It starts when you hear it: a passing conversation, echoed through the night.
It's quiet, at first.
Then it grows.
It grows so loud that you have to leave your bedroom in search of it, and you end up outside, staring into the vast emptiness of the sky above you. It's calm, but dreadful; and you wonder if you belong there.
A deep breath, in, then out, as the noise heightens.
A whisper, a warning of sorts, but you don't hear it.
You wait out there for a while, with the hollow breeze scraping against your bare shoulders, and the absence of light clouding your vision. Dawn never comes. You're not sure you want it to.
It's getting late, something tells you.
Yet...
You stay, just a bit longer.
You retreat into your own mind for some time, in fact, imagining swimming amongst the fields of stars ahead.
The waves crash over you—you go under a few times, get swept by the tide and disappear into the oblivion of space.
...
. . .
But you're not scared.
You cannot be scared anymore. It's different now.
It's sort of peaceful, almost, even as you hear the roar of the water, and get ripped to shreds by the current. You're twisted and overturned, and the space in your lungs fills until it's not space anymore. It pulls on your limbs until it pulls them apart, and you think somewhere you're screaming but it's quiet still. You're silent, for as much as you wish to make a sound, the breath you used to know is taken away from you.
You die a violent death in the stars above—or so, you imagine you do.
For now, it's quiet.
And you're here. Not there.
You are standing on grass, not an ocean of faraway lights.
Therefore, you breathe it in, then breathe out.
You turn, your mind having come back to you completely. You know it's time, but you can't go—not yet.
Your heart sings of roads you've not yet traveled, of things you have yet to do, places and people you want to see.
Someone you still have in that fading mind of yours, that you know you'll miss if you let this take you.
You reach out for him, but you feel nothing. Your hand brushes emptiness.
You try to say something to him; whether it be a comfort for him or you, of that you're not sure. But so you try.
You try to imagine him with you.
And, just for a moment,
a shadow of something—of someone, takes your hand.
it's okay, he says, and through the wind you can almost hear his gentle voice. don't worry about us.
But what else is there to do? you want to ask him.
You want to ask him so many things, really. Tell him so many things.
But there's no time. And both of you know that.
In the darkness, you can almost see him smile, sad as it may be.
And this time, you know you hear him:
you can go.
You don't want to.
...i'll be okay.
Salty tears sting your eyes.
He brushes a shadowy hand against your cheek, pressing his phantom teeth to your lips.
i love you.
You try opening your mouth, but nothing comes out.
You can't say anything anymore,
and the sound of his voice disappears, fading from your grasp.
You know the stars surround you, though you are numb to the pain. They're starting to claim you, to try and swallow you whole, tear you limb from limb and strew your remains about, wherever that may be.
You can't tell if it's all just in your mind this time.
You want to scream, and cry, and run away from this and still nothing comes for you.
You're alone.
...
. . .
. . .
It's quiet.