A/N: Seriously, don't ask. I won't have an explanation. I have no idea what goes on in my head. I just write what comes out. This is what came out. You don't have to read it.
Disclaimer: If you think this needs a disclaimer, it means you've figured out who it's about. Hats off to you.
He had always had a hard time deciphering reality from illusion. After all, real was only as alive as you made it. Was it life, that tick-tock, tick-tock of your inner clock, reminding you that yes, this is allit—whatever it is, in the end, that caused so many people to look for it. He had always thought that it was nothing; going nowhere, running away from something that didn't exist. But how can you run when there's nothing to run from?
She was the opposite. She was the sun—it's brightness out-glowing all around them, the hopefulness of a child; the demeanor of someone who hasn't lived through this hell; because that's what hell really was. That's what he thought, anyway. Maybe he should start a religion or something: the act of believing that life was just hell, only no one knew it yet.
Why else would there be so much fucking pain? The pain was the only thing that you remembered, in the end—was it even really worth living?
You always hear people talk about seeing a "light" before they go, right? Maybe that wasn't heaven, or God, or something so fucking almighty that people believe it's worth the journey to get there. Maybe it's in reverse—maybe what your living now is the good side of just some ploy; because it wasn't even good, after all.
What other explanation is there, anyway? Didn't anyone get it? She was the "light," the source of brightness in a dull, revolving axis, circling, circling, circling—and maybe you can die of dizziness.
He didn't know what the end was. He didn't try to figure it out. He gave up believing a long time ago. The same time he stopped trying to figure out what was real. The same time he lost her. He had only ever had one reality—it wasn't worth trying to find another.
But sometimes, just for a second, he wished that he could turn it around. Reverse. Switch. Bam, boom, bang. Something big, something bright; he wished that this really was hell, the way he would've imagined it—because if it was hell, and if he really believed that it came first—that you had to go through hell to get to life, then maybe what he had with her was just a premonition. What was coming. Because life is supposed to be the opposite of hell, right? And if life was the opposite of hell, than all the things that had gone wrong—all the fucking pain—wouldn't be in life. It would just be her.
Just her. Light.