Forget me lots (Completed)

Prologue☁️

He needed to stop trying to find her.

His heart couldn't afford it anymore.

He hated himself for that damn reason, though. Every time she came barging into his life, those fleeting seconds were worth anything that would come after such wreckage. Like all those helpless tears, or the trembling of his hands. He'll even endure the sour aftertaste stuck in his throat for God knows how long after those memories faded to a painful background.

It. Was. All. Worth. It.

She enjoyed coming disguised within layers upon layers of dreams, dreams that brought back all the memories, memories that brought back everything they had gone through.

This cruel destiny joke had taught him a valuable lesson: there were things in life money couldn't buy, like a cure for the burning of his chest whenever he whispered her name.

He couldn't help himself. It was as addictive as her stormy gaze, or the coconut-honey scent that one lock of her untamable hair would bring on a windy afternoon. She slipped through his lips, skin and soul mercilessly—like she did in real life. When she was by his side...

He would have done anything to bring her back, unthinkable deeds if they were the key to free them both from this tortured nightmare.

But time was up, as was his hope. Drop by drop, it had evaporated without him being able to do anything about it. It was terrifying. A mockery of his desire to solve the impossible. If he tried to deny it, it was enough to retrace his steps and return to that horrible place, where reality slapped his pale cheeks. No. Nothing that happened was under his control, not this time.

With a ragged sigh, his weary steps stopped in the middle of the forest, by the lake, where it all began. The harsh silence became evident. The icy breeze that ruffled his now semi-long hair mocked him. It tangled his raven curls and messed with the beating of his sick and disturbed heart.

He put a hand to his chest. With frozen fingers, he formed a fist around the lapel of his woolen coat. He stood there, his infinite blue eyes lost in the grayish sky that promised a storm. And almost unintentionally, another damned memory invaded him; another indomitable stream woven very deep: the way her long lashes, capturing the flashes of light, would cast shadows on her adorable, rounded cheeks.

Dawn, wearing that horrible turquoise dress.

Dawn, with her almond eyes full of yesterday.

Dawn, lost in the pages of that thick, leather fairy tale book.

He raised his gaze to the sky for a second time; the clouds had gathered, darkening his surroundings. It made sense for the weather to depict exactly how he felt inside. His thick black hair now floated in all directions, and with a defeated sigh, he felt the cool wind in his tears.

Choking on a sob, he forbade himself to continue like this. After what seemed an eternity, with a graceful movement of his long legs, he turned and started back home.

He would not try anymore, or want her anymore. From now on, he'd fight the most mundane things that still haunted him.

No more attempts.

No more wishing she were here.

It's not like he hadn't tried to stop before. He couldn't control how she would come back to him whenever his neurons exploded in desperate synapses, the kind happening when nighttime came and there was nothing left to do but pray. So he did. He begged for a miracle that would bring her back to him. Night after night, he begged. Then the morning would bring another sip of nothingness.

As time went by, he settled for at least some tiny speck of their story. He bargained with fate as he held back the inevitable.

So, he bid his time a bit more... Waited for her to come back, in the rustling noises over the forgotten swing under the oak tree. Swinging on its own now. Its slow dance had grown bitter with neglect.

Tick-Tock. It was torture.

Over by Grooves Park, near the silly angel fountain, her laughter was still clear. Hiding among the glistening droplets, the chubby seraphim would sprinkle from his rusted bow.

Tick-Tock. It cut too deep.

Turning left on Lincoln's street, the scent of freshly baked doughnuts coming from Miss. Trouville's pâtisserie would mean the same: the cadence of her voice casting his name like a spell. His feet stopped by the entrance. Near the red wooden door, he dared utter her name one last time. The sweet syllables breaking havoc on his already strained heartbeats.

Tick-Tock. It killed too fast.

With blurry vision, unsteady steps, and the heaviness that came from a thousand splintered déjà vu moments, he left it all behind.

Tick-Tock. The end.

He stopped trying to find her.