i miss...
that dream. it's him again.
you find him over and over, within the bushes, amongst the flowers. then there's two of them, nearly identical but notably different in your eyes.
you know for sure which one isn't you.
the altered memories jolt you awake to a bed drenched in sweat. you peel the covers from your clothes, your clothes from your skin.
the elixir is wearing off, isn't it?
how much more to drink until it will save you?
the lights blind you, impermissible in the dead of night. even the surroundings punish you for waking. but you can't go back to sleep, no matter how much you try.
yet another tally to the countless sleepless nights.
you swallow your trepidation over visiting the garden. a fatal mistake.
even in your waking hours, you see him. you see them both. in the roses, the hibiscus, the myosotis. they are there, waiting.
laughing.
their ghosts haunt you, ever always at the corners of your eyes, your periphery. they won't—don't—leave until you do, fleeing a place that was once sanctuary.
it's tainted, all of it.
the mirror in the bathroom is cold, mechanical. it reveals even that which you'd prefer to hide.
it's almost methodical, the way it picks you apart. the layers of your ages fall away until all you can see is a child. symbolically, metaphorically, and literally you.
the you you once were: smiling, happy, in love with life.
where has he been? why is he here?
can't you bring him back?
your reflection isn't you anymore. he stands there, holding something out. holding it out. myosotis.
forget-me-not.
it breaks you, the message and its conveyance. your arms can only support you for so long; your laboured breaths and heaving sobs ground you in seconds. the tears slip through your fingers despite your attempts to catch them.
you must forget you must forget you must forget—why can't you forget?
... me.
author's note
I didn't play Saeran's route because I don't believe the thing that would fix him is a relationship tbh. I don't know how the game actually unfolds anything, but that's beside the point. even before his route came out, I wanted to write this, as I was inspired by ningyosan's (a tumblr artist) artwork. the piece in particular I'm referencing is captioned with "Myosotis."
if any of you follow this account, you'll know that I haven't written anything in months. a lot of shit went down, and really, this fic is a vent piece for the anniversary of when my life officially started going to shit. waking up drenched in sweat in the middle of the night; alcoholism to try to forget; looking at myself in the mirror and not knowing who the hell I see; grieving for the person I once was and will never be again. I've had the objectively worst year of my entire life. I'm so worn out.
if this sounds manic and all over the place, good. I've been in mourning for so long. that's how my mourning feels.
