This is what happens when I get over writer's block. I'm sorry if this doesn't make much sense, I tried.
I was a fool.
Blinded by love, swept up in the waves of emotion coursing through my veins, drowning me in an ocean of feelings.
What hope did I ever have of seeing clearly through this...blanket he had unknowingly thrown upon me?
The answer...I didn't.
Not that he knew about the way my heart fluttered whenever he looked at me, graced me with his wondering gaze.
Oh, did that boy wonder...
Every day he was stuck in his thoughts, locked in that wonderfully strange and complex mind of his. My own paled in comparison; stressful worries and sarcastic jokes, the corners and far edges dusty with spider webs draped across the walls, small insects scuttling around because my mind has never been very full.
But his was bursting to the seams with genius ideas and beautiful creativity. I doubt there was ever a moment he wasn't thinking. He was always coming up with strange ideas or weird plans.
He used to tell me some of them. Random comments spouting from between two gorgeous lips. They never made any sense when I first heard them, but I always found myself mulling over his words for hours...sometimes days or weeks.
There's one such occasion, a few choice phrases that have been bouncing around my head since he told me. Through the tears because I can't let go yet; his voice was there in my head...unfortunately not clear enough for me to pretend he's still here.
People are a lot like flowers, aren't they?
You have the brighter ones that catch everyone's attention instantly. The bigger petals, the brighter colour, the sweeter pollen. Catching other's eyes immediately.
Then there are the smaller, lesser known ones. The ones whose names are never remembered, who are ignored after a moments glance because they don't look as 'beautiful' as the others.
There are the ones in-between. A mix of both, a mix of everything; or something completely unique.
Tall-stems, small leaves. Pollen, no pollen. Big petals, small buds. Some have sharp thorns that protect them from those who want to hurt them.
Some grow in the ground for years, admired and cared for; until their leaves turn brown and crinkle, their petals droop and wilt, and it's time for them to be removed from the soil. Others are ripped from the ground before they're ready, their stems are cut short and they stop being flowers and become mulch or waste under someone's feet.
There's flowers who can't find the essence of life in them, the spirit that every flower needs to grow. They're the flowers whose petals are the palest, whose thorns are the sharpest. It's not always noticeable, but it's always there. They stop taking water from the ground, stop feeling the breeze rushing past them, the people brushing their soft petals. They ignore the insects scuttling over their leaves.
I remember staring at him, confused by his words, yet oddly enticed by the way he spoke them. He had paused, his eyes saddened by some hidden feeling he wasn't showing me, telling me.
Those are the saddest flowers, I think.
Not because they themselves are sad, but rather because many others don't notice until it's too late, until the flowers are limp and lifeless...
That should have been my clue. I should have realised what he meant. Instead I was blinded by awe, enraptured in his presence, his words.
Not that I would have believed myself, had I paid closer attention. It was impossible, implausible.
He spouted peculiar words and strange phrases, and his allegories were hardly ever understood the first time.
But he always seemed so happy...so bright and full of life, a smile always somewhere, peeking out the corners of his lips or shining through his eyes.
It just...It didn't make sense.
I was the 'depressed one'. I was the one who always wore black, who complained about people, places. Everyday things, everything.
I was the fool, the fail. The university dropout.
Yes, he complained, he whined, he moaned. He annoyed me a lot of the time because of it.
But his displeasure, his dislike never lasted long. By a few hours passing he was smiling again, his eyes bright, full of a spark...a flame of life that burned throughout him, only showing through his eyes as though they were windows; the only place to truly see inside him.
The only place I saw his true self shining through; real, raw...no barrier to hide behind.
Perhaps I should have told him while I had him...
Part of me, the part that's not busy mourning his absence with every breath I take, thinks that I didn't need to tell him; because he already knew.
I know he loved me...he had to.
I saw the smiles he gave, I noticed the small gestures he did; like make me a drink even though I hadn't asked, or buy me more cereal because he had eaten all of mine.
But then I wonder if I'm right, or just desperately hoping.
Logically, if he had really loved me, he wouldn't have left. He would have told me, and I would have told him; and we would be happy and he would be here right now. I would be holding him, hugging him, kissing him...not crying onto torn down, recycled trees at a way too late time in the morning, hurting and broken on the inside...and numb and blank on the outside.
Line break here!
Dan slowly put the book and pen down on his bed, sighing heavily as he wiped the silent tears from his face. He got up off of the bed, staggering to his closet in need of something warmer than the pyjama pants and shirt, Phil's shirt; he had been wearing ever since his heart had been shattered into a million sharp shards.
He didn't take any notice of the jumper as he put it on, or the small white square that was poking out of the pocket. The only thought about the clothing he spared was that it was black, like the world around him. He briefly admired how much it blended in, before the grief took over again.
He didn't notice the paper in his pocket until later that night, once the tears had dried, his tear ducts empty of moisture.
Puzzled, he pulled the small square out.
It was folded twice, a piece of notepad paper no bigger than A5. Dan opened it cautiously, unsure of what was inside.
Fresh tears spilled from his eyes, as he read, emotions he thought he had exhausted pushing through the film of numbness.
I'm a wilted flower. My stem has broken and my petals drooped. I have lost my essence, or perhaps I've just run out.
I've spent my life as a bud, not quite bloomed yet alive all the same. Hanging on by the roots imbedded deep in the soil, not because I could or because I felt anything but because I had to. I was ignored, for there were always brighter, happier flowers around me.
I blossomed the day I met you Dan.
You were the brightest, most beautiful flower I had ever seen, and continued to be so long after.
You loved me, and cared for me. You helped me grow and showed me the wonders, the beauty of the world. I learnt to see life as you do, through your eyes; and it was magical.
Unfortunately, sometimes love isn't enough. You can care for a flower as much as your heart will allow but if the flower is not meant to live, cannot find the life inside of them then the love does not work.
My love for you flowed strong, but it wasn't enough to keep me growing.
Please don't blame yourself; I never would have lived if it wasn't for you. At the time I didn't believe in love, didn't want it because I thought it was impossible for anyone to love me.
But you did...
And for that, I am eternally grateful.
(I've also noticed...that this docent technically have any dialogue, and I think this is the first one-shot I've written without dialogue...)