Dear George,
When I walked into my house for the first time in a week, it felt empty.
I was only there to grab new clothes and a couple of other things, then go back to Ranboo's. I stood in the middle of the living room, looked around, and felt this unexplainable feeling tugging at my chest.
There was no one in the apartment except for Ranboo, but it felt so hollow. It didn't feel like my home, it was missing you.
The weird thing is that you have never stepped a foot in my home. We never facetimed each other in my home, and yet your memories bled everywhere and seeped through the cracks I desperately tried to mend.
My own home feels foreign, and I'm starting to think that you were more of a home than mine ever was. I found comfort in you, I found ounces of security that made me feel so warm inside.
I miss my home. I miss you.
I entered my bedroom, taking in how everything was the same way I left it. The book I was in the middle of still sat on my table, even open to the page. My eyes drifted across everything, realizing that the last time I was here, I was so much happier.
I closed the door behind me, then sat on the ground, back leaned against the wall. I closed my eyes, and I could feel a tear stinging behind my eyelids because this all felt too familiar.
It was scary how familiar it felt. I still remember sitting in your empty hospital room, knees hugged against my chest while the world felt like it was breaking. I was convinced that the world had ended.
I thought I was just reminiscing my time alive, trying to gather my composure just so I could move on, but that wasn't it. Surprisingly, that wasn't the worst part of being in that room.
The worst part was when all of the realizations crashed into me. A part of me knew it, a part of me had already known that you were gone when the doctor came into the room with a solemn look. I remember how I was lying to myself, trying to cover up every pessimistic thought of how you were no longer here.
I don't even know why I'm writing, or why I'm still writing. I want to tell someone everything, I want them to know how much I'm hurting, I want to meet someone who's hurting in the exact same way, but I can't.
There is no club or organization called the 'my boyfriend died while we had an argument,' because that's pretty sad. Maybe the members of the club would choose a better name, something more sunshine-y and bright, but that isn't what I want.
I want someone to know how bad it is. I want someone to understand my feelings. I don't want someone who looks at me with a sad expression, or someone who constantly tells me that everything's going to be okay.
I miss you, George. I miss you so, so much.
I miss how you'd get excited when you talked on and one. I miss how you'd blush and look away when you thought you talked to much, even though you knew that I never minded. I miss how you'd sometimes talk to me when you thought I was asleep.
"I love you so much, Dream."
You had said once. You probably thought I had fallen asleep, but I was half-awake. I felt your hand tighten around mine, but not in a hurting way. Your hands felt cool to touch, and I marveled at how they perfectly fits in mine.
"You'll never know how much you mean to me."
Your voice was hushed to a whisper, and it sounded sweet and full of affection. I wanted to kiss you and tell you how much I loved you, but I was too tired. I could feel myself drifting to sleep, parts of my mind already clouded over.
I remember making a note in my mind to tell you everything I wanted to tell you in the morning, but I don't remember if I did.
I wish I knew.
I wish I could go back in time and wake myself up. To tell me that I shouldn't wait for the next morning to tell you what you deserved to know.
I should have told you that I loved you so much. I should have held your hand and never let go.
I should have done so many things.
I was looking through my phone yesterday, scavenging for an ounce of something that would remind me of you.
I wanted everything: every little photo, every little text. I didn't want to delete it, I did quite the opposite.
I held on.
It saddened me that there weren't a lot of photos and videos of us.
We were so engrossed in each other's presence that it never occurred that we should record each moment.
There's only one video of us on my phone.
It's only about five seconds long, but I've rewatched it too many times to count.
I forgot what we were talking about at this exact time, but we were both laughing.
You were sitting cross-legged on the bed while I sat on the chair across from you.
Only you are in the frame, but the camera is shaking so badly that I can only see glimpses of your shy grin.
I didn't cry because of the video, I cried because I realized that the video was the only thing I had of us left.
Everything else was history. Now, we would be part of the past. There won't be a "tomorrow" to look forward to, there won't even be a "later" for us.
I'm still trying to hold on to everything you left for me, what I left for myself.
I'm still wondering why you only left me two words on a blank paper. I'm not upset, I'm just confused. I want to know what you mean, what you wanted me to think when I found it. Because I still don't understand what the words, "I'm sorry" mean.
I wonder if it's just a simple apology. For what? I don't know, and I don't think I ever will.
I'm sorry.
