W/N: It seems all I’m doing nowadays is writing about serial killers, death, angst, hallucinations and plain heart-wrenching plots. I have no idea how far it affects people since the only friend of mine who reacts properly to my stories loves lovey-dovey and gooey stuff and she keeps shouting why I don’t write fluffy stories. Also, my parents are mumbling in the background about my career choice and why I can’t study something else, so I pretty much lost the whole point of this note. Aaanyway, enjoy this little thing I’ve written. Compliments and/or crying over my story will make me flail happily and constructive criticism is highly appreciated.
I met him on the street leading to my new home outside a small café.
I guess I should add again.
Those were new streets, a new café. Thousands of new memories to be made by us but were laid out by the Fates. Yet the meeting was something familiar; something warm.
He hadn’t changed. Of course not.
Death changes only the living, not the dead.
And now he was standing before me, fifteen years after his death, and he hadn’t changed.
I looked around at the street and back at him, wanting to touch him but afraid that he was not real.
“I am not real,” he said, confirming my fears.
“Brother . . .” I started but he silenced me.
“But that doesn’t mean that I am not real to you.”
And that’s what he is to me. Real. Not some half-formed fantasy, a delusion, a hallucination. Even if he is, it didn’t matter.
Because he is real to me, and that’s what matters more.
W/N: All that blabbering over such a short read was probably unnecessary.