In Another World, You Get To Save Him.

in another world, you get to save him.

it is not a grand thing. you do not pull him out of the way of an incoming car. you do not slip off a building and wait to hit the ground. you do not rip the heart out of something that was never human and watch as he paints his face dark with its blood. you do not love him with the fury of a supernova, bright and terrible and too far away to ever touch.

instead, you take his hand. and you do not let go. you never have to wonder what the world is like without him, what it would be like without you. you do not have to set your teeth into what you love and pull it back from the edge. the end of the world never has to happen.

in another world, you are enough, all by yourself. how awful is that?

it does not change the fact you are hunted, haunted by memories that are never quite clear enough to understand.

(his smile, his voice, the feathers and the fear in his eyes when you promised to die for him. how selfish you are.)

you don't--you don't want to talk about it. it's as if verbalizing these dreams will make them real, that he'll melt away before your eyes, proving once and for all that you have never been enough for anyone. you hold these secrets behind your tongue as they burn a hole straight through your throat.

he asks you if it's because he's dead.

you cannot answer. the house around you is red with blood, and the only person you think you've ever loved is asking you if he's dead (he's been dead from the beginning), and you do not want to remember.

(here is a truth you will never tell anyone. for a moment, you had wished he were dead. for a moment, you had wished that you were the only one he had. that it is him, and it is you, and that you two were the entire world. it is sick, and awful, and you hate yourself for thinking it. you dream of him anyways.)

you do not want to remember. so you won't. that's what he tells you, and you are desperate to believe him. you'll go as far away as you possibly can, you and him, and you will be together.

(it's already too late, but you don't know that yet.)

(or maybe you do.)

you tell him to run. if you can't save yourself, you can save him. in this world, you can save him.

you do not like thinking about what happens next. the pain. the white of bone. limbs where they should not be. by the time you are pushed in, it is far too late for you. you are glad of it, because it means the pain will be over.

and then--and then--and then. oh. the blood.

(it is not thick and black, clotted with knots of supernatural embolisms. it is just red, coppery, human. your palm drags across it, slick and warm. your blood, and his.)

you curl, a spiral of wishful dreams and drying blood, around him, a pale facsimile of comfort. here, you are not a savior. you do not have to pretend you are not afraid. at the bottom of the well, there is silence.

(at the end of the world, it is him, and it is you.)

in another world, you do not get to save him.