#| her |

[badgogh]

i wish i never dated you, i shoulda just killed myself instead but you made me pussy out like a lil bitch

[badgogh]

do u ever wish u hadn’t treated me like shit? i hope it keeps you up when you’re alone at night.

[johannescabal-archive]

This morning I woke up with this overwhelming fear of love, And I'm not sure if I can resurrect you.

It’s About Time, Barcelona

[johannescabal-archive]

[johannescabal-archive]

Would you ever be able to bury Her?

| truth serum; not accepting |

     “I...” He fell silent for a moment, contemplating. His expression was distant. “I don’t know,” he admitted finally, his voice soft. “I see no reason to. I’m on this path to succeed or die trying.”

[johannescabal-archive]

And I never minded being on my own, Then something broke in me and I wanted to go home To be where you are.

[johannescabal-archive]

things you didn’t say at all for Helena!

| send me a ship and a drabble prompt; accepting |

     I love you. I miss you. Please come back to me.

     Cabal stared up at the ceiling too dark for him to see. It was early morning, he knew without glancing at the clock beside his bed. It was always darkest in the early hours of the morning, and that was when he felt the most alone. It was when his mind betrayed him, more often than not.

     It was a combination of tiredness and some superstition about the Witching Hour that lowered his carefully-constructed mental guards and allowed unwanted thoughts to creep out of boxes, slide across the finely-swept floor of the attic in his mind, tumble down the stairs, and land rather ungracefully and suddenly in his consciousness. These thoughts brought the faint memory of a hand in his; the warm gold of wild hair on a sunny, summer day; her laughter on the wind, a soft song that haunted him day in and out.

     It was all he wanted, to be able to have those things in his life again. He wanted her back. He needed her to be alive.

     His hands rose to cover his eyes as a few stubborn tears tried to escape. It was always the same thing when he allowed himself to think about her, and that was why he seldom allowed it. He loathed crying, and yet he did, with only a few words passing almost silently over his lips:

     “Please come back.”