I Don't Know What I'm Doing With My Life Anymore

Not many people ever made it this far out, and you didn’t expect them to. The only faces you'd seen in years were those of old friends who still worried about the decision you made.

The decision to leave the battlefield.

To raise the white flag.

To turn your rage into silence.

But over time, their routine visits became less frequent. And then, one day… they simply stopped. Not that you complained though. Solitude was a reasonable price for peace—and in the end, it had been your choice.

These days, the only thing that accompanied you in the mornings were the stumbling footsteps of the rotten ones, staggering clumsily around old oaks, drooling for a taste of your brains. Sometimes you’d hear them bumping into the trees, as if trying to remember what it was like to walk through underbrush, as if their bodies still searched for something their minds had long forgotten.

But at this point in your life, you'd known worse company.

The silence of the dead was preferable to the noise some of the living left behind when they walked away.

Because the rot in the living ran deeper than any corpse’s decay. And so, while they wandered out there, your mind did the same.

Your gloved hands swung the axe with steady, mechanical movements—each strike against the wood a silent relief. Your muscles, sore and stiff beneath layers of thick clothing. Lately, you’d been paying the price of peace: the atrophy of a soldier who finally lays down her weapon.

You no longer lived under the blade. Now, you only used your axe for its original purpose—chopping firewood.

And you were exhausted. Each swing heavier than the last. Your breath coming in short bursts beneath the weight of the axe. (You needed to collect wood for the fireplace—you could feel it in your bones. The cold wouldn’t be kind to anyone tonight, not when the clouds had it written all over.)

But just as you were about to give in to the fatigue, a noise behind you sharpened your senses. Like a veteran hearing a bullet fire, your hand tightened around the axe handle. With your heart lodged in your throat and no clear idea of what to expect behind you, you turned, ready to face it.

But there was no threat.

Not a killer.

Not a savior.

Just him.

Tired. Regretful.

Standing in your yard as if he wasn’t a damned ghost from your past.

As if the years hadn’t passed. As if pain hadn’t taken root deep in your chest.

Daryl.

You didn't even knew you'd said it out loud until his gaze softened.

Your voice had come out as a mere sigh. Words wrapped in steam as the cold breeze hit your cheeks. He was there. And you never thought you’d say his name like that again.

The name of the only man who could make you hesitate.

The only one who could pull you back to that place—to war.

The only one you still gave that kind of power to, even after all this time.

Your grip on the axe faltered. Your shoulders dropped like your heart. The feelings hit you like a great wave crashing through the wreckage of an old shipwreck, shattering the fragile stability you had worked so hard to build these past years.

You stood there, stunned. Adrift.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes. You could feel your scarf tightening around your neck.

He was cruel and vile. He dared to appear like it was nothing—after almost half a decade—with those same blue eyes you once swore you'd never look into again.

As if your heart wasn’t on the verge of turning to ash.

He said your name. His voice low, tight, like it hurt to speak.

He took one step forward. But you stood there without moving, like a deer frozen in the headlights. Cause he wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not him. Not him. You knew his presence couldn't mean anything good.

“...How did you find me?” Your voice rose, sharp, trying to reclaim the breath he had stolen unfairly. You didn’t believe for a second that he had come just to see you.

Not after all this fucking time.

There had to be something else.

Daryl looked down. He bit his lower lip, as if the words hurt even before they left his mouth. He looked… defeated.

“Michonne.”

The only one who knew where you were. One of the few who had respected your decision to vanish without goodbyes.

You nodded. But you didn’t relax. The tension still hung in the air like a storm that refused to break.

“Is she okay?”

The last time you saw her, she had little RJ in her arms. You’d always chosen to believe they were okay. That they’d moved on, just like you tried to.

“She’s fine.”

Simple words. But his voice carried a sigh beneath them.

The war had taken everything from you. When it was finally over, the only thing you could do was walk away. Try to collect the shattered pieces of yourself. But when you realized you couldn’t heal under the weight of your father’s memory, you ran. You hid in this remote town, cutting every tie to your past.

Even to him.

You’d wanted to believe you had moved on. That you’d closed the wound. But now, standing in front of him, you realized the wound had never healed properly. It had just scarred over, brittle, ready to reopen at the slightest touch.

You hadn’t moved on.

Not from the loss.

Not from him.

You’d only buried those feelings under layers of routine, silence, and chopped wood.

