It's a repeat.
The day is nearly identical to yesterday, mundane events flowing after each other, one weed pulled after the other.
It's the same sun, unforgivingly beating down on his back as he walks on the dirt trail, dust sifting around him in the air as small rocks get stuck in his boots.
It takes the same amount of time it did last time to set foot on black, burning to the touch asphalt, meeting the same small building.
The gas station.
Wilbur creeps into the shadows, passing brick walls for a set of glass double doors that he passes through swiftly and silently before the bell chime disrupts the still silence.
But it's gone as soon as it's there, leaving the buzzing air conditioner and the smack of bubble gum to fill the quiteness. Wilbur doesn't spare a glance at his co-worker as a sharp pop comes from their direction. Blowing bubble gum and drinking Red Bull happen to be their hobbies, ones Wilbur doesn't really care to join them in.
He checks in, hesitating as he sees his name on a wrinkly, stained piece of paper. To think, once his name was on a declaration of independence. Now, it's on a dumb login sheet to count his hours.
Wilbur doesn't think about that for too long, he doesn't like to. Normally he's very good at stopping those thoughts from trickling into his brain, consuming his mind with memories of a life he once lived, a world he once knew...
People he once met.
Wilbur shakes his head and dismisses that familiar ache in his chest, dry hands tightening on the bathroom door for a hot second.
This is for the better.
He reminds himself, exhaling and opening thhe door, moving under a uncertain flickering panelled light to stand in front of a messy mirror, decorated with random fingerprints and dried water drops, and hopefully lotion or soap in one corner.
Wilbur grimaces at his reflection, hair poorly patted down in an attempt to make it look a little more tame and a little less tangled.
He knows he should shower more often, brush his hair frequently and do loads of laundry. He knows all about it.
But Wilbur also knows there's nobody miles from here that he would even care to listen to, let alone be presentable towards.
Wilbur doesn't let his mind trace back to dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and an obnoxious laugh mocking him for wearing a fancy shirt once. Or a pink haired baker kindly complimenting his new haircut one day.
He doesn't think about that at all, he shouldn't. Those were simplier times when he wasn't messing up. He's here in this gas station to afford a simple life once again.
One where he's just a nobody, sitting behind a cash register or laying head down on his bed, something his hard-ass landlord almost thought was him being dead. It was hilarious, honestly. Not dead, just pretending, Wilbur supposes.
He also supposes this is going to be a long day seeing as he can't keep a train of thought for too long without going back to the past.
Still, Wilbur begrudgingly chooses to chug along, even if today will be a bit rough.
He shuffles around, trying to clean this gas station bathroom as quickly as possible. He hates that he's stuck on bathroom duty this week, this place reeks, the obvious smell of weed and people who forget to flush. Gross. He deigns to crouch in the bathroom to wipe down some random stain on the sink, hoping his knees don't actually touch the ground. Even if he mopped this room he wouldn't want to.
It's a bit unfortunate he's basically the only employee to take care of this mess when it's their turn to. He hates it just as much as everyone else, but it seems they lack a little bit of responsibility compared to Wilbur.
He's much more than thankful when he's done enough to call the task complete, tossing his gloves in the bin and rinsing off anything that might have got on him.
To be fair, it may not be as bad as the- wait no, he can't say that, that's just a memory he shouldn't have.
But it's a difficult day and the pocket knife on the counter seals the deal, reminding him of days of war and the foul stench of dead bodies, lost soldiers. It certainly wasn't pleasant. Of course, losing them was too.
People probably didn't visit his grave because of his smell too. And because they had Ghostbur, that too Wilbur shrugs.
Shit he's terrible at forgetting that place.
Wilbur holds his breath, sneaking behind the counter and robotically nodding when his co-worker waves, leaving to sign off for the day.
They grab their can of Red Bull and their pocket knife, then they are off and Wilbur pays no mind to whatever they may do next while in this building.
He taps his fingers on the counter, searching for any distraction his mind would accept. No customers walk in, the phone on the wall doesn't ring, and everything does nothing.
There's something brewing in his stomach, travelling to the tip of his tongue. He always refuses to admit it might taste something like regret.
This gas station is what was best. Still is. He does not regret coming to Utah.
In fact, Wilbur's practically thriving in this state, no matter what anyone else might think or say. He knows it. He has to know Utah's better for him.
So yes, the best looks like leaning on a crowded counter waiting for anything to happen with a frown.
But of course, what does happen is Wilbur's elbow accidentally knocks a customized lighters, effectively tilting it over. Because it's only natural for him to fail, one lighter in specific catches his eye as he scrambles to pick them back up.
There's no crazy design to it, in fact it's rather simple in contrast to all the others. It's just a traditional lighter, but Wilbur's already being tugged towards a balcony late at night, something about him trespassing, and sharing a smoke with a president.
It looks just like the man's lighter, only there's blank white emptiness where the country's flag once was. Of course he branded his own lighter.
Wilbur's forced to snap out of it as a customer walks in, dressed in big bulky blue pants and a red, long jacket. What Wilbur notices most is the article of clothing hiding the majority of their brown dry hair.
