My (small) take on some of Vanessa's feelings post the final episode of season 2. Inspired by the song "Error" by Madeline Juno. I hope you enjoy the read and I'd be very thankful for feedback of any kind.
this kind of love
His name is on her lips when she finally falls asleep each night.
His name is on her lips when she wakes up every morning.
There are so many things she has never realised. Or let herself realise.
How much she needs him. How much she loves him.
Now, she lives with the void of him not being there, of him being somewhere else, if still alive he is.
She has forsaken things, things she does not need anymore, things of such worthlessness and she has forbidden herself certain others.
It tugs and tears at her.
On some days, it is glaring pain, on others dull sadness or simply the absence of a part of her heart, her being.
She feels like everyone must know it.
She thinks if she walked through the crowded streets now (which she does not do, not anymore), every person she met would instantly know and see it on her. See his absence as her wound, slowly driving herself out of her own body.
It is an error, truly, she thinks, to love like this when it is lost, the love, when there is nothing to make it become a part of her life again.
She lives in the moments she thinks she hears his voice, feels his hand against hers. Every other moment is existence, but not life.
She never wanted to know this kind of love. Surely, she never wanted to.
There is an error in this kind of love. Possibility, forever unlived.
Dreams are there, the thick, impenetrable sea of unconsciousness she has loved and loathed all her lifetime.
In dreams, a figure appears and it could have been another, a different man, someone else entirely. And she thinks it is, for a few almost relieving moments, that it is indeed someone else she sees there, another man, set out to make her a woman. A human being. One of the happy ones.
Then she looks closely inside her own dream, again and again, until she can see his features, clearly, bright in the light that has surrounded him in her every vision.
And then she sees it is him and her heart does the same over and over again.
A magnet, seeking its other half in the floorless, limitless ocean of distance she might never cross.
Only in her dreams, and when she wakes, it is ink, deep blue, wrapping its sticky fingers around her heart and clutching it, again and again, on its way into its own spiral. Its own suffocation.
She never wanted to know this kind of love.
And yet it is all she can feel.
She might never see herself able to explain it.
She can feel it so deeply, this kind of love.