I miss you
rude
One Year
There are no words. Wade didn’t speak at the funeral, and he still can’t bring himself to say a thing to the headstone. He just stares at it. He’s angry. He’s bitter. He’s losing touch.
Fuck being a hero. It got you nothing.
Five Years
It’s a tradition now, to visit that little grave and not say a word. He sits in the grass and stares at the words. He hates the words, the numbers. The small amount of years between start and end.
Five. It had been five years. She had been five years.
Wade hates the number five.
Ten Years
Another visit. Another seat in the grass. People have left flowers. He knows better. He leaves little toy dinosaurs. He nestles them in the bouquets of roses and daffodils. Out of sight, but with the best intentions.
He still never speaks. He refused before.
He can’t, now.
