You open your eyes, seeing the ceiling to your bedroom. Hang on, your bedroom? Weren't you outside? You sit up, wincing at a slight pain in your stomach. What is that from?

Herobrine. You were outside with Herobrine, he was trapped, and he...

"He hurt me..." you mumble, remembering what he did. Suddenly you grow mad, mad that he painfully pushed you away. "He said he wouldn't do that. I thought he loved me." You stand, hands in tight fists as you glare around your room.

Then his voice rings in your mind.

I love you oh so much.

He said he loves you. But then he pushed you away. You can't help but shout in frustration, and tears begin to form in your eyes.

"You said you loved me!" You scream, aiming it at nothing, knowing he has no way of hearing you.

But then your last words to him replay.

Nothing could ever make me hate you.

You pretty much promised to not hate him. You can't be mad. You take a deep breath, telling yourself to think logically.

He wouldn't have hurt you for no reason, no reason at all. So why... him arms were pinned again a wall. He couldn't move them to make contact with you. But, you had kissed him. Surely that would have been enough to do...

What was he doing anyway?

It's not safe. You don't belong in this world.

He was forcing you back to your world, this world. There was some kind of danger he was protecting you from.

"But why did he hurt me to do that?" You question, feeling tears beginning to form again.

If he had kissed you to push you away, then... that action would remind you of him. If he had done that, then there would be no way of you loving another person, because just the sensation of being kissed would remind you of having to leave him. You wouldn't be kicked very often, so you won't be reminded of him that easily.

"Clever thinking, baby," you mumble, feeling your cheeks redden as you wipe your eyes. Then that word rings in your mind.

Baby.

You won't ever get a chance to call him that again. You won't even get to see him again. You feel tears returning, as a question also forms.

You sit on the side of your bed, staring at the floor, as the question becomes clearer. Is it a stupid question? Should you push it away? Or is it valid, should you think deeper into it?

You don't want to think about it, but the more you try to push it away, the more it becomes prominent.

You, for some reason, say the question aloud, as if the emptiness of your room could provide you with an answer.

"Should I have fallen for him?"