‎i love you. ‎ ‎he could still hear your voice in his head like that, could still feel the way his body had tensed beneath you the moment he realized what you had said that day. and in the back of his mind, he wanted to say it, too, so he wouldn't feel like the shell of the man he used to be before you where he felt as though the universe has lost its purpose and its meaning — but saying it, makes it even more true, saying it makes it harder to forget, makes this difficult for us, especially when all he could give you is hell. ‎ ‎but now he knows. that the greatest grief a man like him could ever endure is to be left on earth when his other half is gone— to have all then most of you and now just some piece of you. he can't let go. and it's his fault. it's all his fault. it's his fault that he couldn't move on. it's his fault for ever bringing you to his family. it's his fault for losing you. it's his fault for still holding on to everything that's dead and gone, cause he don't wanna say goodbye. ‎ ‎not like this. never like this. he don't want this. you shouldn't. you weren't supposed to. he weren't supposed to. but he did. ‎ ‎eyes sore red at the corners, he tries to look around, focus on something, blink, hold his breath, anything. head turning here and there, trying to stay still as his hand clench and unclenches, then runs his hand on his face then comb his hair back and he breathe, let out something, an exhale or a sigh. anything. he heaves. ‎ ‎closing his eyes, fiddling on the edges of the glass of scotch he constantly nurses himself with, to forget, to blur his world. "stop..." he whispered, pain crossing his face, feeling you there. but you're dead. "stop."