It’s time to give up on the life that hurts to live.
My vision blurs at the edges, the shapes surrounding me smearing into long streaks. The world tilts, going soft and so far away, like I’m watching someone else bleed out.
One shape sharpens.
Marcus.
Or my brain’s last cheap hallucination of him.
His hair’s a mess, his eyes wild in a way I’ve never seen before, his mouth moving so fast I can’t make out the words.
He looks terrified.
That’s how I know it’s fake. Marcus doesn’t getterrified.
He’s like a fortress.
Then I feel it as his strong, muscular arms wrap around me.
He feels…real.
“Preston! Hang in there, okay? I’m here…okay? I’m right here.”
Why does he sound choked?
Don’t be like that, Marcus. You should…breathe. I got rid of me, so…so you should have one less problem in your life, yeah?
I reach for him, or I think I do, because tears shine in his eyes.
For me.
Why is he crying for me?
“Baby…please…” he begs, his voice raw and scraped. “Don’t leave me, please…”
Don’t cry.
My fingers twitch against something—air? His jacket? His face?
I don’t know.
“We have so much we need to talk about, remember? You can’t…just leave. Baby, please…”
For the tiniest, meanest heartbeat of a moment, regret slices through the calm.
Not about Violet.
Not about the bullet.
About him.
About not fighting.
Not staying.
Not dragging my broken, defective self through one more night beside him.
I should’ve had him again. Properly. Without running afterward.
