heart monitors-dreamnotfound

twenty-six

Dear George,

When I walked into my house for the first time in a week, it felt empty.

I was only there to grab new clothes and a couple of other things, then go back to Ranboo's. I stood in the middle of the living room, looked around, and felt this unexplainable feeling tugging at my chest.

There was no one in the apartment except for Ranboo, but it felt so hollow. It didn't feel like my home, it was missing you.

The weird thing is that you have never stepped a foot in my home. We never facetimed each other in my home, and yet your memories bled everywhere and seeped through the cracks I desperately tried to mend.

My own home feels foreign, and I'm starting to think that you were more of a home than mine ever was. I found comfort in you, I found ounces of security that made me feel so warm inside.

I miss my home. I miss you.

I entered my bedroom, taking in how everything was the same way I left it. The book I was in the middle of still sat on my table, even open to the page. My eyes drifted across everything, realizing that the last time I was here, I was so much happier.

I closed the door behind me, then sat on the ground, back leaned against the wall. I closed my eyes, and I could feel a tear stinging behind my eyelids because this all felt too familiar.

It was scary how familiar it felt. I still remember sitting in your empty hospital room, knees hugged against my chest while the world felt like it was breaking. I was convinced that the world had ended.

I thought I was just reminiscing my time alive, trying to gather my composure just so I could move on, but that wasn't it. Surprisingly, that wasn't the worst part of being in that room.

The worst part was when all of the realizations crashed into me. A part of me knew it, a part of me had already known that you were gone when the doctor came into the room with a solemn look. I remember how I was lying to myself, trying to cover up every pessimistic thought of how you were no longer here.

I don't even know why I'm writing, or why I'm still writing. I want to tell someone everything, I want them to know how much I'm hurting, I want to meet someone who's hurting in the exact same way, but I can't.

There is no club or organization called the 'my boyfriend died while we had an argument,' because that's pretty sad. Maybe the members of the club would choose a better name, something more sunshine-y and bright, but that isn't what I want.

I want someone to know how bad it is. I want someone to understand my feelings. I don't want someone who looks at me with a sad expression, or someone who constantly tells me that everything's going to be okay.

I miss you, George. I miss you so, so much.

I miss how you'd get excited when you talked on and one. I miss how you'd blush and look away when you thought you talked to much, even though you knew that I never minded. I miss how you'd sometimes talk to me when you thought I was asleep.

"I love you so much, Dream."

You had said once. You probably thought I had fallen asleep, but I was half-awake. I felt your hand tighten around mine, but not in a hurting way. Your hands felt cool to touch, and I marveled at how they perfectly fits in mine.

"You'll never know how much you mean to me."

Your voice was hushed to a whisper, and it sounded sweet and full of affection. I wanted to kiss you and tell you how much I loved you, but I was too tired. I could feel myself drifting to sleep, parts of my mind already clouded over.