he shuts his eyes.

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He shuts his eyes and then he sees, because some things are just meant to embrace you in the dark. He feels warm against the blankets and sheets but still he shivers - a physical reaction to an emotional abstraction. He doesn't understand it, not really, doesn't get why he was pieced back together with all these unnecessary memories that eat at his subconscious. He doesn't get why he keeps seeing her through a blurry lens, half there and half gone like stained glass windows on rainy afternoons. He shifts and turns but still he sees and the outlines of her eyes look calmly back at him. He sees the gentle curves and lines of her silhouette moving closer, closer, and he doesn't know what to do because if he reaches out she will disappear and if he stays still she might just pass him by.

(In the end he did both those things and she did both those things, too. It's either a betrayal on both their parts or a fulfillment of an agreement, but he doesn't know which.)

He shuts his eyes and then he hears, because some things are meant to speak to you in the dark. It's phrases and words and sentences that collide in the space and rebound on the surfaces of his room. They're vague and unintelligible, like her, like him, like everything that has every happened to them both. He catches snippets of conversations his memories are forcing him to swallow, and he wants to spit them all out, even if he has to shove his fingers down his throat just so he'd throw it all up. They're both horrible and wonderful, things that hurt him the most because he loved them the most. Thereare silly conversations and serious conversations and silent conversations that speak even without words, that speak with soft kisses on his forehead and tender hands on his cheeks.

(They lied. Every word and touch, a lie. All lies.)

He shuts his eyes and then he feels, because some things demand to be felt in the dark. The longing begins from somewhere deep in his chest and crawls to the tips of his fingers; it makes his skin tingle and itch with the need to hold something, hold someone, someone alive and breathing and most of all, caring. The loneliness doesn't really begin from anywhere because it is always there, just hovering close by and waiting for the right time to slowly wrap around him and engulf him whole. It weighs down on him, heavily like layers upon layers of thick coats that suffocate him and trap him until his breath is a painful staggering of air he wishes can be cut off. Breathe, Drew, slowly and carefully; you are alive and every breath is precious. The bitterness starts from everywhere all at once, both inside him and outside him, like sparks that incinerate every good feeling he has stored in his bones, flickering and burning their way inside him and around him until all that is left are his ashes.

(He has long ago acknowledged that he was dead anyway, ashes ready to scatter with the wind and travel the world. Free. Finally free.)

He shuts his eyes and then he talks, because some things unsaid can only be given up to the dark. He mumbles curses first, then asks questions, then confess secrets, then cries apologies, then screams guttural sounds that say everything but mean nothing. It's always the same pattern, the same cycle of four painful words, of I really hate you - why did you leave - I still love you - I'm sorry for everything - Please please please please. He doesn't really know what he's begging for or who he's begging to but something in him needs to say it, needs to get it out there in the open with his vocal chords ripped raw.


He shuts his eyes and then he listens, because some things can only be understood in the dark. His breaths are heavy, labored like he has run for his life and staggered like he is on the brink of dying. A manic little chuckle escapes his lips, because he won another war with himself, and it is both a pathetic fight and a glorious win. His heart is pounding loudly against his chest and he presses a hand against it, feeling it drum against him like a victory march. His fingers tap back, lightly, carefully, reassuringly. All is well. He is exhausted though all he did was lie in bed, running and fighting and running and fighting his thoughts in bursts of energy that has drained him completely. He summons what little of it he has left to shift, pulling blankets and pillows towards him so they would caress his feverish skin and let him know that he's still here, alive. Not entirely unscathed, but alive, and that's all that matters. He'll tend to the wounds tomorrow like he always does, with variations of wide smiles and obnoxious jokes.

(Maybe Ezra will make him that egg thing he likes so much and Jasper will let him have some coffee from the cafe stocks. If he doesn't throw everything up again, that is.)

He shuts his eyes and then tries to sleeps, because this is the one and only thing he had ever wanted from the dark. And finally, finally, he gets what he wants.

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Author's Note:

If I haven't already said it before, i'll say it again: This won't be in chronological order. It's just random snippets of Drew's life that isn't in any order at all.

Short, but hopefully it gets the point across.

Let me know what you think, as always.

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