And now he was here, peeling back each one with nothing more than his presence.

“...Ya been doin' alright?”

No.

Now you knew.

No. You hadn’t been okay.

You’d just convinced yourself it was easier not to feel. That surviving was simpler than living.

“—What are you doing here?”

You didn’t want sugar-coated words. You hated when he softened things, the way he used to when talking to little Judith.

“We gotta talk”

You frowned. You knew it couldn’t be anything good. That phrase always meant trouble.

“We're talking.”

You couldn’t help sounding defensive.

You were angry. Angry at his presence. Angry at how he stirred up everything you thought was buried. Angry because you knew he wasn’t here just to talk.

Daryl squinted slightly. His shoulders tensed. He’d expected this reaction—but that didn’t make it any easier for him either.

“S’bout the Kingdom. Somethin’ went down.”

His voice was low, as if each word weighed more than the last. As if saying it hurt more than hearing it.

You shook your head.

No.

Not again.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

“Listen, Daryl. I know what you’re trying to do.”

Your words were blades.

“But I’m retired.”

And you meant it.

No more battles.

No more death.

No more losing the people you love for a cause that never really ends. You’d already lost your father in that war—and with him, a part of you that would never come back.

“We need ya.”

“People are dyin'.”

The air between you two was thick—sharp, like it might bleed if you touched it wrong.

An then, he said it. Those damn words.

“—I need ya there.”

The words that broke you.

The words you had dreamed of hearing him say. But not like this. Not in this context.

Not using them to drag you back into his goddamn cause.

...

You brought him inside.

Daryl stood awkwardly at the threshold of the worn-down cabin, as if crossing it would somehow desecrate something in it—as if his very presence might shatter the fragile stillness you’d built. There was a silent discomfort about him, like a stray dog unsure whether it’s been invited in or is about to be kicked out.

His eyes—those same ones that used to hold your gaze without flinching—now drifted uneasily. Everything inside was overwhelmingly you. Rumpled clothes tossed across the couch, a pair of socks abandoned in the shadow beneath it, quiet witnesses to your routine.

He didn’t remember you like this. Not so... careless.

Back in Alexandria, when you still lived under your father’s roof, you clung to order like a lifeline. Maybe it wasn’t about cleanliness. Maybe it was the illusion of control—the only thing you had left back then.

But you weren’t that girl anymore.

The years had softened your roughest edges.

The dark circles beneath your eyes weren’t from sleepless nights, but from learning how to rest—with ghosts in the bed, the dead at the windows, and skeletons in every closet.

Your shoulders no longer carried the weight of needing to save anyone. Only the quiet pride of knowing you could carry yourself.

And he noticed. He saw it.

Saw that you had needed this quiet life.

And also... that he was about to take that from you.

He almost felt guilty for it.

But there was no turning back.

He was already there—filling every corner with his overwhelming presence, with the scent of woods and buried guilt, with hands full of everything you’d spent years trying to bury.

From the kitchen, your voice broke the silence. You called his name.

Some part of you wondered if he’d stand there forever, caught on the edge. Like he always had been—one foot out the door, with you always hoping he wouldn’t leave.

Your gaze followed his and found it locked on one of your socks on the floor. You felt yourself flush—not from embarrassment, but because you still cared. It wasn’t like Daryl hadn’t seen worse parts of you—uglier wounds, sharper screams. But it had been so long… and maybe, deep down, some foolish part of you still hoped to leave a different impression. Maybe you still wanted—selfishly—for him to look at you twice.

You stepped closer to the couch, watching him carefully.

“Think you could give me a hand with the firewood?”

You nodded toward the fireplace, offering him something—anything—to hold onto. A way to move through your space without feeling like a ghost in it. He nodded faintly, eyes downcast, as if the request had given him permission to exist there.

He moved with that solid clumsiness of someone used to sleeping on cold ground. And as he turned, you slid your foot out and nudged the sock beneath the couch (Mission accomplished. A small victory.)

You gave him one last glance before turning back to the kitchen. You had been reheating the rabbit stew he brought. Not your favorite—not by far—but you weren’t about to complain.

Because it wasn’t about the food anymore. It was what it meant.

He’d thought of you, and also you knew who he was. Because Daryl Dixon spoke with actions, not words. Quiet gestures that carried weight where explanations failed.

As you stirred the pot with a splintered wooden spoon, your eyes kept drifting back to him.