Love,
Dream
—————
Dream sleeps too much and too little at the same time.
Most of the time, he's in bed. Wallowing in an overwhelming amount of sadness, everything but self-pity, or so he says. He doesn't sleep at all. He probably only gets two hours of sleep every night, and that's not exactly helping him get better.
He never leaves his room, occasionally getting out to use the bathroom and take a shower. Most of his time moving is spent on opening the curtains when the sun rises, and shutting them when the darkness seeps in and the stars begin to poke out from the night.
Seeing something George loved so much hurts. It makes Dream sting all over when he pulls apart the curtains just a little bit to steal a glimpse at the night sky.
George's words echo in his mind. Each smile, each kiss stolen between every statement, each detailed explanation of why the planets and stars work that way. They haunt Dream's mind, tease him until it's too much to let go, but too little to hold on to.
Dream doesn't know which one he wants anymore.
He knows it's not healthy for him to be staying in his best friend's guest room. Some may call it pathetic, and if Dream had his life together, he would be the first to laugh at someone who cried in their best friend's guest room every day.
But he's not alright. He's not okay. He's not any of the things people refer to as a "healthy lifestyle," Dream is far from it. He has already accepted the fact that his life was no longer the same. It just took longer to finally accept the fact that George was gone.
There's a subtle knock on the door, and a part of Dream saddens him to know that Ranboo wasn't going to give up.
"Dream?" his friend calls, knocking again. "Hey- um, can I come in?"
Dream hesitates for about ten seconds before he sits up in his bed and calls back to Ranboo. "Yeah, you can come in."
The door clicks open, and Ranboo's frame stands tall by the doorway. He has a surprised expression written on his face, but he looks happy to know that Dream at least let him in this time.
"You know I don't lock the doors, right?" Dream asks, hugging his knees to his chest.
He feels small and weak sitting on the bed while Ranboo stands, slightly leaning against the wall.
"I just wanted to know if it was okay to come in," Ranboo says. "There's something I want to talk about," he clears his throat.
"Yeah?"
Ranboo's obviously hesitant. Dream sees it in the way he starts fumbling with his hands, how his glance darts from Dream's face to the floor.
"Before you say no or anything, I want you to get the full story."
Dream nods slowly, eyes narrowing a bit. He feels as if it's unfair to immediately disagree with whatever Ranboo's building up to, but he doesn't like that Ranboo had already assumed that he wouldn't be on board.
"Okay," Ranboo sighs. "So George's mother reached out to you."
Dream flinches slightly, feeling a slight pierce to his already broken heart.
It should've gone better over time, but it still hurts so much. Hearing George's name spoken out loud triggers an emotion Dream can't quite lay a finger on. He knows that feeling should've already dissolved into a pile of nothing else but neutrality, but it only seems to get stronger over time.
"She invited you to his funeral service," Ranboo finally says. "It's going to be held a day after tomorrow."
"When?" Dream whispers, but Ranboo can hear him just fine. "When did she reach out to me?"
"She invited you exactly a week ago, two days after... yeah," Ranboo trills, obviously not done with his speech. "She's been texting you every single day, asking if you're okay, what you're doing, or if you would want to see his room one last time before they pack everything up."
"What did you tell her?" Dream replies softly. He tries to think about Mrs. Davidson and how she's been looking after Dream, even after George's death. He tries to think about how even she's never given up on contacting him, even after he never replied.
"I told her the truth."
"Thank you."
Ranboo doesn't say anything, but he offers his friend a reassuring smile.
Dream sucks in a deep breath, "I think I'm going to go."
"Really?"
Dream looks up at Ranboo, nodding. "It's the only thing George would've wanted."
Ranboo doesn't say anything, obviously thinking of what he could say.
Instead, he walks forward and hugs Dream, squeezing him so tight that reality sinks into Dream's world. Dream doesn't want to accept it, but there's not really another option he can choose. Life is the one thing everyone has in common. Everyone is given the gift of life, but it's up to them how they want to handle it.
Some push through life by merely surviving. Others choose to live. They find ways to feel alive. They find love, friendships, and anything that makes survival feel more like a hobby than a burden.
This was Dream's life, and he had lost what made the aspect of life worth living. George was dead, and Dream was going to give up.
This was now Dream's life.
