So I felt like writing something and I based this off my headcanons about this nerd so...
*Small blood mention*
With every word he wrote, the meaning hit him with a force. A strong force, telling the writer and reader alike to listen and pay attention. He knew the power of his words, the power of his actions. What he didn't know was why. Why did he submit his work? Why did he feel fear of showing his face at school after? Why was he even scared? No one knew, right? How. How was another thing he didn't understand. How did that person find out? How did the person just not care? How? Why? He knew the power, he knew the meaning. But yet, even with that knowledge he couldn't answer those questions.
He had been dead now for almost two decades but he still never understood. He didn't think he ever would. People told him to let it go, that he was never going to understand. That was easy for them to say. The ones who said that understood why they left that world; they knew very well. But he didn't. He didn't understand.
The loud sound still rings in his ear every now and then. The pain raging in his core, right where his heart should be. The blood that stains his skin still smells fresh. The screams of his half-brother still muffled in his ears. The fear still feeling very real. The sirens that just sounded so far away to be close. His senses leaving him until nothing left.
The sound of his heartbeat gone. The feeling of breathing lungs never to return. He didn't know if he should feel relieved. This new place felt scary then. Now, he doesn't have that fear. This new place that smells of ink and paper. Leather books that felt like the old college library he once knew. He feels relief now. An understanding of this new place. Still no understanding of why and how though.
After waking up in this new place, he felt a place in his core fill up. The same familiar voice and smile he once knew of that world had followed him here. He felt guilty for dragging him here, but he was happy nonetheless. For at least he wasn't so lonely anymore. Laughter had filled his new home, a small piece family returning to him. One person was missing, but they wouldn't let her come.
He has a new home. He has family to keep him company. He has new abilities that make him feel better about staying here. Books upon books filling that emptiness in his core. Happiness and laughter that make everything all better.
Every once in a while his new friend shows up, ready to tell him about his day. He's still tied to the world he once knew, but he was also tied to this new world. For he knew both places very well, but he never grew jealous of his friend. He had grown to like here, he was just happy hearing about how things have changed down there.
Ghost Writer is what they call him. He never let go of his old alias. Though it brought him to his fate, he couldn't depart with it. Because of it, he couldn't understand why or how. He was starting to not care. The name brings him joy, his core that sometimes feels like a beating heart. He knew what the name brought him, he knew he left the old world because of it. Even through all of that, the name still felt like home. Just as how the smell of worn leather and ink, the sounds of laughter, and voice of a half ghost feel like home. He was home, and he wouldn't trade it.