Beneath the sunken waves of hollow bitterness, he wept.
Layer after layer of suffocating, blistering despair cocooned around him like a thousand hugs from a thousand needles. He could not feel, he could not thrive, he could not be.
She had been the quiet laughter following him in the halls and around unknown corners. She had been the tickling sand beneath his bare feet well into the ungodly hours of the night. She had been his adventure, his passion, his love and hope and happiness.
And now she was a gravestone -- cold and dark even in the glowing summer.
The water couldn't get hot enough. The food couldn't get sweet enough. Everything he did was lacking, and so was he.
The earth kept turning. His mother caught the subway to work and his sister planted azalea seeds in the backyard. The baker baked, the typist typed, and the driver drove. All around the world, faces swirled by like blank, unfeeling orbs of dust. Blind, and blinding him.
The world was whole without her. To everyone else, life would go on.
And he ached.
Mountains crumbled. Unholy waves crashed against the shore. Lightning struck every inch of the ground until the entire planet was nothing but a charred mess of ash and faded memories.
To him, the flowers weren't glistening shades of red and gold, they were deep abysses of darkness and despair. Even the sun above was nothing but a swirling, howling storm -- its light nothing but the blinding rage that made his toes curl in his shoes and burned at the back of his eyelids.
Without her, he felt nothing but agony and heartbreak. Nothing was there -- nothing but a gaping hole where she had once been, where she should be, and yet he felt every fibre of the lack of her in his very bones. His soul burned with all of the unsaid jokes, the untold stories, the undiscovered adventures.
And so, the choice was clear. To go to her. To be where she was -- or to not be at all.
And so he went.