Scömíche One-Shots

Without You

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for screaming. I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry for blaming you. I'm sorry for not running after you, even after I heard a scream. I'm sorry for waiting for the call to worry. I should've ran after you. I should've screamed your name until the neighbors yelled, then screamed louder. I should've begged you to come back. I should've.

But I didn't.

And that's why this happened. We were so close to Wonderland. But I messed it all up. Now I'm sitting on your bed, wrapped up in your cloud sweater, staring at a picture of us at Christmas, when we got matching bracelets with our names engraved, and you asked me to be yours. Our fingers laced together, and I was finally happy.

So much for that. Now I'm here, and your lying on a cold bed, with machines keeping you in between life and death. I haven't slept since that night. I've just been sitting on your bed, in your cloud sweater, thinking about everything I did wrong. The doctor said you have a 50/50 chance of waking up. If you do, it'll be in a year. I keep thinking about when you found out about Thomas, and what he'd done. You held me close, and told me that I'd be okay. You'd always hold me when I was in a dark place.

But right now, I'm in the darkest places I've ever been, and you're not here. Then reality kicks in, and I remember. How am I supposed to make it without you?

One year. One year without your laugh. One year without your voice. One year without your jokes. One year without your touch.

One year without you.