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mind over matter (reprise)
Two days later, Dream is standing inside a large room with tall ceilings. The memorial service is packed full of people. They're all dressed in black clothes, speaking quietly. There's a particular swarm of people gathering in a corner of the room, and when Dream looks at why they're there, he sees the reason.
They're all surrounding Molly and her mother.
Dream sees a flicker of Molly's stuffed jellyfish toy, the sequins on the purple cloth shimmering under the too-bright lights. The crowd parts slightly as someone steps away and get something to drink at the concession table pushed to the side of the room, letting Dream fully study the look on Molly's face.
She's not talking to anyone, but it's obvious that people are talking to her. There are some people, mostly women, that were slightly hunched over and giving hopeful smiles at her, urging her to say something other than a simple nod.
Dream wants to cry.
Molly is looking at the marbled floor, looking tense and a bit fearful. Dream understands that feeling. He knows what it's like to be surrounded by so many people, but that ache of loneliness is still there. Hundreds of people could be by your side, giving you whatever you could possibly want, but there will always be something missing.
For Dream, that something missing would always be George.
Molly's gaze goes from the ground to making eye contact with the blonde, and it's obvious how her face lights up.
"Dream!" she calls out, immediately dashing away from the somber crowd and towards Dream. She still has the jellyfish in one hand, and a kid-size umbrella in the other.
Dream looks to the side and at Ranboo. "Is it okay if you leave for a little? It won't be long, it's just that I want to talk to Molly without having for her to adjust to another introduction," he says, voice almost sounding guilty. He hates having to tell his friend to go away when the mere purpose of Ranboo's presence is for Dream.
"Yeah, I'm totally fine with it," Ranboo replies. His smile is genuine, tone unbothered. "Will you be okay?"
"Yes," Dream says, but they both know that he's lying.
"Okay," Ranboo sighs. "I'll wait in the car, call me if you need anything."
With that, Ranboo silently parts from Dream's side and makes his way out of the room. Molly's still making a direct beeline to Dream, neatly done hair brushing past her shoulders as she slowly runs over.
He could feel everyone that was trying to talk to Molly look over to Dream. He saw it in the way they stood up properly, shooting confused looks at the blonde, then leaning to each other before whispering the question Dream knew was coming:"Who is that?"
Molly trails all the way from the other side of the room to beside the blonde, and Dream is relieved but startled by how similar she looks to her brother.
He's never seen it before, and he remembers specifically telling George that they didn't look at all alike. Molly had no freckles, George did. George had obvious dimples, Molly didn't.
She said something to Dream, her tone happier than she looked two minutes ago. Dream didn't listen, though. He was too focused on how alike she was to George. They talked the same way, both looking away occasionally and breaking eye contact. George had always played with something in his hands if he was nervous, now Molly was playing with the hot pink handle of the umbrella.
"Dream?" Molly asks, face going blank after realizing that the blonde wasn't listening. "Are you okay?"
The blonde flinches, nodding hesitantly. "Y-yeah, I'm alright," he says. "What were you saying?"
Molly opens her mouth to speak but is interrupted by her mother, who had found her way to them.
"Dream," Mrs. Davidson smiles. "You made it."
Her smile is warm and welcoming, and Dream can see her slightly crack from her usual sheet of composure. He can see how broken she looks, the missing spark in her eyes telling a story that could never be told by the simple words of the English language. Her face is moist with tears, and Dream wonders if he looks the exact same way.
"Hi," the blonde replies. "Um- yeah, I made it. And sorry about not replying to your messages... everything else."
Instead of giving him a bitter look as he thought she would, she just embraces him in a hug. Her perfume is floral, too floral, but Dream doesn't judge it like he judges other people for wearing strong perfume. He closes his eyes and hugs her back because it means too much.
"Don't apologize, Dream," Mrs. Davidson says, trying her best to smile. "You can't be sorry for something that's not worth an apology. He would've wanted you here anyway, we all do."
Dream feels a tear roll down his face, and he's not sure if it's from sadness or joy. It all feels bittersweet. It's the respect Dream would've wanted from his boyfriend's mother, and now he had it. But he has always had it, it wasn't like she was his mortal enemy. They were always on good terms, but it felt like he had achieved something.
He had found someone who shared the pain of losing George.
"You know, I think being around people who really knew George helps," Mrs. Davidson finally says, pulling out a clean tissue from her pocket and handing it to Dream. "I think before this, I invalidated myself for feeling so much and so little at the same time. When really, we've all been going through that same feeling."
