In a haze, I stumble,
tripping over my own feet,
dragging my breath through a hill drowned in fog.

Cold. Fucking cold.
Solitude chewing through my skin,
biting into my bones.

And then—
you.

Standing there, on your own hill,
untouched.
No fog strangling you, no winter gnawing at your throat.
Just sunlight—clinging to you, worshiping you,
like you were the sun itself.

I called for you.
Did you hear me? Did you see me?
Or was I just screaming into the void again?

But then you looked at me—
and my God —those eyes.
Still warm. Still soft.
Still the same as three years ago.

That smile, too.
Dimples curling at the edges,
like they always did when you laughed,
when you told me I was being ridiculous,
when you loved me.

And your forehead—creased just right,
that worried look, the one you always gave me
when I was breaking,
when I was slipping.

You smelled like spring.
Every breath I took reeked of blooming flowers, of lush, life-filled meadows—of everything I lost.

I wanted to say so much.
I wanted to rip open my chest
and shove every regret into your hands.
A million, billion, trillion words, from a thousand sleepless nights.

but all I could say was—

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry for killing you."
"I'm sorry for killing me."
"I'm sorry for killing us."

This was a nightmare.
I know it was.
But tell me—
why the fuck do I want to stay here?