The day was a tuesday, chilly and clouds here and there, sunlight still escaping through like the information that just spilled out of his mouth, what you see cannot be undone, what you heard cannot be unheard, you wish, oh do you wish that you heard it wrong. For it to be a lie, a very very bad joke, for him to pop out and laugh at you for believing it, for believing a thing that should never have happened. But no, when does life joke around?
"I'm so sorry."
He left a few moments ago, getting some groceries, a normal day, a normal fucking day. You can't feel anything, your heart is heavy, limbs won't move, eyes fixed on something you can't even see. Life's slowed down.
"Sorry."
Stop. Stop repeating that.
"She wants to see you."
Don't touch me, i'm not ready. You can't see her, not knowing this, not knowing that her best friend, your bestfriend is. No, you can't.
"Sollux, I'm so sorry."
No you're not. You never liked him anyways, you told me a million fucking times how much you hated him! "I'll be out in a bit." You somehow tell him, voice empty.
He looks at you worryingly. "Alright." He takes a big breath. "I know it's a lot to take in.." He doesn't finish the sentence, or if he does you don't catch it.
He leaves, shutting the door behind him, shutting you in with this new information.
You stumble over to your bed, yours and his bed, the one where he fought with an old lady to get at the store, all those memories of setting it up once you got home, all those times it didn't fill right no matter how many time you broke it in, all the years of finally accepting that, yes, this is our bed and we will be here for it, all of it, everything about the bed, it comes rushing back in. Your knees give out and your head hits the violet blankets. He spent so much money on these blankets.
Everything about this bed comes back to you, the first time he cried on it to the last time he cried on it. He would cry about the stupidest things, you ate all the cheez-its, you didn't replace the toilet paper, his computer wont load and he thinks he downloaded a virus, his show got canceled, no one will publish his book, or mr. bub bubs died. That stupid fucking fish, you hated him- was it even a boy? You don't know.
You crawl up onto the mattress, hugging the pillows. All the pillow throwing and forts you both made, you would hit him first, always first, the pillow would land right in the center of his face, always, it never seemed to fail, the pillows would be there for you both. For the pain and fun.
It smells like him. His fucking name brand cologne he ordered online a while ago.
You curl in on yourself, hugging tighter. You already miss his voice, his worrying, his complaining, his..everything. Gone, gone forever.
Life sounds pretty pointless without him already. But you can't, you have plans to visit his parents next week. You're going to see his parents, eat dinner and talk. But whats the point?
With that you find yourself crying. What is the point?