This piece is a companion to my other story, Backwards Boy. There is no particular order to them, and there is no continuity between them, but I would still, of course, appreciate it if you read that one as well as this.
He is sleeping.
Yes, he is sleeping. You know this. You know this. It doesn't matter that he's cold (because he was always cold, right?) and it doesn't matter that his eyes are open (because some people can sleep that way, right?) and it doesn't matter that there is a hole in his chest because he is sleeping, sleeping.
And you recall a small fact about life, from before (before what? before what?), that couples in love would get matching rings, and you think that this is that, only instead of twin jewels you both have holes punched out from your chests, and even though you can't see it you know that it has to be there, even if it's not bleeding, even if there's no tearing or bruising there is pain and so you know that there is a wound ripped in your chest because there is no other reason as to why it hurts.
None at all.
None, no, no reason why, because there is nothing wrong, nothing wrong, none, none, none, none, none-no-no-
And-
And-
He is not sleeping.
He is not sleeping.
And that is when you begin to break.
Because you were once water, but he seized your heart and froze it. And though it made you harder and stronger, it also made you too easy to shatter. (Which is what is happening now because he is dead-he is dead- he is dead-)
(And you don't know what to do.)
"Juvia, come on. He's dead. There's no use to it anymore. Let's go home."
(You want to tell them that you know that he's dead. And you want to tell them that you know there's no use to it. And you want to tell them that your home is where your heart is, and your heart is clenched in his hand, and that you can't go home because your home is right here.)
Instead, you nod and cry and find yourself back in the dark room that belongs to you.
And it is warm.
And dark.
And silent.
And in that silence, you hear a familiar thump-thump, in your chest.
And you listen.
Because in this world, there are the big things and the little things. And the big things are things like the sky and hope and love. But the little things are things like the fallen feathers of the birds, and the first beams of light from the sunrise, and the sidewalks in your heart.
And most people refer to these sidewalks as veins. But true lovers know their real identities, and they know the names of the people who reside in those streets.
And their story goes like this:
When you are born, you walk alone in your heart. That is your heartbeat. Gradually, the echoes of other people gain residence, making your heart grow larger and grow louder. And when you fall in love, your beloved begins to walk with you, gradually learning the paces of your soul and the cracks as well. And when your beloved starts to love you back, you leave your heart in their hands and begin to live in theirs.
You keep each other alive.
And these sidewalks are the reason why, when someone you love dies, a bit of you dies too. But they are also the reason why they still live on in your heart, and that's the reason why you have to live for them, too, even when they're gone.
And you know this. You've known it for a while.
So you listen to the gentle thump-thump, and you wonder just how much of you died with him.
Before you know it, the first tear has traced down your cheek.
You liken the tears to the rain, which is gentle at first, but then rolls in with such a force that the windows are shaking and so are you, and the sky seems both too dark and too bright at the same time, and everything hurts and everything is wrong, and maybe crying isn't very much like raining after all but it doesn't matter because the rain is all you have ever known at so maybe it will lessen if you pretend and if you remember the one thing that's familiar anymore. But it doesn't. But it doesn't and your screams fill the air, and your fingernails draw little moons of blood from your arms, but you don't care and you don't feel the pain because everything is wrong.
Everything is wrong.
Maybe you could have saved him. Maybe you should have let yourself be killed instead. Maybe, just maybe, you would have been happy. But this world is too full of could haves and should haves and would haves and people often forget the you dids and the you weres. You did nothing as he died. You were weak and pathetic. No. You are weak and pathetic.
(The truth.)
And so you fall asleep like that. And you are asleep, but he was not.
He was, and is, dead.
(Except for the soft thump-thump of his footsteps in your heart.)
And his feet are not careful ones.
Continually they hurt you, stepping on rifts in the concrete and kicking around pebbles. You recall the saying 'Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back', but you think that it needs to be amended a bit because stepping on the sidewalk's cracks will break anyone. And, surely but not slowly, you begin to come apart.
"Juvia, why didn't you come to the funeral?"
(You tell them that it's because you didn't think that you could handle it. Because you didn't want to flood the cemetery. Because you needed to grieve alone.)
The truth is that, on the day of the funeral, his ghost blocked your door. Shouted at you to stay. Pulled you back when you tried to go. Eventually, you shut the curtains and curled underneath your bed, shivering, listening as his spirit stroked your hair and whispered sweet words into your ear.
"Juvia, what was that noise from your room?"
(You tell them that you dropped a plate. That you slipped in the bath. That you were startled by an insect.)
But really, you had tried to get rid of him. Told him that he was dead. Attempted to rid him from your heart. Though he had screamed and tried to stop you, you took a crystal bowl from the shelf and threw it to the ground, and found the largest piece. You held it above your heart, to silence him once and for all, when his voice murmured:
If you die, the last of me dies too. And it will be your fault again.
And so you can't do it.
And does that make you more weak? More pathetic? Or does it make you braver, to refuse to kill him again? What does it make you now? Who are you now?
Your fingers twitch around the glass and it slips to the ground, to shatter further. And when you watch the splinters spinning through the air, reflecting the light, he whispers to you, You did the good thing. You did the right thing. You're wonderful. I love you. I love you.
I love you.
"Juvia, are you all right?"
No. No you are not. Nothing is right, especially not you. You are so, so wrong. And so is he. Because, because you know that it can't be him. It can't really be his voice. Because his voice would never have told you that he loved you, because he never loved you, he never would, never. But your treacherous heart keeps echoing with his footsteps, each little thump-thump accompanied with a constant, sweet I love you. I love you. Thump-thump. I love you. Thump-thump. I love you.
I love you. Love you. Love you. You. You. You-
(You smile and assure them that you are all right. The lies come so easy now. And even though every part of you might be breaking, at least your mask will always stay intact.)
He tells you one night, we should leave.
And you agree. You can't stay here anymore.
You ask him where you should go, and he answers, anywhere. Everywhere. As long as we'll be together.
Together?
Always together. You and I. Until death.
And we'll die together this time, you remind him.
Of course.
And for the first time in a while, you allow yourself to smile.
Together.
Forever.
Thump-thump.