Blake choosing to mask himself as a dreamwalker even though it’s one of the hardest forms of magic for a non-dreamwalker to replicate because at least in a dream he could mold himself into something his best friend would actually love.
Blake studying every guy they’d ever liked, taking their qualities and subtly integrating them on himself when he would pull them into a dreamscape. Maybe even something subtle, a mole they found cute, dimples a guy had that they said made him look sweet.
Blake looking into the mirror in the morning after the dream, disappointment consuming him from the inside out. Why couldn’t he be better? They were perfect for him, an exact replica of everything he’d ever wanted, so why couldn’t he be perfect for them in return?
He dug deeper, finding out everything about them he didn’t already know. He started wearing at least one thing in their favorite color every day, learned how to perfect their favorite food, dyed his hair the color they liked best.
He pushed down the anger.
The abhorrent anger that he could feel burning in his chest even when he didn’t want it. They hated that anger. He could tell by the way they would tense every time someone raised their voice, every time they would tear up after getting in trouble with a teacher when they got a bit too rowdy.
He had everything under control. His appearance, his personality, everything about him was a carefully crafted facade that was fit to be loved.
And it worked. The moment their lips touched his, the moment they confessed, he had known it worked. He got so caught up in the emotions, so caught up in the moment that he forgot the most important thing he swore he would never forget.
The mask started to crack. He realized the moment his fist hit the back of their car seat, the first thing to slip was the anger. He watched as they flinched, as their eyes widened, but he was too far gone to stop now.
The lies fell next. The lie about his magic, the hidden secret of their future. When a river runs dry, all that’s remains is the dirt beneath. The truth.
Nothing about him was good enough to be loved.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
titsay
amandla
