she always liked poetic boys, the ones that talk in riddles. its plain and simple why she liked him. he was like a scattered puzzle waiting to be put together. she always wanted to be the one who would collect the pieces and make him whole again.
while she was busy seeing stars, he would be busy trying to find his pulse. he could never find it, and sometimes it worried him. it worried him that he could never find the proof that he was really there. often he would put his hands on her heart and it would beatbeatbeat. he would take such comfort in knowing that at least one of them was alive.
i dont have a heart. he confessed, laying on white bed sheets.
you do, i can hear it. she replied, laying her head on his chest.
at the time, he wasn't sure whether he should have believed her or not, but he so badly wanted to.
he once told her that he was scared that when he dies, no one would remember him and he wouldnt be missed. he once told her that he felt like he wasnt living his own life, he felt like he was looking at someone elses life through a series of photographs.
he use to tell her to make a wish whenever the clock turned to 11:11 but the truth is, back then she had nothing to wish for. now since he left, when the clock turns to 11:11 she wishes for him to come back even though she knows he never will it just makes things easier.