#notdelicateatall

There is an emotion too big to contain bursting inside Richie. Every feeling he’s ever repressed, every word he never said, every glance and casual touch and all those empty, empty years missing something that he couldn’t even name — it all builds up until it feels like choking. He’s here. Eddie is here in front of him. Richie drinks him in. He seems . . . wrong, his edges blurry, his eyes too far away, and yet. And yet. It’s him.

“Eddie, I . . . ” Richie takes a hesitant step forward, then another. He reaches out a hand but withdraws it almost immediately, wondering what he meant to do. What could he say? I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I tried to get you out, I tried, they wouldn’t let me, god, forgive me please . . .

@notdelicateatall

Richie stands outside the wrought iron gate, staring at dead lawn and thriving sunflowers. He told himself he wouldn’t come here again, he’d promised Bev . . . but he’d always been a liar, hadn’t he? It looks just as they’d left it, a pile of splintered wood, shingles, tiles, broken glass, all sitting low in the mangled pit of a sinkhole. Only a matter of time, the local officials had said, the place has been rotting for years.

What had he meant to do here? He doesn’t know. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, sweaty and shaking and he swallows past the sob climbing its way into his throat. This is stupid. This is so stupid. He pulls a flask from his pocket, takes a bracing swig. It’s over. It’s over. He should move on like all the others — live his life —

The voice comes from behind him and Richie’s breath catches in his throat, his heart strangling itself inside his chest. No. No it can’t be what he thought he heard. He spins around and sees — Jesus fucking Christ — he sees . . .

Richie stares and stares and stares. He takes off his glasses, rubs his eyes, and when he puts them back it is still there. He’s still there. Richie feels sick.