Original stuff
title: Rest In Stone Without You
rating: PG
word count: ~350
summary: She lives while he doesn't.
A/N: Still not a writer.
There's nothing left where he used to be. She still lives here, there, where they were together and where he died and where they loved. She never opens the door because she knows that all her ghosts are hiding behind the wood waiting for her to be weak, to remember and to hurt all over again. At night she dances to the soundless tune that's playing in her head and she's running through the streets until her shoes are worn, her head feels like cotton and she swears that she could fly.
She never does though. More often than not she finds herself standing in dark alleys instead, kissing faceless strangers, being grounded to the dirt and not knowing why it makes her cry. When she comes home on nights like these she puts her head to the cool wood of the forbidden door (his door, his room) and whispers “open” until her throat goes dry.
She stopped believing in magic long ago so she isn't really surprised that a word isn't enough. There's something hiding in her memories though and she thinks that once upon a time she did know someone who could paint magic with words, who could create worlds with only his mind and who could command all the fantastic beings who hide in the dreams of children with a story.
One day it won't be like this. Some time in the future she will wake up from a dream, watch the sunlight twirling on her bedroom floor and decide that she wants to remember. Then she'll gather her courage, get up and go to the door.
She won't hesitate, won't think twice and when she sees the books lining the walls, the notes scribbled on the desk and the scattered papers on the floor she's going to smile because even though he's not here he will never really leave either.
That day isn't here yet. She still dances, she still whispers and she still tries to fly.
It doesn't hurt less and she thinks it probably never will but just maybe she's willing to give it a chance.
rating: PG
word count: ~350
summary: She lives while he doesn't.
A/N: Still not a writer.
There's nothing left where he used to be. She still lives here, there, where they were together and where he died and where they loved. She never opens the door because she knows that all her ghosts are hiding behind the wood waiting for her to be weak, to remember and to hurt all over again. At night she dances to the soundless tune that's playing in her head and she's running through the streets until her shoes are worn, her head feels like cotton and she swears that she could fly.
She never does though. More often than not she finds herself standing in dark alleys instead, kissing faceless strangers, being grounded to the dirt and not knowing why it makes her cry. When she comes home on nights like these she puts her head to the cool wood of the forbidden door (his door, his room) and whispers “open” until her throat goes dry.
She stopped believing in magic long ago so she isn't really surprised that a word isn't enough. There's something hiding in her memories though and she thinks that once upon a time she did know someone who could paint magic with words, who could create worlds with only his mind and who could command all the fantastic beings who hide in the dreams of children with a story.
One day it won't be like this. Some time in the future she will wake up from a dream, watch the sunlight twirling on her bedroom floor and decide that she wants to remember. Then she'll gather her courage, get up and go to the door.
She won't hesitate, won't think twice and when she sees the books lining the walls, the notes scribbled on the desk and the scattered papers on the floor she's going to smile because even though he's not here he will never really leave either.
That day isn't here yet. She still dances, she still whispers and she still tries to fly.
It doesn't hurt less and she thinks it probably never will but just maybe she's willing to give it a chance.