"Really?"
Mrs. Davidson smiles a genuine yet bittersweet smile. "I hope that same feeling goes for you as well. I know that it's different for everyone, especially you. But we all have these ways that make us connect with parts of ourselves, and I know that everyone in this room are all trying their hardest."
Dream lets out a small laugh, and for once, it doesn't feel fake and superficial. It's a sad and almost empty laugh, but he finds himself not forcing it to become something more big and beautiful than it really is.
He just lets it be.
"I'm so proud of you, Dream," Mrs. Davidson says, wiping a tear away from her own face. "And I know he would be too."
"He would, wouldn't he?"
Dream misses George more than ever. He wants to feel the happiest moments that he had with him. It didn't even have to be the best, it could be the worst of moments, and Dream would still be thankful. Even the worst moments with George would make Dream ache for more, it would still make him fall for the brunette more.
Now that was the end. This was the end.
There would no longer be any more falling for George over time, it'd just be a stop.
That's the thing about falling in love with someone. It always ends, even when you feel as if the love is never-ending. Some are lucky to die before that affection and connection dries out. The lucky ones always happen to be the ones most in love, the ones that know that "they do they part" is a quite accurate description.
No one can find the exact time you fall in love with someone. It's a process. Falling in love is a staircase, you put one foot in front of the other, and before you know it, you're there. Being in love isn't always the same for everyone. There are different destinations, are steep staircases, even winding ones that curl up into each other to form an almost endless loop.
So when the words come out of Mrs. Davidson's mouth about how George would be proud that Dream was here, he doesn't doubt it at all, because he knows it's true.
"I have to go," Mrs. Davidson says as someone who had just entered the room had called out for her. "I'll have to catch you later." She gives him a quick hug before waving and finding the person who was looking for her.
Dream feels the stares from everyone else in the room, but he can't bring himself to care. He couldn't possibly care about the people in this room when the one person he wanted to be here was the cause of this reunion.
Slowly, people started approaching him. It started out with one person, an older looking lady dressed in an elegant dress and a kind smile. She introduced herself as a family friend, then stopped, as if waiting for Dream to tell his life story and how it ended with him being here.
Dream doesn't. Instead, he just nods and fakes a smile, something he has been accustomed to recently.
After her, many people swarmed around Dream. They all did the same thing. They left a couple words of sorrow before walking off to bother someone else. They had the same empathetic look, eyes wide with hurt and a smile that said, "I'm so sorry."
Dream hated every second of it.
People that he had never seen in his entire life thought that they could help him feel better. How did that even work in the first place?
"I'm so sorry about him."
"He was such a sweet boy, he'd want you to be happy. Happier than this."
"Are you okay? I know how much it hurts to lose somebody- especially someone as special as he was."
It all felt stupid and pointless. They would never know how special George was to Dream, even when they could pretend that they knew. They wouldn't know the hour long talks Dream and George shared, the endless memories that were supposed to last a lifetime, but didn't.
It hurt even more to know that they wouldn't to say George's name out loud. It was as if they thought Dream was so fragile-- much too fragile to hear the name of his loved one, who he'd lost.
But maybe he was.
Maybe he was going to break every time something reminded him of George. A part of him had died alongside the brunette, but that wasn't the end of it. It was far from the end. Each piece of his heart would slowly shatter as he heard George's name, a part would always sting every time something reminded Dream of him.
It took only one more person to approach him before he decided that he'd had enough with this superficial empathy. He pushed past the rest of the crowd, was was rude, seeing as they were only trying to help, but in this case, perfectly reasonable.
Swinging open the two glass double doors, he stormed out into the subtle rain and sat down in frustration on the staircase leading up to the second entrance.
It was still raining, not too heavy that Dream was cold and shivering, but not too light for people to come out looking for him.
That would be the last thing he would've wanted. For someone to walk out and see Drema, dirty blonde hair drenched with rainwater and tears welling up in his eyes.
Dream sits there for some time, staring off into the beads of pouring rain, wondering why George had to leave him behind, wondering why they couldn't have gotten their happily ever after they deserved so badly.
Because not only was George the beginning of Dream's story, but he was also supposed to be the happy ending. But the story ended too quickly, cut off in the most awkward of parts, stripping them the conclusion they so badly needed.
The blone's body trembles, but he's not sure if it's because of the chillness of the rain, or if it's because he's incapable of not crying.
