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grief is so crazy like what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. does she know i loved her. i miss her so much. i catch myself doing things she used to do. i wish i could call her. i miss her so much. i do a crossword puzzle. i cry while washing the dishes. does she know i loved her? my heart feels like a hummingbird. i miss her so much. what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. what if i forget.
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Me at age 13, exhausted at school after staying up all night to read fanfic: I can’t wait until I’m an adult and I can stay up reading without any consequences!
Me, an adult, exhausted at work after staying up all night reading fanfic: Fuck.
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He doesn't know if they stop— he's far too gone to realize, though eventually, they stop.
He screams and screams— his throat burns and scratches and hurts, his eyeballs behind his closed shut eyelids feel like they're leaking and his brain feels like exploding; Buck keeps screaming until he can feel the metallic taste slowly growing inside his throat, until he feels like throwing up, until his own voice betrays him and doesn't want to come out and eventually, his gutwrenching screams slowly die down, only to leave their places to quiet, weak, sobs that he barely registers.
Bobby's dead.
He's gone.
Bobby is dead, and Buck will never be able to see him again until the day he dies.
Bobby is dead, and he's not going to come back, not in five years, not in fifteen years, not in this lifetime.
He's gone forever.
And— fuck, fuckfuckfuck god damn it because why— why him, they were suppose to get out, all of them; no one was supposed to be left behind and it was supposed to be okay and they were supposed to go home but nothing is okay and there is no home anymore and Bobby is dead, he's dead and Buck wants to scream, Bobby is dead and there are tiny little hundreds of spiders crawling beneath Buck's skin and Buck wants to dig the tip of his fingers and tear his flesh apart, his head throbs and Buck wants to claw his eyes out, there's blood rushing through his ears, kicking against his eardrums like thumpthumpthumpthump and Buck wants to rip them off. There is a cold sensation seeping inside his bones, freezing his insides and he's fucking trembling and it doesn't stop and he feels like he's going to explode except he doesn't.
Everything hurts, and Buck wants to run back inside, grip Bobby by the shoulder and shake him until he wakes up. He wants to shake Bobby hard and scream by his ear until he wakes up and tells Buck to shut up because Bobby can't die.
Not now. Not like this. It's just too soon. Too soon and Bobby can't go.
It's too fucking soon but no matter what Buck does, Bobby isn't going to wake up.
The earth will fall, but Bobby isn't going to wake up.
Eventually, Buck's screams fade away, but so does the warmth that once bloomed in his chest and wrapped him around like a blanket.
Now he just feels empty. He just feels numb.
"Evan."
A hand reaches for his arm. A figure crouching down in front of him and hands— shaky hands on his arms.
Tommy.
Buck's eyes sting too much for him to see clearly.
"Evan."
He doesn't recognize his own voice. It sounds weird, raw. "H-he—"
"I know."
No, no, he has to "He—" His throat burns. His mouth is dry. "Bobb—"
Bobby's dead.
"I know." Tommy says. He doesn't sound good, either.
He sounds tired.
Buck feels a squeeze on his arms, the good kind, but everything's just too much. Everything's a blur like he's floating. And he's just... there.
Tommy's fingers fold around Buck's bicep, gently urging him up. "We have to get out."
Tommy is right. They have to get out.
The kids, someone has to tell them.
He has to call Eddie. He should be the one to call Eddie.
Buck has to be okay. He has to get up and go, because that's what Bobby wanted. He has to get up.
He doesn't know how but eventually, with trembling legs, Buck leans on Tommy and slowly rises up on his feet.
His whole body burns, his head hurts, his heart aches but Buck gets up.
He gets up and no matter how bad his feet want to go backwards, to go back inside to Bobby, Buck takes a step forward, followed by another, leaving a piece of his soul behind.
i was scrolling through the tags on the 'how many books have you read this year' poll and i just want every 0-5 book reader to know that whether you're dyslexic, you have trouble focusing, you have a job or other full time responsibilities, or perhaps you are just a slow reader by nature, that you're a better reader than this person
Tumblr already has a personalization algorithm it's called my beloved mutuals who have great taste and only wish to psychologically damage me sometimes
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