And sometimes, when I dream, it's of him, and this time, he sees me. He can see me, and him, and what happened. And he sees right through me. Knows who I really am.
He can speak and he does not accuse me. But he knows. And I realise then that he would've been much more. And my helplessness, which I used as a pathetic excuse, it doesn't exist - it's me. I've done this. I didn't look well enough. I knew, and I chose blissful oblivion.
And my dreams, they're always nightmares.
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