Disclaimer: I do not own anything. How sad.

Nothing to say for this except it is short, angsty, and horribly written. Enjoy!

I refused to take a ride. I wanted to walk, needed to walk, needed to be alone for a good while. It gave me more time to think, to get away from everyone and everything, even for a little while. I've gotten to treasure my time alone after that big ass meteor nearly squashed us, after I realized how truly screwed up my job was, and most importantly after I found out that you were never coming back to me.

Sometimes I don't come out of my apartment for days, calling in sick and just lying on what used to be our bed. I used to wake up and see your face or hear you taking a shower or making coffee. It's just mine now, and I wake up to a cold and empty bed in a silent apartment, with only a bottle and a pack of cigarettes to keep me company.

Sometimes I go on missions with Rude, just go and kick ass and act like I'm fine, like I'm the happy fucking idiot I was before you went and did something stupid. A lotta times I get drunk off my ass and pass out, hoping each time that I drank enough to never wake up. Just follow the clichéd designs of when one's lover passes on, one commits suicide and follows them to the Lifestream. But you said more than once to me that you hated clichés. You pull me back, don't you? Every damn time I get so fucking close, I'm physically alright in the end.

More than once during stays at the infirmary, nurses and doctors have told me I must have a guardian angel looking after me. I've been shot, bombed at, nearly drowned, broken Gaia knows how many bones, and yet I'm still alive and kicking. Couldn't you take a little break? Just once? I know what you'd say to me. You'd tell me you want me to live out my life and that I need to find someone new and find some happiness. But don't you get it?

I'm tired, yo. I'm so fucking tired. I'm tired of being boxed in this world that's bleak without you. I'm tired of you no longer laying beside me in bed when I wake up, I'm tired of this fucking happy mask that I just want to rip off so bad. I don't want some other bastard touching me when you've already claimed me; I want to wake up from this nightmare.

I just want to be with you. I only want to be with you.

You're a damn hypocrite, Zack. You said you disliked clichés, yet you committed one of the biggest ones, playing the tragic hero and sacrificing yourself for a friend, leaving me behind like some kind of fucking war widow. How could you do that to me? How the hell could you do that to me, you bastard?!

People talk, yanno. I can hear them whispering and murmuring about me when they think I can't hear their hushed voices. They talk about how much I smoke, and how gaunt I look, and how there's almost always a varying amount of alcohol on my breath. There are times I see the back of a tall guy with spiky black hair and I run after him, yelling your name, and once I get a look at his face I see he isn't you, and I hurry to find a hiding place so I can fall apart without eyes on me. Look what you've done to me.

I think I'm losing it, Zack. Everyday I feel a little more of my sanity slipping away. There are times out of the corner of my eye I see violet eyes or black hair. Sometimes I swear I can hear you laugh, or if I wake up in the middle of the night and am about to fall asleep again, I see you for a fleeting bittersweet moment.

I wonder if you were ever real at times. No one ever talks about you, so I wonder if maybe I made you up in my head. Maybe I just wanted someone to love me, not lust after me, but love me so much you became real in my head. Maybe all those times you held me, caressed my cheek, brushed my bangs away from my eyes so tenderly, touched me and came inside me, and the way you whispered words of affection and brushed your lips lovingly on my sweaty skin as we lay in our afterglow was just my mind tricking me. Damn, I became so soft around you and I was disgusted at that, but I couldn't help it. You were accepting. I remember the night I nervously told you that before I became a TURK I was a prostitute. You told me that it didn't matter, that no matter who I was, am, or will be, or how many years pass you will always love me. You were such a sap and a fool, and I was drawn to that for some reason. You just had that way about you. Once anyone came around you, they couldn't stay away, even if you weren't real.

But you were real, weren't you? I can see your Buster Sword stuck in the ground. I visit this place as much as I can, not caring if the effort to lay my eyes on the place you…left nearly rips my soul to pieces. I don't know what pisses me off more; watching that kid used to try to be you when you're clearly irreplaceable, or seeing something that was so precious to you rusting and unused in the ground. But you probably told Strife to take your place, you were a sap like that after all, and I'm not sure I could bear to take your sword and look after it.

I walk over to your giant sword and kneel before it, resting my forehead against the flat side, feeling the cold metal slowly wearing down from the elements, much like me. I miss you so much, Zack. And as much as I get mad, it's really mostly at myself. If only I had found you before those infantrymen did, you'd still be alive. You were way too young, Zack. You had so much left to live for. It's been five years since you died; nine since I last saw you. Whoever said that pain fades is a fucking liar, cuz it hurts more than ever.

I just want to be by your side again…