Read, reblog, and resonate!
Two wiped their eyes slowly, fingers trembling but dry now. No more tears came—not because they had healed, but because they were simply empty. A numb ache settled deep in their chest, like an unfinished equation looping endlessly.
They didn’t return to their room.
Their feet moved on instinct, quietly padding down the hallway to another door. The one barely anyone used anymore. The room where Gaty had once held them after the infection was over, anchored them, where Two felt like she loved them.
The door creaked open. The faint scent of fabric softener and time clung to the air. The pink couch was still there. Old, faded, but safe.
Two collapsed onto it without a word, curling inward. It felt like Gaty had left some part of herself here. Maybe her voice. Maybe her warmth.
And without knowing it, they drifted again into sleep.
The same dream.
Same field. Same light. Same arms.
Gaty was warm in their hold, just like before. Two’s chest ached again—but not with grief. With relief. With love. With the memory of something good.
But just like before, time cracked.
Gaty's form flickered—faint, fading.
“No, no, no—Gaty, please—”
And then she was gone.
Two fell forward into empty space.
Only to look up… and find her.
One.
Standing in the field of light, like a glitch in reality. Her grin was all wrong. Her eyes—sharp, venomous—pierced into Two like they had always belonged there.
She stepped forward, her form eerily calm.
“Took all that to get you here, huh?” she said. Her tone wasn’t mocking this time. It was disappointed. Dangerous. “All this crying, all this moping... and for what? A girl who left you?”
Two backed away, but the dream wouldn’t let them run.
“You think I wanted to hurt you?” One continued, head tilting. “No. I wanted what was mine. Your power. Your place. Your spotlight.”
Her expression twisted.
“And you were too selfish to share.”
Two shook their head, trembling. “That’s not true…”
“Isn’t it?” she hissed. “You think you deserved Gaty? No. She pitied you.”
Two froze.
“She didn’t love you. She saw you breaking and thought, ‘Poor Two, what a wreck.’” One’s eyes narrowed. “She wanted to help a stray number, not hold onto one.”
The field cracked again, splintering. The sky darkened.
And then, the words that broke them:
The dream shattered.
Two’s eyes snapped open.
The pink couch was cold now. The sun outside had barely risen.
Their hands were clenched so tightly, their knuckles had turned pale. Their chest hurt, not from panic, but from heartbreak freshly torn open.
She wouldn’t say that.
She wouldn’t.
But dreams have a cruel way of borrowing voices—especially when seeded by people like One.
Two curled up tighter, shaking.
Because no matter how false it was, the words echoed.
And Gaty’s absence answered nothing.
[Motivation? -> @imaginedmist 's Lulled by numbers post. :3]