Work Text:
It's autumn outside.
The rain is pouring, knocking on your window, and the wind is ruthless. The outside is frigid. Frigid and bitter. But you aren't. You sit by the windowsill with worn-out and torn envelopes surrounding you, and you remember. You remember the lake, the meeting, the confession, the moments you spent together, the bliss of it all. You remember him with each letter you read, gentle fingers tracing every single mark of ink. You remember everything, yet you can only think of him. It feels like a lifetime has passed since you opened the first letter. Has it?
The outside is frozen and sharp, but you aren't. You're warm and you reminisce about every moment you spent together. The opened letters sit abandoned around you. You're forlorn in solitary, but that's good, isn't it? That's what you want. Maybe so, still, the outside is cold and you stay inside by the hearth, mind filled with sweet nothings. The lenient flame is warming you up and you can't help but feel your eyelids drooping.
The outside is raw and bleak, and maybe so am I. But in my slumber I dream of the spring and the sun, and it feels like I'm back by the lake. Back to a time when he was by my side and I learned what it feels like to be alive for the first time. His touch so evidently ingrained in my thoughts, I feel it even in my solitude. But that's all he remains, a memory, a ghost of my past I can never seem to get rid of, whose once loving eyes seem to appear chimeric now as my thoughts begin to grow foggy.
Suddenly I hear a rustle and a creak. I can't really tell if it's real or just another figment of imagination, at this point I can barely decipher between reality and delusion. The creaking of the floorboard grows louder, unbearably loud, before abruptly stopping. And I feel his hands again as they cover my eyes, the once comforting warmth of them now burns my skin. His touch burns me up like a flame and I can't even bring myself to care the second everything goes cold and quiet.