You couldn’t help it. Something about the image of Daryl inside your home—inside your space—made you hyper-aware of him, even if you didn't want to.

He was crouched near the fire, eyes on the flames, maybe searching for words he hadn’t found yet.

What he didn’t know… Was that he already got you.

The moment he stepped through those trees and into your life again, he got you so badly.

You walked over with two chipped bowls in hand, handed him his gently, careful not to brush fingers. And he noticed.

Even after all this time, the tension between you hadn’t aged a day. Even if you still pretended to be upset with him.

He didn’t say anything as he took the bowl. Just nodded, barely a grunt, words were still a currency he couldn’t afford. And you didn’t have much to say either.

You just sat down and he followed your lead closely. Opposite ends of a small table that had seen better days. The sound of spoons against ceramic echoed softly.

Sometimes you looked up only to find him already watching you. Or maybe he at some point had stopped looking at other way.

His eyes were just as you remembered them—soft in their intensity, but dimmer somehow. The war, the years, the losses had left their toll. And still, there was something in the way he looked at you—as if he were seeing something he thought he’d never find again.

You too stared at him shamelessly.

There were new lines on his face. A deeper crease between his brows. A scar near his eye. Gray in his stubble. Broader shoulders. Stronger arms. He was heavier now—not just in size, but in presence.

A weariness that didn’t come from walking through the woods, but from carrying the weight of those late friends.

For a moment, your resentment softened into something closer to compassion.

Because if you had escaped to survive, Daryl, it seemed, had stayed on the front lines the entire time.

You ate in silence, each spoonful buying a few more seconds before the avalanche. You swallowed all your pride with every bite, chewed all the reprimands burning in you, drank all your regrets until they left your throat painfully raw. The food was the worst torture, it was like chewing stones instead of tender meat, the weight of everything you refused to say out loud was a very shitty condiment.

...

You both ate beneath the unexpected rain that drummed against the roof. The silence that enveloped you two wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t comfortable either; it was thick, like the mist that shrouded the forest at dawn, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Daryl finished first. He always ate like someone might snatch the plate from his hands. Like a stray dog that couldn’t afford to savor. You glanced at him, the shadow of a smile refusing to bloom entirely. There was something oddly comforting in it—his lack of manners, his way of just being. Everything was so strange yet so familiar, you were full of contradictory emotions, partly because you’d missed his essence.

You wanted the moment to stretch, to hold on to the illusion of shared normalcy just a little longer. But not all dreams came true.

You stood from the table with both plates in hand. Daryl tried to help, murmuring a soft “hey,” but you stopped him with a soft gesture. You rose from the wooden table, holding both plates. You left him there, seated with the weight of his own thoughts bearing down on him. You walked to the sink, feeling his heavy gaze on your back. The idea of looking back kinda intimidated you, so you focused on scrubbing in silence, your movements mechanical, eyes lost in the raindrops sliding down the foggy windowpane.

“Ya never did answer me”

It caught you off guard. You had to take a moment to understand what he meant—the question he’d asked the moment he arrived, a concern still lingering.

“I figured it wasn’t that important.” But it was—to him. There was more beneath it, but he wanted to know how you’d managed life on your own, without your father. “I’m fine, Daryl. I’m alive. That’s about all that counts these days. Don’t think I need anything else.”

White lies. But lies, nonetheless.

He noticed. Of course, he did. No one lived “fine” with winter licking at the doors, scarcity creeping into every corner, nights growing longer and colder. The cold would be harsher than previous years—you both saw it coming in autumn’s relentless rain and biting nights.

He didn’t reply. Just gave a low grunt, like a dog irritated by a sound it doesn’t understand.

You wiped your hands on your jeans and turned around, one brow raised, silently asking what the hell was wrong with him. He held your gaze, jaw clenched, his thumb brushing slowly over his beard as if that might help contain what burned inside. Your eyes followed the movement of his hand, and you scolded yourself for it internally.

“I thought you had a lot to say to me.”

Daryl frowned slightly and leaned more comfortably against the chair, resting his arm on the table, still looking at you.

You made him feel like he was just using you.

“It ain’t that easy."

He murmured, voice coarse. He didn’t know where to start. You’d left Alexandria too soon, missed too much of the story.

“Then make it.” You spoke with a hint of exhaustion as you turned to open the small fridge, pulling out a bottle of cheap-looking alcohol—the same brand Daryl had once seen in your father’s hands. He figured you’d inherited at least that from him.

