“i just miss you" + bellarke
They say history is written by the winners.
And it’s true, in a way.
Here is what they omit to add, here is how the saying doesn’t go: history is written by broken, sad people with shadows under their eyes and in their minds. History is built on the bones of the ones they lost, too young and too innocent to die for a war they never asked, a battle they never wanted. History is written from the ash of burned tree and houses, from the ink of tattoos on a man’s back, the tears running down a woman’s face.
History is written with the strength of Bellamy’s arms and the fire of Clarke’s gaze. It is written in the ‘I believe in you’ whispered before a battle, the ‘I just miss you’ branded with lips against skin. I miss you, the real you, with sun-kissed air and a soft jacket, with a band around your wrist. I miss you, the old you, with the cocky smirk and cocking hips, with the speeches that could (did) rise an army.
I miss us when we were young, and innocent, when our backs didn’t arch with the weight of a dead mountain and the kind of guilt nobody should ever feel.
Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she can see Wells’ smile, Monroe’s air shining in the firelight, Monty and Jasper whispering secrets to each other, Miller scratching his head beneath his beanie. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes, she smells the barbecue by the dropship, feels the soft breeze on her neck, tastes her first sip of water. Sometimes, only sometimes, when the nightmares are weak and the night is kind, she allows herself to remember.
History is written by the winners, they say.
They never tell you the cost.
