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The figure is one abstract and deeply complex one, but he is still real.
He breathes, stills, heart quickens when excited or afraid, and he is very, very real.
He holds too much in that shallow heart of his, this load another weight on his fragile shoulders, another thing to know or remember; yet, he still is carefree.
An unrelenting, undefined carefreeness that makes you pause mid sentence; he is carefree with no consequence.
It makes you sick.
That unpunished freedom, you think, is that real? You think it is awfully childish to act like that, you feel your chest squeeze under the thin shirt hung on your body. Cold, the wind snaking from the bottom — you bought a size too big — towards the top; he was there, once, laughing and playing again.
It makes you mad.
Isn't anyone going to come and tell him the truth, you think, put him in his place? It's an easily cruel one, but there was no moment — then and now — where you have remembered to be kind.
It must be in your nature. He doesn't say anything else.
When he comes again, he is foolishly unafraid. He lives life, he sits all the way back there, he causes troubles and is sharp on the heel; there's something boisterous echoing against the wall before you feel him there, another blow at the foot.
Isn't that naive? It makes your gut churn and your head swim; there's that tone again, like there's only one right answer, like this was always simple and you should've noticed. There's that reminder again: he didn't do much to you, not here.
There's it again: you're wrong.
Reckless ambition and independence; walking back to base under his breath — yes, did you know? is that okay? — saying meaningless items. It does not justify existence or carefreeness, you think, not really.
When you truly try, though, your mind comes up blank.
Because you know it maybe is more simple; he has something behind that carefreeness, but won't face it. There's something distinctly evil, but it'll stay undercover if he wants it to be.
And he always wants. (You think that maybe you're both similar, in a way.)
Then he's gone. Then he's there again, slowly dying.
Not dying, your mind corrects, but fading; a star that just had a supernova, all sparks and bite and colours whizzing in sight. Is he afraid to die? Are you? There's no answer, but you must know it, right?
He fades like the last embers of summer, he fizzles out too quick for you to think about it.
You're knocked down. He is too, laying on the floor. You think it's stupid. You yell something, or for someone— not sure, but soon your voice is raw, cords scraping against the larynx.
He weakly reaches for something. The wall, maybe. You grip onto the fabric of his hoodie, climbing up or dragging down you don't know at all— but it's a steady presence.
A team effort, you both try to stand.
Knees buckle, muscles and heart and bones weighing down; and suddenly, you finally understand it all along. He doesn't, maybe, because he keeps trying.
Standing, standing, falling. Falling, standing, tumbling. Standing, gone.
You are unable.