author's note: lucas and zay are about seventeen; maya and farkle are sixteen; riley is on the back-end of being fifteen. mentions of lucaya, riarkle and riley/zay.

letting go

/

i: riley (before)

You trail your fingertips down the glass of the window pane, staring off into him – his face, very much bruised, scratches tracing around his cheekbones. Him; god, it pains you to look at him so broken, so literally crushed to his lowest point. Your hand reaches the handle, and you close your eyes. Your tongue is between your lips. You hate to think how much worse he might look when you're there: staring into his face, right there in front of you, without glass separating you. You know you'll cry. You know you will. You push the door slowly, refusing to lay your eyes on his resting form.

You take a sharp intake of air, and you finally open your eyes to gaze down at him. A coma, they said. It might take months, maybe years, they said. The very thought of him here, year after year, taking in the breaths of an oxygen tank rather than exploring the world while he can: you had made plans. Plans that might never get lived; to be stuffed in a sock drawer only to be admired by you in times of absolute dread.

There are presents, they have been left for him. Piles of cards and chocolates all gathered on a chair in the left-hand corner of the room. You pull up a seat from the right, closer to the bed. You inch closer to him; you're practically breathing down his neck. Words to speak – to say – to him, they swirl the surface of your mind. So many words, to say to the boy who has changed so much, and yet, is still soso similar. He's more of a man now. The leather jacket he had been wearing during the incident was slung over the same chair as all the presents. Your hands reach his, interlocking. Your emotions fill the words that leave your lips.

"Farkle," you say. Your voice is a bare whisper, one that could only be heard by the keen ear. "I want you to know that, it's okay. To let go." You're shaking your head as you say it, and the tears have started: they're welling up in your eyes, and you know, you know, there is no stopping them. Silently rolling down your cheeks, there is no doubt in your mind that your eyes are bloodshot at this very moment.

"If you do let go, I just want you to remember everything you'll be missing." You smile weakly. You can feel the salty droplets hanging off the edge of your nose.

"We were going to go to Europe, remember? Nothing but our backpacks and eachother." You remind him, although there is no point. He can't hear you.

"You and I were going to Yale. Remember you got that acceptance letter? We vowed to eachother that we would open them at the same time. I cried when I saw it." You rub your thumb along the bags of your eyes, collecting tears. "I hugged you and then we laughed because you're much taller than you were when we were kids. I wasn't wearing heels that day and you crouched down to reach me." You laugh fondly at the memory. Happy times, you and Farkle. Farkle and you.

"I'm going to have to go now, Farkle," you whisper to him. His body is lifeless. He doesn't even know you're there. You turn your head to look out the window, and you can see them there; the guy you used to like, and your bestfriend. She's resting her head on his shoulder, crying into the sleeve of his shirt. He's got his arms wrapped around her, his face hard, like he can't believe this could ever happen to his bestfriend. He pulls her close.

"We could've been like them," you whisper into Farkle's ear, "Guess now, we'll never see."

You leave your seat, brushing away tears that are accumulating around your eyes again. You reach for his jacket that is swaying from that chair, lifting it up to look at it. You slip your arms through the sleeves: it's too big, but it's his.

You push open the door. Your bestfriend doesn't greet you. She doesn't say hello. She just tugs on the shirt of her boyfriend and asks, "Is he okay?"

"Coma," you find your voice despite not wanting to speak. Your bestfriend reaches for your arm, and pulls you closer. She envelops you in a hug, and you finally let yourself completely, truly break down and cry. She strokes your hair. "Everything's gonna be okay, Riles." I think – no – I know she's right, because he's Farkle, and Farkle can't die.