If this is his future, you want no part in your own. You'll throw it away because that of which you dreamed in middle school is petty cash now without him; you know best that time measures all. But he is moving faster, faster, dropping the important parts and then being tossed backwards again, or maybe just spinning and spinning and spinning for the nausea of it so when you finally throw up he'll be all body and zero boy.
You can't afford to think like that. Or you won't and you're shit for that daring.
You don't understand why he did it. You don't understand why he left you with his brother, why he fought monsters without saying, why he ever opened your door. You weren't—aren't—his keeper but you think you were—are—will be his trust, and why, why, how could this happen and you didn't feel it until too late?
The intricacy of the universe is this: your dad made a friend and he made a wife and they made a you. You stretched your hand to an apparition. A man made mistakes and amends and letters filled with cards addressed to shops and school shoeboxes.
A boy climbed the stairs to a card shop and was afraid to lose.
You had the audacity to win and win and win and again win when you should've lost, and lost when you should've won.
This could have been prevented.
Your heart should've known. When he stepped in, or stepped out, or something. It should've. Time calling out.
Why, why, why did he do that?
How couldn't you have known?
Broken legs and boys and hearts. Colors warmer in retrospect, and you who ache for a snide remark and that smile.
You would reforge and destroy a hundred times and futures and hearts, if only to return him whole.