#i writes

I asked, "How are you?"

You replied with petals blowing,

soft, fleeting, light as a lie.

I told you I don’t weep now.

You whispered through the breezing air,

"Then why does your shadow cling

like a shroud to the stone I bear?"

I said I’ve learned to walk,

to breathe without your name;

You stirred the leaves in laughter,

"Yet here you are. The same."

I said I burned the letters.

You echoed in the hush;

"Then why do I smell smoke

in the air when you’re near?"

I came to say I’m free.

You rustled low, "Then go."

But my feet stay rooted in the soil,

and my heart won’t let you know

how much it aches to leave...

how love outlives even death’s decree.

So I stand, not as mourner,

but as proof you’re gone;

and you reply with silence,

Pls be nice I've had writers block for 6 years and this is legit the first thing I've been able to finish in that time

Darkiplier x gn reader, reader is afraid of a thunderstorm and dark comforts them, 375 words

~~~

A thunder crash tears you from your uneasy dreams.

You had went to bed early, in hopes you'd sleep through the storm that was predicted. It seems, however, luck is not on your side.

You squeeze your eyes closed and attempt to fall back asleep. Another roll of thunder, much louder, appears and you find yourself trembling and holding back a whimper. "This isn't working."

Carefully, you pull yourself out of bed and tiptoe to the dark hallway. A mixture of memory, feeling your way, and lightning flashes assists you in finding the room you are looking for.

As you approach the door, a sudden feeling of anxiety washes over you. Sure, it was no secret he has a soft spot for you, but wouldn't he still be annoyed by being woken up for something this silly? Why would you even think of doing that? As you pull your hand away from the door, you see the doorknob start to turn and freeze.

He looks down at you from the doorway. His hair is rumpled uncharacteristically, sticking up slightly on one side. You're surprised to see him only wearing a pair of sweatpants instead of a suit, despite the late hour. You had never seen him looking so domestic, so human, before, despite your closeness. He opens his mouth, but before he can question you, another roll of thunder cuts him off. You try not to make a noise, but a small whimper escapes anyway while you flinch.

His face turns from questioning to concerned like a switch, immediately understanding what you need. "It's alright darling, I'm here." The velvety tone of his voice pushes tears you didn't know were there down your cheeks, his arms inviting you to melt into his chest, burying yourself in the comfort of his skin.

The Cliffs.

The prompt was “Why are you so worried? We've done this before!” It was supposed to be 800 words long but it just wasn’t working. So, second draft.

A period hanging,

A breath caught in the glow of the screen.

You send a single “Hey,”

And I know: "You’re drowning again."

No coffee dates.

No hands brushing as we walk.

But I’ve memorized the rhythm of your typing,

The way you pause before saying you’re hurting,

Like pain is a secret too heavy to speak.

I’ve seen your panic in pixels,

A voice note trembling,

A photo of your window at 3 a.m.,

The sky still dark,

Like your head won’t let you rest.

And I sit here, miles away,

Fighting the urge to scream,

"Just let me hold you."

But all I have is this:

A reply that says,

"I’m here."

Not “It’ll be okay.”

Just: "I’m here."

Like an anchor.

Like a pulse.

Your “I’m okay” is a lie.

So’s mine.

You don’t need me to fix it.

You just need me to "witness" it.

And so I do_

Through screens, through time zones,

Through the ache of absence.

We don’t share a table,

But we’ve split the weight of survival.

And when my own world cracks,

You’re there,

Not in flesh, but in fire,

Texting back before I finish sending:

"I’m not leaving."

This is our intimacy:

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Built in the quiet between messages,

In the courage it takes to say,

"I’m not okay,"

And knowing...

"You were here, you were here, you were here…"

The melody’s gone, replaced by that low, pulsing hum _the sound of absence. I press play without meaning to, and suddenly you’re in the room again. Not real, never real anymore, but close enough to make my chest tighten. I see your hands, the way they hovered near mine, never quite touching. I hear your voice, softened at the edges like a worn-down groove. I smell the rain on your jacket, the faint citrus of your soap.

And then...the click. The skip. The line I can’t get past, "I should’ve said it when I had the chance."

It plays. Again. Again. Again.

I try to distract myself _music through earphones, loud and sharp, something with a beat that doesn’t breathe. But the cassette underneath hums louder, drowning it out. It doesn’t care about other songs. It only knows its loop: the memory of your laugh, the silence after you left, the words I swallowed like stones.

Sometimes I wonder if you ever hear it too. If, in the quiet of your night, a ghost of our refrain flickers in your mind. But then I remember ...you walked away with your tape intact. Mine’s the one left spinning, unraveling, playing to an empty room.

And still, I press play.