Clay pov

I had been walking at the side of George for a few hours now, tuning out his and my ghost's voice and listening to nothing.

Nothing.

Only the things that flowed into my ear instead of forcing their sound onto my eardrum.

The wind that grazed my earlobes, making it tingle with the crisp temperature of the air outside.

I considered the rush of water as we walked by a fountain, its pool of liquid still shining bright despite the tall buildings that shielded it from the dying sunlight.

I pondered the cobbled footsteps of the downtown shops as I trod upon them, gazing at the happy people around me.

Unlike George, when I saw people doused in a world all their own, surrounded by the bliss of their making, I didnt glare.

I smiled.

And so I did, I smiled a true smile, my cheeks seeming to break free of the concrete that kept them down, kept me stone-faced.

I turned to George, his voice still muffled in my ear, but taking in his features.

I didnt know why, but everything was amplified in this moment, and I took them into more consideration that I'd ever before.

His jawline was so defined, outlined in a shadow against his pale neck. His lips were pink, animatedly moving to shape words he didnt know I hadnt heard. His eyes were so soft, the only thing of his expression that was ginuine.

He didnt want to smile the way he was grinning right now.

He didnt want to be talking as much as he was, his eyes shone with a desire for silence.

I take his hands in my own, stopping and pulling him with me as the air ceases it's blowing, leaving us still.

"Stop." I say, my voice hoarse, ginuine, and flat.

"Stop what?" he says, giggling robotically.

"Stop faking, please." I say, looking him dead in the eyes as he tries to catch a glimpse of anything but my green irises.

"I'm...." He finally looks at me. "Okay..." he settles with, his shoulders slumping.

George looks up at me with earnest, but I know that even that is fake.

I frown.

"Please stop." I say, almost begging, the only emotion in my voice a plea.

"I'm not faking." he says, trying wholeheartedly to convince me of the truth.

I say nothing, my face dropping into a defeated show.

I want holding up the act anymore.

I wasnt pretending to be okay, for his sake, but I wasnt letting him know everything that was still rebounding around my head, not letting him know about the multiple voices that screamed my name, calling me to my grave.

I didnt want to go, but never in my life had death looked so sweet than in the wake of my boyfriend's continual lies.

I knew that my thoughts weren't to be trusted, but at the moment, I felt that they were right, that as much as they weren't reliable, George was the same.

Spreading lies so that I would follow their criteria.

"I'm not faking." he says, and I would have believed him if not for the cry for help nestled deep in his tone.

"George..." I could see he was hurting, even if he couldnt see that I was in pain as well.

"Darling, what's wrong?" My words dragged out, not finishing the sentence completely, not saying everything that was on my mind.

He takes a moment, his face finally clear, falling expressionless yet telling me everything I needed to know.

But as much as I needed to know what was paining him, I needed to hear his confirmation of my theories in his own voice.

"I cant feel anything..." he says. "And it scares me... Im vulnerable to the voice in my head," His voice is but a whisper as he continues. "Because I cant experience any of the reasons I have to stay here."

It scared me too because I felt the same way.

The only thing was, I had not only become subject to what the voices whispered to me, I had succumbed to their will.

Time skip the next day (it's Sunday and its late at night)

I was awake, but I wanted to be asleep.

I was thinking, but I wanted my mind to be quiet.

I was moving, but I wanted to be still.

I was restless, but I wished to be dead.

Dead.

I couldnt leave George like that.

I couldnt.

But the fact that I knew that was a lie that I kept repeating to myself only broke my willpower down that much more.

I could leave that easily.

With a single step that I knew I wouldn't hesitate on, I could leave.

I could check out of life.

I could close the book on a sad and depressing story, choosing to leave the ending a blank canvass in my mind so that I would never know what came next.

And sometimes, the ability to choose not to know what comes next in a despondent life is the most freeing feeling.

My birthday was tomorrow.

It came as a sudden realization.

I would be eighteen tomorrow.

I would be a legal adult.

It wouldn't change anything.

Not unless I made it...

I stood up, overcome with a blank yet comfortingly warm feeling.

Feeling.

I could feel again.

I sat down at George's desk, grabbing two sheets of paper, pouring all of my feelings into the words I wrote.

Then, I sat and waited for midnight to hit before beginning on the second one.

I poured everything into those papers, the ink of my faulty pen splattering my fingers as I etched words that were neither elegant or poetic, but more honest than anything that could have spilt from my lips.

I was tired of denying myself of something that I wanted.

I was tired of trying for people that seemed only to pretend to give a damn.

I went to sleep beside George, pulling him as close as I could, savoring the moment, knowing that I would be woken up soon, but would fall into another slumber that would last much longer in due time.

I'm tired af.

It's 3:28 in the morning.

But I don't want to sleep bc sleep sucks.

Much luv to you guys 🫶