tw for: death ; pregnancy ; child death ; depression.
it’s the little things he misses most.
running his fingers through her hair. she always kept it long in spite of their jobs, wrist carrying two hair ties in case she needed the added hold or if one broke. she’d had it that length since they were teenagers, never desiring more than a trim simply because she loved it as is. he’d teased her once about it, ear pressed to the bump of her belly as he listened and talked to the little life inside of her, asked if she’d even have the energy for it. she’d snorted at him, “ of course. ”
( the picture picked out for the service helped only minutely to bleach the image of melted hair from his mind. )
how her nose tended to wriggle a little before a sneeze. she was allergic to dust, mildly so, but an allergen was still an allergen. that being said, she was stubborn to the core and refused to wear a mask when dusting. he hated dusting himself but compromise of it being his chore was eventually the only way to save her from sneezing herself into oblivion.
( the building was covered in dust, it’s not a wonder he found her tissue packet mostly empty. )
gardenias. she held a fascination for them and for the way they smelled. whenever an argument broke out between them and resulted in a fight, he’d buy either the flower itself or something that had them on it or smelled of them. she’d loved them so much that he’d come up with the idea of holding off their wedding a few extra months just so they could involve them in the wedding. the look on her face when she’d seen those white petals scattered over their honeymoon bed at the cabin had been priceless.
( death and smoke, melting, burning. they combined with her scent, so cloying it felt thick inside of his nostrils. he got sick when izzy ordered a wreath of them for the funeral. )
the way she hated his duster and loved his pullover sweatshirts, said he wasn’t some vampire from the eighties, that the pullovers fit him better. he’d disagreed, of course, but he wore the pullovers anyway if only for her sake. he knew she really loved wearing them and had since they lost their virginities to each other – he’d never seen someone so soft and angelic in all his life than when his too large shirt engulfed her smaller form. it was a habit that persisted and he pretended like he didn’t know why he got at least one pullover from her each year on a birthday or christmas. as long as she loved them.
( the sweatshirt was a soft blue, the color contrasting the setting entirely. in spite of it being two sizes too big, he could still see it molding over the faint bump of her belly. )
when they’d stay up all night chatting to each other. sometimes it was about nothing at all and just the random thoughts they’d had during the day or in that moment. others, it was one or the other of them admitting their fears of the future, how they were going to raise a family, how they wanted to eventually leave the criminal life so they could live in peace the way they’d always deserved. it was mostly him and his fears, him crumbling into pieces, and she was his champion, picking them all back up and putting them together into a beautiful mosaic.
( the voice he heard after was a ghost, an echo of the past. voice memos, voicemail messages, videos. all of them from another time and place, some place happier. )
he misses her. his best friend, his lover, his wife. he misses their baby, the little life that was lost with her and along with them both, his final shred of hope for ever having any form of happiness or a bright future. he’s gotten angry and punched holes in various surfaces until his knuckles are colored red and blue and purple, he’s prayed to gods he doesn’t believe in, he’s cried and wailed and screamed himself hoarse, anything to get the universe to give them back to him. but at the end of the day, he’s stuck with static memories of her from times and places he doubts ever truly happened.
like a true masochist, however, he delves back into them anyway, fingers dialing the number for his house phone, letting it ring and ring and ring. shuyen won’t mind, he never does. he drops the phone down on the bed beside him when the voicemail flips over, body lying limp on his bed, eyes stinging with unshed tears as their voices echoes through out his room.
“ hi! you’ve reached aeyoung, hanbin, and bean sprout! we can’t come to the phone right now but leave your message after the tone and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. maybe. hush you! goodbye! ”
It isn’t the big tragedies that break a man – it’s the small ones.
Each insignificant disappointment, each little fight, each minor inconvenience: they tear him apart until he’s nothing but what tore him apart in the first place.
…That kind of man isn’t capable of protecting anyone.
He can only destroy them. (Excerpt from “Fornever”) | m.a.w (via dvoyd)
It’s when you hold eye contact that second too long or maybe the way you laugh. It sets off a flash and our memories take a picture of who we are at that point when we first know “this is love”.
And we clutch that picture to our hearts because we expect each other to always be the people in the picture. But people change. People aren’t pictures. And you can either take a new picture or throw the old one away.
The First Time We Met, Ian S. Thomas (via emilywantshappiness-blog)
to the lost boys and girls who never found their peter pan ; who chose getting into trouble to put a band-aid over their hemorrhaging hearts ; who traded morals for ambiguity all for a better life ; who found hope and lost it again in a millisecond ; who took polaroids to remember the good times ; who made breakfasts to bring in good vibes for the day ; who second guessed themselves always ; who believed in safety in numbers ; who couldn’t decide if they hate their parents or themselves more ; to the people bound by choice and not blood with their heads up high and their middle fingers higher – this one is for you.
tangentwithtanner
kianamaiart
yousharknotpass
ellievsbear
andulkaphoto
germansingergirl
