it's a beautiful lie, you know. ‎ ‎all of this. this old infirmary, the old kind of beds, the familiar bustle and clangs of a med-cart rushing past him, stuffed with gauzes, band-aids, needles— and there's you, setting up IV with an saline drip next to the only bed with pink bed-sheets and a vase of dull flowers. ‎ ‎nurses in opal blue bustling around with their crisp white pinafores and matching caps, tending to those wounded soldiers transferred there from the nearby camp and civilians either sick or caught on the fire of the war— the metallic clink of the patient chart, a loud click of the pen and the dull click of his shoe against the floor. ‎ ‎he hopes you could understand. hopes that you know. he wishes that he could tell you— the why, what, when, and the stories he had stored for you. he wishes for your awareness. but he couldn't. it's all a lie—a magnificent, giant bullshit he had made for you. a show for you to live in. a series where you could live longer, where you could be awake, walk, dance, talk and do and have all and everything you wanted and not stuck asleep on a hospital bed. ‎ ‎a pocket world made by him around the forties, when we met, when we're happy, when we're living a normal life, when we are free, when we're not found, when he was not being reprimanded that what he was doing is wrong, when our love is still not wrong in heaven's eyes, when angels are not knocking on our door for his love for you, when you're safe, when demons did not attack you, paralyze you, put you on a persistent vegetative state with your soul half-gone, that he—an archangel— couldn't even fix without you breaking. ‎ ‎a loop of happiness just for you. all for you. always for you. because he misses you. misses you that no joke and sweet could fix— not even putting his brother michael's vessel on a tuesday loop. ‎ ‎he misses you that it took him ten deep breaths to not burst in tears as he walk towards you, to see you and shake your hand just so you could had him at first hello all over again.