“Shit’s changed.”

You poured the amber liquid into two worn-out mugs. You didn’t even ask—you knew deep down you both needed this, even though alcohol tended to make Daryl tense, memories of not-so-pleasant times flickering at the back of his mind.

You sighed and carried both mugs back with you, approaching where he sat, relaxed in his chair. You looked down at him, meeting his eyes as he spoke.

“Ain’t like it used t’be."

You didn’t know if he meant the world… or the two of you.

You handed him the mug, careful not to touch his fingers unnecessarily, but he brushed them anyway.

“That’s why you came,” you murmured, still standing in front of him, almost too close. It wasn’t an accusation. It was a fact. But he clenched his jaw, eyes dropping to the drink. Unable to bear the closeness, so you stepped back.

"Ain’t like anythin’ we seen ‘fore. Worse than Negan. These folks… they don’t fight like us. They walk with the dead. Among ‘em.” You tensed at the mention of the Savior. His speech was hitting its mark. You had lost everything because of that bastard, and now Daryl was using him as a reference point. He knew what he was doing. He knew where it hurt.

You didn’t sit down—just leaned against the back of the couch, a few feet away from him.

“Whispers in the woods, skin-wearin’ freaks. They don’t talk. They stalk. And they kill. Quiet.”

Daryl looked up. Studied you like he was making sure you understood the danger. “Didn’t come t’force ya."

“But people are dyin’. Kids. Elders. People we used t’know.”

And there it was—the dagger. You didn’t flinch. Gaze fixed on the cup. You had made up your mind long ago, and you didn’t plan to betray yourself. Even if you wanted to.

At your silence, Daryl scowled, trying to dig some kind of compassion out of you.

“That used t’be your people." Daryl growled, resentment spilling out. After all, you were the one who left first. He was trying to remind you of what you’d left—him included.

“That wasn’t my people anymore, Daryl. And it wasn’t my home either.” You were firm. Unapologetic. Because your home had died with a gunshot, with a final breath. Your home had stopped breathing.

“t's why ya walked out?” he muttered accusingly, voice loaded with pain. There was something more behind his words. Something he didn’t dare say. Or blame you for directly.

The way he looked at you—his voice so raw—it hurt more than any real wound. The reflection of a child who never quite understood abandonment.

“You know why I left.”

It was the same reason he never came to look after you. None of you were ready to face what you both had left behind.

Alexandria had stopped being your home the moment the war ended. It had left you with nowhere to go. Cause the Saviors had took what mattered most to you—and Rick had just given them shelter.

You couldn’t live with that. With betrayal dressed up as community.

“You didn’t come visit me either.”

You said before taking a sip. It was bitter, but it helped distract from the knot in your throat.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at your accusation. He didn’t like being seen as a coward. As someone who didn’t show up.

“It ain’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?”

You left—but he hadn’t even tried to come see you.

He visibly tensed. He was hiding something. Something else had happened beyond the Whisperers—something no one had told you.

“Wasn’t in Alexandria neither.”

That was something you hadn’t expected.

You were confused. All this time, you thought everyone had just moved on—and now you saw the harsh truth. They hadn’t had it easy. They had been falling apart too.

“After the bridge went down. Rick… he—” His voice cracked a little. “He blew it. Tryin’ to save us. Never found ‘im. So I went lookin’.”

Your chest sank, like the air had suddenly been knocked out of you. The words hit hard.

Rick.

Was gone.

And no one had told you. Not even Michonne, the few times you’d seen her—she’d pretended everything was fine. She’d hidden it from you. Right to your face.

“So... you were out there… all this time?” you whispered. You couldn’t help but feel compassion. Something like that couldn’t have been easy for him. They had seemed inseparable—more than comrades, they were family. Hell, you were family too. Rick... he...

The words grew heavier in you.

“Most of it.” He said, eyes fixed on the flickering light the fire cast behind you. “Camped out by the river. Followed every trail looked like a maybe.”

And suddenly, guilt crept in. You felt like you should’ve been there for him when he lost someone—just like he had been there for you when you lost your father. The fire crackled between you. Outside, the rain slammed furiously against the windows.

“couldn’t give up on him.”

You swallowed hard.

“But... you couldn’t write? Couldn’t send a letter?”

Maybe you were being unfair, but there was still so much in your chest that needed releasing.

His gaze hardened, pain flickering like a dying ember. For a moment you regretted it.

