Heavy Heart, How You Exhaust Me

two years after satoru's death, you were still stuck. you were suspended somewhere in between moving forward and barely holding on. the letter he left for you when the day finally came still sat on your dresser, untouched. it felt heavier than it looked, like it was watching you, waiting. you refused to open it, painfully aware of what it would do to you. opening it would undo everything—the slow, careful work you put into rebuilding yourself from nothing.

people loved to talk about the five stages of grief like they were checkpoints, like you could just move through them if you tried hard enough. you’d gotten stuck on two: denial and depression, looping endlessly. acceptance felt impossible. it meant admitting, fully and finally, that he was gone. and you couldn’t do that. you didn’t want to. as stupid as you sounded, holding the small parts of him you still had left kept him alive in a way.

his sunglasses sat in your nightstand drawer. sometimes, on quieter days, you’d put them on and let yourself pretend. it always brought you back to the beach—to that one perfect afternoon. you could still take yourself back to it if you tried hard enough: the sand slipping between your toes, the warmth of the sun on your skin, the breeze tugging at your hair. and satoru laughing, bright and loud, crouching beside his absurdly large sandcastle.

a kid had come out of nowhere, eyes wide as saucers.

“did you make that?” he asked, pointing at the castle and the ridiculous moat satoru had just finished.

“you know it!” satoru grinned, ruffling his hair like they’d known each other forever.

the two ran off to make an even bigger one than before, declaring you as their official judge/photographer. the photo was tucked away in your wallet, edges a bit worn from clutching to your chest folding it carefully multiple times. both of their eyes sparkled, satoru's usually pale skin slightly tanned. you'd give up everything to relive that day again. just once.

his blindfold was tied loosely around your favorite stuffed animal, the fabric slightly frayed now. that day he had won it for you at the local fair was the day he stopped wearing it around you.

“i want to make eye contact with you,” he’d said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

all you could do was look away, flustered at his gesture.

“but doesn’t it overwhelm you?” you’d asked quietly. “and make you tired?”

he shrugged. "yeah, but it's worth it."

then he leaned in, close enough that you felt his breath before his words.

"you're worth it."

everything shifted after that.. he started turning off his infinity around you, too—just in case you wanted to pull him closer. just in case you needed him.

the bottle of his cologne still sat on his nightstand. you never moved it. when his pillow finally lost his scent, you started spraying it onto your pillow so your dreams could be filled with him. it just enough to trick yourself, just enough to blur the line between memory and dream. it was the sweetest kind of torture, sleeping as much as you could so you could be with him. in your dreams, he was still there. still laughing, still warm, still yours.

and then you'd wake up.

and it would hit you all over again: cold, sharp, unforgiving. the empty space beside you. the silence. the way everything felt just a little too big without him in it.

it was a cycle. a painful, deliberate one. but in some sick, twisted way, it worked. because in your dreams, he was still there. still laughing, still warm, still yours.

the space he left behind was too noticeable to bear when it stayed empty.

so instead, you filled it the only way you could,

by finding him again, night after night, in your dreams

© megumour — do not copy, translate, or reupload my works.

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