It's a beanie, that's all it is. A blue beanie.
That is all it's supposed to be.
But of course a lot of things in this world aren't what they're meant to be.
Wilbur's eyes linger a little longer, then quickly dart away to stare pointedly at the wall like a warning will appear. Something along the lines of 'Stop thinking about that place', a nice and short 'Forget' would be in order too.
No message magically appears though and Wilbur's ridiculous mind takes it as an opportunity.
He desperately shouldn't be thinking about any of it at all, but he is. And doing so twist his insides unforgivingly into knots, conflicting emotions crawling towards the front of his head and daring him to do something about it. He can't anyway, not even if he wants to.
Wilbur can't go back and say goodbye. He waited, he tried, but it didn't happen. So he turned away and left for Utah.
And yes, Wilbur doesn't have a second thought about it. There was no need to wait longer and frankly, there was no need to look back as he walked away.
He doesn't regret leaving without saying goodbye to everyone he wanted to. It was simply a want, not a need, not a burninng desire of his.
Wilbur likes it here.
Even if he's just barely paying rent and living off of food that lacks proper nutrition and will probably cause some health issues down the line, he doesn't really mind.
It's not like he misses the lasting feeling of being full and energetic after a plate of cooked beef. He is fine not supplying himself with that type of energy anymore. Working at a gas station doesn't call for such.
Wilbur also has no problem in those moments his heart nearly stops when somebody with the right shade of blonde hair walks in, leaving him with a gunshot wound in his chest- metaphorically of course. Still after all this time, the wave of panic and desperation never seems to fade whenever that happens. But Wilbur doesn't care that much about the pain.
Because it's not even there. Duh. Obviously.
Life doesn't bite him with disappointment because Wilbur never expects anyone he once knew to walk through that door. He never experiences the fall of his heart when it turns out to be a random person with similar hair or a similar face. One hundred-percent the honest to gods truth.
No lying here, Wilbur doesn't think about that kid at all.
Nor the way it's like a punch in the gut when Wilbur realizes he's not a kid anymore, no matter what he may be doing right now-
That's bad, honestly, Wilbur has to really draw a line and stop himself from wondering what anybody is doing and how they are.
They aren't here, they're fine. They're better without him just as he is here, without all of them.
Who is here, though, is the red jacket guy holding a bag of beef jerky, a Monster, and Funyuns.
So Wilbur pulls himself together as much as he possibly can, barely above water as he clears his throat and straightens his posture.
With an acknowledging nod Wilbur takes each three items and scans them, biting his lip to keep himself in the real world, not the one where he clings onto the what-ifs and what used to be, eager to lose any contentment he's built-up for Utah.
He tells the man the price and asks if he'd like a bag.
The man carries the items in his hands.
Wilbur carries the little strength he has left to finish this day without another thought of that place.
The clock ticks on, time passes, and Wilbur slumps down the streets towards his apartment, impatiently waiting to flop on his bed and pass out like a dead man.
He doesn't note how he once was a dead man, literally. He never wonders if anyone would believe that he spent thirteen years stuck hopelessly in a train station while a friendly ghost took his place, then switched thanks to his revival and rejoined the living.
It's suffering from oversimplification but any further details bring more unreliable nonsense and unnecessary memories.
Ones Wilbur stuffs down into the depths of his mind, assuring himself he won't think about any of it again.
He glances across the street before crossing, safety and all.
When Wilbur's soon locking his door he sighs deeply, the stale air of his place wafting about as he mutters at himself for being so incredibly distracted today.
He's in damn Utah, nowhere else.
He doesn't want to be anywhere else either, he's glad to be here, holding up by himself in this messy apartment.
Wilbur even appreciates how the fan he accidentally left on has blown all his papers over his desk and carpet.
He bends down to pick them after fixing the positioning of the fan, stacking them unceremoniously on the wooden surface. Doing a double take he spots another still on the ground, under his desk.
It's crumpled up, most likely not important but just in case he folds it open, realizing the mistake in doing so a little late.
It's dumb, honestly, ridiculous even. But something about this stupid letter sucks the air out of him.
He should've thrown this paper in the dump.
It's his letter to Tommy, one he needingly wrote in a rush, as if he could get it to him. He wrote it at least two months ago, back when he wasn't as smart enough to realize it's better to move on entirely. That's why he moved after all.
Still, the words tighten his throat and close in on his chest, he feels crushed.
Wilbur feels like an idiot.
Because no matter how much he tries to tell himself Utah's the greatest solution his heart still sinks knowing Tommy will never stand by him again, he won't hear his laugh and he won't even read a single letter.
Maybe it does hurt, maybe it feels like the start of limbo all over again.
It's like a perfectly designed life jacket- but instead it's a tight chain around his neck that keeps him afloat the waves. But it's too tight, it's choking him and he knows either way he dies. Both from a loss of air in his lungs. Kinda humorous.
The idea of attempting to go back is even more laughable though. Maybe Wilbur loves a tough swim, who knows. He just knows Utah is the right choice.
Wilbur doesn't regret leaving. Never will.
It's for the best.
Wilbur reminds himself.