Summary: But what disturbs you the most is the knowledge that miles from where you are, his body is buried six feet underground, rotting.

A/N: Jeez. Wonder what my problem is. Anyway, I was immensely bored, so just for the hell of it, I tried to write something. I kept coming back to this and now, I finished it. :P Dunno why, I just wanted to write some angst (okay, I love angst, that's the reason!) and this is what I came up with. (I swear, someday I better learn to write humor/fluff/something, because I don't think I've ever written ANYTHING happy. XD)

It's Mercedes' POV, just so you know. Not that I didn't make it very clear, LOL.

Sometimes, when moon shines brighter than the sun; when there's no clouds in the summer sky; when muted colors blur into mix of grey, you miss those years, left behind in dust of time and faded memories.

Sometimes, when sleep won't visit you and you lie awake at night, you wonder where it all went wrong. That's when you'd rather feel nothing at all than hurt, because in your opinion, longing and nostalgia are the ugliest feelings ever named. Of course it's great to remember the happy memories, to have had something special, close friends and a place to belong, but in the end, nothing lasts forever and you're left behind empty-handed. How is that supposed to make you happy?

You know that years and long distances have broken many relationships.

You had never excepted that it would happen to you. After all, what the two of you shared was something special, and both of you were always quick to assure that yes, it would last forever.

You miss him. He had been - still was - your best friend in the entire world, closer to you than anyone. You had never really believed in soulmates, but after knowing him, you knew you had found yours.

So what happened? Why is he slowly fading from your memory, why are you moving on without him and letting yourself forget? Somedays, you can't remember the exact shades of his eyes, the pitch of his voice, somedays, you forget how his smile affected you, how the most beatiful thing you've ever heard was his singing, and it hurts.

And somedays, it feels like he had never left, because you can recall every single detail of the time when you were a teenager. You remember every single pair of shoes he owned (which was a lot), you remember what brand of shampoo he used, you can almost feel his soft hair under your grip (it's always almost, nothing ever quite fully) and you see, clear as day, how he lifts his eyebrow with a look of 'really, bitch?'.

Having had him, you'd do anything to have him again.

Having lost him, you know your heart cannot ever be quite as whole again. (But never would you trade the years of bliss you spent together to never having had him, no matter how much pain it would spare you.)

But what disturbs you the most is the knowledge that miles from where you are, his body is buried six feet underground, rotting. Decaying.

(You've visited his grave only two times after the funeral, and it made you sick, bringing flowers to his 'final resting place', to his corpse.)

Kurt Hummel wasn't bigger than life, invincible or capable of defying laws of gravity, laws of nature, you get that, but it still feels wrong. People die all the time, so Kurt's death shouldn't have been any different, and in a way, it wasn't. Sky was still blue, birds were still able to fly and the rain pouring down was always just water. Nothing around you really changed, so sometimes, it feels like you are the one who's been turned upside down.

So sometimes, it's easier to forget, to let yourself move on. Those are the days when the little details fade from your memory, when you can't hear his laugh ringing in your ears, when you turn the pictures upside down. You smile, you laugh, you have generally good time with your friends and there's no ghosts or regrets or guilt or pain to make you feel like a core of an eaten apple.

Those are the days when it doesn't hurt, so you're always terrified of remembering again.

It shouldn't make you feel ashamed but somehow, sometimes you forget that you're happy so you let the shame catch up with you and make you remember again.

It's an endless circle, sick and twisted and wrong, but you don't ever complain, because it will never let you truly let go of the past.

(That, and every single time someone utters "hate crime".)

So in a morbid way, you're glad. It means Kurt Hummel will be always remembered.