"Dream?" a sudden voice calls out. "Is that you?"
The blonde lets out a soft, defeated sigh. Someone had already found him. He looks up and to the mysterious voice, and he's surprised at what he sees.
The voice belongs to a male about the same age as Dream, maybe even a little older. He's holing a large black umbrella in one hand, a crumpled piece of paper in the other. He's pretty tall, dark hair falling past his eyes with a sad expression written all over his face.
Dream clears his throat before saying something. "Yeah, that's me."
The other nods without moving forward. He's a bit far away, the rain blurring him a little, but Dream knows that he's there. He knows that he's not just a hallucination.
"Dream," he says, his grasp on the umbrella handle tightening. "I'm Wilbur."
Dream visibly flinches, every part of his body freezing up.
Wilbur. George's friend.
The name stings Dream, easily referring to the one person who he deeply cared about.
Dream turns to look at Wilbur, and he has to admit, but it hurts. It feels like going into the ocean after getting a papercut you weren't at all aware about. That shocking sting that pains that pricks at your skin and makes you want to get out of the water and sit on the shore. But you swim deeper into the ocean, anyway.
After all, it's just a paper cut.
Wilbur finally moves and comes closer to Dream. He sits beside the blonde on the stairs, slightly moving the umbrella to the side so it also shielded him from the rain.
"It's raining pretty hard," Wilbur says, not knowing what else to chip into the conversation.
"Yeah." Dream looks up to the grey sky, laughing at how absurd this all was.
"He told me a lot about you, Dream," Wilbur puts in, avoiding the curious look the blonde was giving him. "He told me enough that I could write essays about you. He told me that you made him happy. So happy that you were practically the one to teach him what happiness was."
The blonde can't help but smile. "He made me really happy too." His heart aches as he thinks about George, and how he probably called Wilbur just to tell him how happy he made him.
He thinks of all of the good times they had. He thinks of George. He tries not to think of him, but he can't help it. All he can think of is George.
"He said many things about you," Wilbur continues, returning his gaze off into the distance.
"Yeah?" Dream asks, holding back a sob that almost escaped. He trusts Wilbur, but he doesn't want him to witness him break down like this. "Like what?" Dream adds, face flaming up in shame as he realized that he's become so out of it that he's asking questions like these.
In the end, he wasn't the only one who lost George.
"He said that you made him feel important," Wilbur smiles. "He said that you made him feel loved." He pauses, then turns to look at Dream, who was wiping away a falling tear. "Did you?" she asks gently.
"You mean like," Dream pauses. "Did I love him?"
Wilbur nods, eyes going wide with curiosity and regret.
"Yes," Dream says with confidence. He looks away as he lets the words escape. "I loved him more than I loved anything." He hesitates, "I still do."
There's a stillness to the air as the rain continues to hit the ground, never letting the silence remain as just silence.
"He loved you too," Wilbur smiles. "He told me that he loved you more than he loved his favorite movie, he loved you more than his favorite brand of toothpaste, he loved you more than his favorites of his every day things. You know why?"
Dream shakes his head.
"He said that because he thought that one day, you guys would make it to an every day. I don't know if that makes sense to you, because it didn't make sense to me at the start, either," Wilbur chuckles. "But it did, after a while. He said that because he wanted you to be part of his daily routine. He thought you'd be the face he'd wake up to every morning, the person he'd fall asleep to every night."
Dream stutters to find the right words, but it's not possible.
"He knew, didn't he?" Dream says suddenly, his voice still.
"What?"
"He knew that he would die, right?"
The extra beat before Wilbur speaks is enough clarification for Dream to know the truth.
"Yes," Wilbur swallows. "He knew."
"Did you know?"
Dream's heart shatters a little as Wilbur hesitantly nods.
"I thought he told you, or warned you. I didn't know until he wrote me a letter, telling me about how much he had messed up from holding back so much information."
"He didn't tell me because he didn't care enough," Dream blurts out, and he regrets it as soon as the hurt look on Wilbur's face deepens.
"You can't possibly think that," Wilbur whispers. Dream doesn't say anything, but Wilbur steps in. "You're kidding me, right? You think he didn't care for you? He cared all for you. All of the letters he left behind were for you, Dream. He spent his last moments thinking about you, thinking about how he could possibly apologize and make it up to you with the time he had left. And you think he didn't care enough about you?"
