of something that used to be. It hurts.
“Rimbaud,” I say again, louder now, my voice trembling. My chest tightens. “It’s you. You’ve come back to me.”
And then he speaks. His voice cuts through the air like a distant echo, too far for me to reach.
“It’s too late. What’s done is done.”
The words hit me like a blow to the stomach. I freeze, my feet no longer willing to carry me. I can barely breathe. I feel him slipping away, as if he’s never really here to begin with. I want to shout at him, tell him that I’m not ready to lose him again, that I can’t— I can’t —let him go.
“No,” I manage to say, my voice barely more than a whisper. “No. It can’t be.”
But his eyes… his eyes are cold, empty. They don’t look at me, not really. They’re distant, like he’s already far, far away, even though he’s standing right there. And he says it again, as if trying to push me away.
“There’s nothing I can do, Verlaine. I’m not real. None of this is.”
I want to scream. I want to rip him out of this dream, force him to be real, to stay with me. I step closer, but it doesn’t matter. He’s still slipping through my fingers.
“But I can see you right now,” I say, the words desperate. “What are you talking about?”
His form flickers, like a dying candle in the wind, and I’m choking on the cold emptiness between us. “Remember I’m dead,” he says softly, and it feels like his voice is breaking too, though it doesn’t show. “I gave you all my life force left, remember?”
The words cut deeper than I expect, a jagged wound that makes me stumble. I do remember. I remember the fire in his eyes as he slowly faded away, the light leaving him in pieces. I remember the feeling of him slipping through my grasp like sand, and I… I couldn’t save him.
“So why am I still alive?” I ask, though I already know. I wish I didn’t.
Rimbaud doesn’t answer right away. He looks past me, his eyes dark, his face unreadable. “Verlaine,” he whispers. “It doesn’t matter.”
It’s as if he’s trying to make me understand that none of this— none of this —is real. That I’m the one who’s broken, who’s still trapped in the past, still holding on to a memory that’s nothing more than dust. I want to scream at him, to demand that he stay, that he never leave me again.
“But it does,” I say, the words heavy in my mouth. “It matters to me.”
For a moment, there’s silence. The air presses in on me from all sides, suffocating. I can feel my heart pounding, my throat tight with unshed tears. I wait, barely breathing, for him to say something, to do something, anything.
And then, finally, he sighs. It’s soft, almost tender, though it’s laced with something more—something sad.
“Well, if it doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, “can you stay in my head? In my dream, at least?”
It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To keep him with me, even if it’s just for a little while longer. To hold on to him in this empty place. To pretend, just for a moment, that he’s still here.
He pauses, and for a second, I wonder if he’ll refuse me again. But then he speaks, his voice soft and resigned, like a whispered secret in the dark.
“Okay.”
And just like that, he’s with me, though he’s not really here. I can feel him in the space between us, like a shadow that clings to my skin. But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
I don’t know how long I stand there, just breathing in the silence, feeling his presence, knowing it’s not real.
But he’s here, and for now, that’s all that matters.
“Rimbaud,” I whisper into the quiet, my voice breaking. “Even if you’re not real, you’ll always be mine.”
And in the silence that follows, I can almost feel his smile, faint and fleeting, but it’s there. And for just a moment, I believe that maybe, just maybe, he’s still here.