It's dark all around you and your eyes sting so, so badly with the tears that cannot spill, but the dull glow of the chat log over your eyes keeps everything from being too completely black. Your face is numb with cold and no hot tears race down to burn them, for which you're not sure if you are relieved or frustrated. Your throat is raw and scratchy from your tearless weeping, and it burns and rasps whenever you breathe. You don't know what you expected to happen when you kissed him, but jack-fucking-squat sure wasn't it.
Past the green and red letters of your last conversation, you know that there is red-stained snow resting there tauntingly, and you focus hard on the words, willing yourself to forget what— who— lies before you.
You go back to earlier today, when the two of you were running in the snow. It would crunch rhythmically under your feet, and he'd beatbox and formulate some ridiculous rap about frogs and ice and broken swords to match the beat of your staccato footsteps. You caught so many frogs that you lost count, and he'd always make some lewd joke about witches and frogs and cauldrons, making you snort despite yourself.
You remember the snowball fight where a future him from later that day somehow came in to help you defeat himself and the snow angels, which he insisted look more like horribly deformed snow-starfish.
At one point, you had to force him to wear your fluffy, blue jacket because he started shivering so violently, it was almost comical. He looked so ridiculous with the frilly coat and furry earmuffs, and even while you incessantly poked fun at him and called him an adorable little dork, he took all of it with the smallest hint of a dorky grin. When you pointed it out, he claimed that he had no idea what you were alluding to because he was a cool kid and he didn't do dorky. But the smile didn't fade and you just grinned, rolling your eyes as you skipped ahead.
The memory brings a rueful smile you your lips, and you push yourself off the ground, shakily stumbling up to lean against a tree. Your hands and dress are probably stained with a sickening crimson, but you keep your eyes clamped shut, not wanting to look, not wanting to have your suspicions confirmed. You wipe at your still dry cheeks with hands that are clean and brush the snow off your otherwise unblemished dress. You shut off your headband computer and carefully open your eyes.
Everything is black.
Good.
You take a deep breath and start heading back to your house. You don't turn on any lights and you don't go to sleep. You take out your gun, even though you can't see shit outside, and go shooting amidst the snow.
You take blind shots at anything and everything and you don't stop until it is light again and you can see the blood that is staining your dress and caking your hands and you almost throw up at the sight. The gun drops to the ground, fallen from limp arms, and you feel your eyes stinging once more. Searing tears run down your cheeks— oh god, tears because you're crying. You're crying the tears that wouldn't come earlier, and you fall to your knees, the cold snow a welcome contrast to the feverish heat burning through your veins. You decide that you're glad the tears hadn't come earlier because now, it feels so much better to let go of every little, fucking thing you've bottled up. You're not sure how long you knelt there, but when you clambered up, your knees were numb and shaky and your red hands were wet with salty tears.
When you stood by yourself at the funeral you had by yourself, you spent a good hour staring at the unassuming white flowers you scattered over the dirt, quietly recalling the adventurers the two of you had had together. At one point, you thought you heard a crunch of snow and saw a brief flash of dark red, and you thought it was him. The notion only made the gnawing emptiness in your stomach worse and you absconded shortly after that.
When you had to go back to the frog cloning process, it was a lot quieter and time consuming by yourself. But keeping busy distracted you well enough.
When a frog escaped and you chased after it, only to find it too conveniently stuck under a pile of snow to be accidental, you might have thought of him. But then you berated yourself for thinking such silly things.
And when you finally found out he was alive, you might have cried tears of joy.