"George is gone, Wilbur. He was disappearing and I didn't even know. No matter how many times I apologize, no matter how many time I try to fix things, he'll still be gone. There will be no force strong enough to bring him back. Nothing, Wilbur. Absolutely nothing."
"You know why putting down a pet is so hard?" Wilbur asks out of the blue.
"Because you're losing a loyal companion?"
"Because you know what's going to happen. You celebrate your pets last day together, do their favorite things, treat them like royalty because you know that it's never going to happen again. After that, you lose them. And you know every single detail. You know what's going to happen, you know that you'd be a little more alone than you were before," Wilbur explains. "That's what hurts the most."
Dream understands what Wilbur's saying, but it still doesn't completely make sense.
"He didn't have to protect me, I never told him to. I wasn't supposed to allow him to do that. I should've told him that I wasn't leaving, that I'll ever leave. I should've sent him texts every day, should've pushed him so much until he knew he had to tell me. But I didn't."
"If he told you, what you guys found would already be lost. none of u guys would've wanted that."
This angers Dream a little. Wilbur knew nothing about what had happened. He didn't know that George had wanted a break, he didn't know that the last words George had left for Dream to find was, "I'm sorry." Wilbur knew nothing.
"I know everything, Dream."
The blonde looks at him, obvious confusion clouding his face. "What do you mean?"
"I know about the break, about the letters. I know everything."
"What?"
"I know you think I'm wrong, but I have a stack of letters addressed to you from George that could prove you otherwise."
A wave of relief and shock washes over Dream. "But he only left me one thing," he says quietly, fishing out the folded piece of paper he had hid in his pocket. He unfolded it, smoothening the creases. "Look, it's the only thing I have left of him."
"No, Dream," Wilbur smiles. "He left you everything. All of the letters, they were shoved in a cabinet because the desk didn't have space. They were all to you."
"Me?"
Wilbur nods, and he can't help but laugh as he studies the surprised expression written all over Dream. "He cared for you, so much."
They sit in silence for a bit, but it's not awkward and tense. It feels peaceful, and Wilbur seems to be the right person to be with at this time of moment.
"Is that-" Dream gestures to the paper in Wilbur's hand. "Is that also his letter?"
Wilbur slowly shakes his head. "No, that's supposed to be my speech for today."
"Are you going to read it to everyone?"
The other man looks to the ground, looks to the puddles gathering by the stairs. "I want to, but I don't think I can. I don't think I'll ever have the courage to read this speech at my best friend's funeral." He laughs, "I've always thought of myself as the strong one, the one in the room who never cries, but I don't think that's possible."
"Will you read it for me?" Dream asks, and he's surprised at his own words. "You don't have to read it in a room full of people, but you can read it to me."
"Are you sure?" Wilbur hesitates, looking at the paper in his hands nonetheless. He sees Dream nod, and he sighs. "I'm going to read it, then."
"Go ahead," Dream smiles encouragingly. "Take all the time you need.
Wilbur sucks in a breath before beginning. "We all knew George Davidson. Some knew him as a friend, a sister, a son. To me, he was my best friend, a loyal companion, someone to call for when you've fallen off a tree and don't know who to get. That's my definition of him," he pauses, using one hand and wiping away a tear. "He was the one constant in my life, the person who would never change no matter how much the world around him differed.
And today is all about George, about the memories he shared with us. Today is for all of the times George made me laugh, all of the times I smiled, and I'll keep smiling, at the thought of him. Today, we celebrate George. We celebrate all of those times where he made us think to ourselves, "Man, are we lucky." We cherish and hold onto those moments where he made us feel lucky to know him.
We cry for you. Our hearts will ache in ways that are indescribable, but you can't cry for something you don't remember. We cry because we know who you are, who you'd always be. Today, we celebrate George and only George."
Dream is so lost in Wilbur's words that he doesn't snap back into reality until he hears the crinkle of paper.
"The speech is really short," Wilbur says sheepishly.
"It's absolutely beautiful."
Wilbur smiles, putting his face in his hands until Dream begins to hear steady sobs coming from him.
"It's okay to cry, you know," Dream says. Wilbur doesn't respond, he just keeps crying into his hands. "Are you okay?" the blonde asks gently.
"No," is all Wilbur responds.
"Me too."
The rain keeps getting heavier, but the two don't move at all.
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5847 words