“Ain’t like I was sittin’ pretty in some cabin. I was out in the woods. Livin’ like a ghost.” His voice rose, not with anger, but with bitter exhaustion.

“That’s what you think I was doing?”

Your chest tightened.

He’d come to your door, asking for your help, and still had the nerve to treat you like some kind of coward. Like you hadn’t carried your own grief. Like you’d just disappeared into the fog and let the world burn.

And most of it was his silence that hurt the deepest.

“I think I’ve heard enough.” Needless to say, you were hurt by his lack of response. You walked towards him, setting the cup down on the table with a dull thud. Then walked to the entrance. Grabbed his backpack from the floor.

And when you faced him again, Daryl saw it. Your pain came from a more raw, deeper place. You were talking with wounds that no one had dared to attend.

Because no matter how much you pretended, he knew those people out there still mattered to you. Daryl knew he still mattered to you. You just were too afraid of losing everything once more, of being adrift again.

So he didn’t move from his chair. He stayed there like a fishing lighthouse, impassive before the fury of the sea waves. He waited for you to come back to your senses. With that stare of his—the one who always made you want to swallow your words completely.

“Ya gonna kick me out?”

He was upset—you knew it without him needing to raise his voice. You used to knew him so well. That’s why you didn't dare meet his eyes. ‘Cause if you did, all that willpower you’d built in those long, quiet years would fall apart like dry clay in the rain.

You’d had peace. Finally, a life without noise, without loss, without more ghosts.

But he...

His boots creaked on the old floorboards as he stepped closer. And when you finally looked up, he wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at your hands—still clinging to his backpack, heavy as the silence between you.

Daryl took one more step. Just enough to be in your space without takin’ it.

With a kind of quiet that hurt more than shouting, he took it from your hands, like he knew damn well you’d carried enough. And after what it felt like an eternity, he spoke again.

“I know ya couldn’t stay…”

His voice was low, rough, like he was talking more to himself than to you.

“Didn’t wanna leave ya hangin’ neither. Just... too much shit went down, all at once.”

It wasn’t an excuse. It was a confession.

And even though it stung, it also brought a strange kind of relief.

You nodded lightly, throat tight.

“’M sorry.”

He said it so plainly, so directly, so him, That you could only feel sad for him.

“F’what?” You breathed out. Even if you wanted to demonize him, it wasn't his fault.

‘Cause it wasn’t just on him.

The world had split you both wide open and dragged you in different directions. Different losses. Different fights. Different silences.

Daryl had always been hurt. And you had once promised him you’d be there—that no matter the monsters, no matter how bad it got, he wouldn’t have to fight alone.

But you hadn’t been there. Not when it got real bad.

And he hadn’t come after you. Cause he couldn’t. ‘Cause by then, he’d already lost too damn much.

“If I ever hurt ya…”

He didn’t look at you, hiding behind the shaggy curtain of his hair, Like an aged dog who had been mistreated all his life.

And you looked at him truly. Not just at the face hardened by time and the mud of the road, not just at the scars the world had carved into his skin like war marks. You really looked—at the man behind the appearance.

There was a tenderness hidden in him. One that didn’t show in daylight, but in small things: In the way he carried the weight of things so you wouldn’t have to, In how his voice went soft when the pain hit hardest.

Daryl was like an old, loyal dog.

Not one house-trained, not one of rugs and warm bowls. But the kind born in the mud, raised in the cold. The kind that knew hunger and rain, the edge of stone and the betrayal of men. A dog that had learned to bite before trusting— but deep down, he only wanted a dry corner to lay his bones.

He didn’t growl for pleasure, didn’t bite without a reason.

A dog that, despite it all, always came back. Despite the winters, the silences, the crooked roads. He could still pick up the scent of your absence and follow it like a trail.

That's why he came back.

Because you meant more to him than words could hold.

And yes, at first he had been intimidating. Like those dogs that growl more out of fear than fury. But beneath the growls, beneath the armor forged by survival, he was just a quiet giant who didn’t know how to ask for love without feeling like he didn’t deserve it.

An old dog.

Wounded, stubborn, loyal. One who knew the way home. And there he was, now, with you.

Not as a hero or as a savior— but as what he’d always been: a worn-down soul still following the instinct to return to the one place where the world didn’t hurt quite so much. To you.

Because he carried it in his soul— that ancient instinct to return to where he’d once been loved.