I saw Raphael as hope in that moment,
a light standing quietly in the dark.
Yet no matter how close he stood,
I couldn't take in that light.
It reached me…
but never stayed.
Regret still filled whatever space it left behind.
"No, man…"
My voice felt distant, like it didn't belong to me.
"Just give me some time. I promise I'll bounce back."
Time.
Such a simple word.
So undefined.
How long does it take to come back from something like this?
Days? Months?
Or… never?
Maybe "bouncing back" was just another way people avoided saying
you won't be the same again.
"I trust you, Uriel."
Raphael's voice was steady.
"You're my friend. My brother. I know you'll find your way back.
Just… don't lose yourself."
There was something in the way he spoke—
calm, unwavering.
For a moment, it felt almost sacred.
As if something beyond him was speaking through him.
Raphael was hope, given form.
And I hated him for it.
Not the kind of hate born from anger…
but the quiet kind,
the kind that comes from seeing everything you're not
standing right in front of you.
"I will…" I muttered.
"…so go."
He sighed.
Not out of frustration—
but understanding.
He saw something I couldn't yet see.
Or maybe…
something I refused to.
"Okay," he said softly.
"Heal well, Uriel."
I watched him walk away.
It felt like watching a light flicker
not disappearing all at once,
but slowly dimming until the room forgot it was ever there.
Then the door closed.
And just like that,
the silence returned.
I fell back onto the bed.
For a moment, I thought
Maybe I should go outside.
See the real light.
Feel something that isn't trapped inside these walls.
Maybe peace was still out there…
waiting.
But even as the thought formed,
I knew the truth.
The only place I ever felt peace
was with Fadelyn.
And she was no longer mine to find it in.
I wondered what she was doing now.
Probably living.
Probably moving forward.
Probably… better than me.
The reason was clear.
Why everything fell apart.
Why I fell apart.
We didn't see life the same way.
She looked toward life
toward what it could become.
I looked at life
at what it already was.
It sounds similar.
But it isn't.
She believed in what could be built.
I only saw what was already broken.
Maybe…
if we had met somewhere in between
some middle ground where hope and reality could coexist,
things would have been different.
But there is no middle ground.
Not when it comes to this.
Hope and reality
they were never the same.
I saw nothing good in life,
only what it was, stripped of illusion.
She looked forward to it.
Toward what it could become.
And now…
the only good I had ever managed to see
was gone.
I became what I believed.
And she became what she believed.
And somehow…
I'm still happy for her.
The room had always been silent.
But now it felt different.
Heavier.
As if the silence itself had begun to listen to me,
to my thoughts,
to the way I kept turning myself over in my own mind.
Consequences.
Something every human faces.
Whether they understand it or not.
I believed everything carried consequence.
Every choice.
Every word.
Every moment you let pass without acting.
Maybe not immediately.
Maybe not visibly.
But eventually
it comes back.
I can't deny it.
But I can't prove it either.
And maybe that's the worst part.
Living by something you can't confirm,
yet feeling it shape everything around you.
I let out a quiet breath.
I am lost.
Not in a forest.
Not in a city.
But somewhere far worse
in something that doesn't even have direction.
A bird in the sea.
It doesn't belong there.
It can't rest.
It can't survive for long.
It just… drifts.
Until it no longer can.
That's what I am.
A fool.
I let the word sit there.
Not as an insult.
But as a conclusion.
And yet…
Raphael believed in this fool.
Believed that I could still return to something
to light,
to meaning,
to whatever it is people call living.
I don't understand why.
But maybe…
I don't need to.
Maybe belief doesn't have to make sense
to be real.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Then opened them again.
The room hadn't changed.
The silence was still there.
The weight was still there.
But something—
small, almost unnoticeable,
shifted.
"I should at least try…"
The words felt unfamiliar.
Like they didn't belong to me.
Try.
To see what he sees.
To find something—anything—
that doesn't feel empty.
Even if the light is faint.
Even if I can barely see it.
…I should try.