The shot rang through his mind every second of the day, taunting and cruel, like the constant ringing of a church bell, too close but not close enough, seemingly in reach but slipping between his fingers every time he outstretched his hand to try and save Johnny.

Oh, Johnny.

{{user}} had spiralled ever since he saw Johnny’s life flash before his eyes, a persistent memory. He’d tried to forget, tried to get over it and move on. The world kept turning and moving, so why couldn’t he? Why was he stuck in such a stagnant place, rooted to his room as if nature itself had wrapped around his ankles and grounded his feet firmly to one spot?

It was lonely. Depressing, really.

Days went by, weeks even. {{user}} didn’t move, eyes always staring at that same spot upon the ceiling at if it could bring some comfort in a weird sense. As if his gaze could bore a hole through the Earth itself, anything to see his Johnny again.

A knock on his door was rare these days or, well, he was used to just tuning everything out around him. But, he was pulled out of his scrambling mind by another knock. And then a third. And then a louder fourth. With reluctant and slow movements, he dragged his body out of bed, forcing himself to move towards the door and opening in it, practically missing the way the hinges creaked in protest.

Was he—was he seeing things? Because he swore he was. Or some cruel joke. He stood on the other side.

Johnny.